Transportation

On first impression, the minibus park is chaos. A one way street in the heart of towntown, or mumuji, the area is filled with vendors, drivers, conductors, buses, beggers, passengers, business people, children, clothes, peanuts, air-time cards and noise. Eventually, I have come to understand the patterns and flow of the system and can now navigate my way through the bustle to find my bus ride home. This involves walking through the buses until I hear the a caller, boys earning money by advertising bus routes, shout Kaciyru or Ministair-ey, my area of town. I then have to locate the bus he's talking about and wiggle my way in past the other passengers, often amused at the mzungu on the bus. I try to get a seat next to the window so that I get to control it, keeping it wide open for the "fresh" air outside. Once the bus is full, we pull away. Carefully, since the buses are wedged in along the street with incredible driving precision and an acute awareness of the vehicle dimensions. We rumble along, 19 people inside the aluminum box, sometimes elaborately painted or with tassels and other such interior decoration. At the correct stop, if it's not the end of the line, you rap the side of the van to signal your desire to disembark. You pay the "conductor" who opens and closes the door and provides you with the correct change. The best rides involve loud music and people who get off early so there's a little more space, and the worst ones involve hot days, lots of traffic, and phone number exchanges. But for 150 francs, you really can't complain.

I need to give a shout-out to the moto. My favorite mode of transportation, I'm becoming a little addicted. Sure, the minibuses are cheaper, but with that many people crowded into an oversized van I prefer the wind whipping through my hair moto ride. There is something a little exhilarating about sitting on the back of a motorcycle, darting through traffic on my way home. We dip through the valleys where the air becomes cooler and musty smelling as the trees surround us. I used to grip to the handle at the back with white knuckles, but now my hands rest lazily on my knees or balance paper grocery bags on my lap. Moto drivers are often great conversationalists, chatting about Canada, their children, or life in Rwanda on the way home in one of three languages. Prices are negotiable, but now that I use a fist to gesture 500 francs I am starting to get the Rwandan prices. Helmets are provided and drivers are regulated, so the system works really well. I will miss the cheap, fun, and convenient moto ride, especially on moonlit nights along the hills of Rwanda.