Today I spent a rather long time - 13 uninterrupted hours - bumping through rich African countryside on a bus that took me from Kampala, Uganda, to Kigali, Rwanda. Prossy, the African who met me yesterday at the airport, came with me. Rather, I came with her. And this is what I learned from a day of observing the African people.
The morning began at 5:00 a.m. with the haunting music of the Muslim’s call to prayer projected over the loudspeakers. But even the non-Muslims were up early, striding down the pre-dawn streets with firm, fearless steps, their tightly-clutched coats and hats the only thing betraying their idea of cold. Cars, motorcycles (called “boda-boda’s”), and van taxis (“matatus”) sped through the already bustling streets, most, but not all, with their headlights shining brightly. Our cross-country bus - on which I was most obviously the only white person - left at 7:00. Right on time, which, I think, is rare for Africa.
I spent the next 13 hours with my nose plastered to the windowpane, my eyes burning, and my heart full of wonder. With the dawning of the sun, the Africans gathered in their shops or the men sat on their boda-bodas, talking in happy, shivering groups. The Africans are also a humorously honest race. Inside our bus was a salesman of sorts, who, shortly after we started our journey, stood up and energetically began selling his wares. I didn’t understand a single word he said, but it soon became quite evident through various hand gestures, facial expressions, and rather interesting sound effects, that he was selling medicine so you wouldn’t have to go to the bathroom. Oh, no, there was no bathroom on this bus. I had rather hopelessly asked Prossy about that beforehand, and she had answered gravely, “Pray to God that you don’t have to go.” We did stop a total of three times on the trip, and I thank God for that!
Trying to ignore the animated salesman, I stared out the window. The fields were now full of dark-skinned men hoeing the ground around the tall yet straggly looking corn and leafy banana trees - or digging drainage ditches in the red earth next to the road - or, stick in hand, herding along little families of long-horned cows. As the sun reached its peak, shirts appeared on the roadside, over bushes, or hung on fences - anywhere but actually on.
Meanwhile, the women could be seen with baskets on their heads, hips swaying, the bright fabric of their clothes visible for miles. Where they came from or where they were going, I’m not quite at all sure, but they were everywhere, both in town and country, forever walking with baskets balanced effortlessly on their heads. The children ran down the roads with them, but not for work. Bike tires and sticks became toys, soccer balls flew back and forth in the yard, or stubborn goats at the end of a rope fought against the pull of their merciless little tyrants. But one and all stopped and stared, wide-eyed, as our bus passed with its trailing cloak of red dust.
It is difficult to distinguish girls from boys here in Eastern Africa, for many of the young girls, even teenagers, have their heads shaved. The babies are usually pantless, sometimes shirtless, and play near the doorway under their mothers’ watchful eyes. African doorways are a unique and fascinating thing. They stand, dark and open, in the mud brick walls with two little windows cut out on either side, and almost always there is room for an open-mouthed child, a sleeping dog, or a graceful woman.
The men who were not in the fields seemed to congregate in places with bikes or motorcycles, and they took meticulous care to wash their modes of transport. At school, the uniformed, often barefoot children who had raised their flags earlier in the day now scurried about outside or straggled in after walking home for their lunch break. The goats and cows, some staked out, others free, were forever fat and munching on the wild green grass or whatever is edible in a trash heap.
The sunset found us over the border high in the mountains and down into Rwanda, just outside Kigali. Now the shadows lengthened, sprinting down the rolling hills, shirts and coats were pulled back on, and cows gathered under the rough-cut boards of stables and sheds. One even stood pleadingly in the house doorway, just hollering to be let in! The workers still in the fields splashed water on their plants from surrounding irrigation ditches. Then they gathered up their daily handful of tools and began the walk back up the mountains, ever following the twisted red dirt paths. And still the women walked with their hips swaying and baskets balanced expertly on their heads.
By now the sun had set completely, the air had cooled off until it was almost chilly, and we had reached the capital city of Rwanda. Here, foot traffic gave way to cars, boda-boda’s, and matatus once again, most, but not all, with their headlights on.
Prossy and I arrived safely, if a bit cramped and flustered. There was some small confusion as to where our team was meeting us, and as Prossy’s cell phone had just died, we now had no way to contact them. So, we waited in the darkness of the rather crowded gas station where the bus had unceremoniously dropped us, saying a polite “no, thank you” to the frequent offers for a taxi ride. A police man wielding a night club finally came to our rescue and brought us a phone. But by then our long-waited-for team member had faithfully appeared and whisked us off to the nearby hotel where we met the rest of the team and, after various other consultations and business, fell wearily to sleep.
