Travel tale #3: Rwanda
On nearly dying in the land of a thousand hills
There are times I have been made aware of the feeble arrangement we have with life. Most of the time, I have been too occupied with the act of living to notice: planning days and weeks ahead; counting on the abundance of the textures, colours, flavours I have felt, seen and enjoyed; counting on my own abundance. We are blissfully unaware of just how much misfortune we have escaped. But sometimes, we are not. I’m not sure how many times I could have died in the breath-taking Rwanda.
I spent two and a half weeks in the land of a thousand hills, and it was beautiful. I was there by myself, volunteering at an NGO, staying in a nearby hotel. I had travelled alone in the past, but it was usually to join a group of similarly placed people (volunteers in Zanzibar, summer school students in Cape Town), or it was a short distance for a short time (Paris before I lived here, Istanbul after a wedding, etc). In Rwanda, outside of the hours when I joined my work colleagues at the office, I was alone. It felt daunting at first, but it was a great country for that. After all that had happened there, Kigali had become a safe and thriving capital, with many curious and friendly people. And this energised me— I went out every evening, propping myself on the back of speedy ‘motos’ (while I had never taken an ‘okada’ in Lagos) encouraged because they were licensed, recommended here. I smiled with glee as I rode down the hills; trying to number the others in the distance; staring at the lights of houses under the cover of night. I loved the way the breeze was in my braids, how free I felt. I fell in love with the country — with the enviable slowness of pace; the lushness of nature; the subtly flavoured food. And I felt safe. Until the weekend I went to Lake Kivu.
Lake Kivu, laying on the border of Rwanda and DRC, canvassed by hills and foliage, is still one of the most stunning sights I have ever seen. Its beauty humbled me, made me feel at peace, and stirred so much pride in and wonder of the continent. But in going there, in being there, I also wrestled with humility in a different sense — with an intimate understanding of my own mortality. I arrived at the Kigali bus park on Friday evening, accompanied by one of my work colleagues. There were many large air-conditioned buses sitting parallel, with the offices of the various bus companies dotted around the perimeter. People wove through the free spaces, carrying bags, carrying tickets, determined to start their weekend journeys. My colleague was determined too — it was a Friday night and he had plans in the neighbouring town where he lived. It was his job to get me on a bus for the four-hour journey, but the queue was long, and worse yet, it started to rain — a heavy kind that was hard to ignore. People were frantic. My colleague found someone on the side, spoke to him in urgent kinyarwanda, and pulled me by the hand towards a small car, with no licence plate and many other passengers jockeying to enter. In that moment, I found my voice, said no to this proposition, and insisted on waiting for a commercial bus.
Eventually, I was on the way, seated alone by a window, in a packed bus filled with tourists and locals alike, watching how the city gave way to trees and valleys. At one point, we drove past a car that had been horrifically wrecked in an accident, with people hunched around it, and I thought back to the bus park. After hours, when the day had been swallowed by the night, I arrived at my hotel, grateful to have made it, ready for the adventure. Lake Kivu was indeed an adventure, and I had found a guide to usher me along. We rented a boat and made our way across little islands. We hiked to the top of one; and my heart was in my mouth with every rocky step I took, grasping my guide’s hand as I looked over the edge of neat cliffs that jutted down into the water, afraid to make a wrong move, afraid to find myself tumbling down, down, down. Of course I took pictures; found a spot that was worth the risk, sitting right at the mouth of it and turning for a smile even while I shook with fear. We came down after this and I was relieved, happily treading in the lake, bobbing in its quiet waters, thinking that my contemplation of my mortality was now done.
In the evening, the tour guide took me to a nearby village, and we rode on the back of motos along the Congo nile trail, overlooking the hills, water and vegetation below. Night reached us before we reached my hotel, and so did the rain. It was sudden and swift, thunderous and heavy, and it started on the 15-minute journey back from the village. The rain pelted my face, drenching and blinding me. I wondered how the drivers of my moto and my tour guide’s could see, as we rode down dark bends on a cliff’s edge, cars coming at us veiled by the winding night. In that moment, blinded as we were, but having no choice but to keep going, having nothing at the side but a slope, having cars come from both directions, I thought I would die. I thought that this was it. I wondered how it would be perceived — to die in an unnecessary way, doing an unnecessary thing for the sake of beauty. I reached for prayer as I have all my life; I tried to negotiate with God, if not for my sake, then for my parents’. I gulped down the fear. And then the strangest thing happened. A silver SUV came alongside us, flagged us down, slowed to a halt, and put on its hazard lights. My tour guide and I got into the vehicle, welcomed by the kind couple. I had never felt so much relief as I did in that moment. So much awareness of what could have happened here, perhaps only one of countless times I have been preserved for life. And yet, I am privileged, to be able to look back fondly on this time, and on everything I witnessed there. To be left with beautiful photos.
As the world rages and death abounds, it occurs to me how fortunate I am, how fortunate we all are, to still be here. To still be preserved for living. To perhaps have even felt a moment where death seemed inevitable, and to have still overcome it, to have been welcomed into more living. To have made it back home. And yet, everywhere we look, people are being ushered out of life. For unnecessary reasons too.
May our lives be filled with meaning, impact, beauty.
Prompt:
Have you ever been confronted with your own mortality? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.