Off to Kibuye

Feb 8th

Up later than usual and a lot of very discreet tappings on doors to make sure we’re not about to burst in on the girls in bathroom or bedroom. I’ve been up for an hour working on my inspection report for Rongi, but it’s only partly done.

Tom leaves first; he’s off to Kigali for the weekend. I leave with the girls; they’re going to the matata park to get an early bus to Kibuye and sort out accommodation for us all. Unfortunately Soraya is unable to come because she’s got malaria. Malaria! That’s crazy. I ask you - She’s at the highest altitude of any of us, well above the 2000 metre limit for mozzies. She’s a Philippina and of all of us she’s the one most used to living in a tropical, buggy climate. Sometimes there’s just no rhyme or reason to life.

As we leave the flat we bump into Geert and Polly. Crowds gather at the spectacle of five muzungus together talking. Geert and Lisa talk in German which really pisses off the nosy locals who’re straining to follow what we’re saying. Polly’s feeling rough and she, too, probably won’t be able to come for the weekend jolly at Kibuye. So our group of 6 is down to 4, but we have three extras from Gikongoro, and a group of seven is a nice number to socialise with.

I put the girls on a matata and head off to the bank. HOORAY, my personalised cheque book has arrived and I hurriedly draw the rest of my February allowance. I know I’m going to blow a load of it this weekend, but, then, this weekend is holiday and if necessary I’ll have to draw on my reserve of Euros.

Call in at the Post Office on my way to work and manage to get the only employee who can’t speak French. Still, Teresa’s package has arrived so life is EVEN BETTER. This going to be a simply brill weekend and it’s barely started.

In the office I go through Teresa’s bag of goodies – blu-tack, sellotape, picture hooks, DVDs, muesli bars. Innocent and Beatrice wonder why I’m whistling while I work, so I tell them. Innocent thinks it’s a laugh; Beatrice shakes her head at the strange ways of foreigners. She’s very dour.

I get my Rongi report done and print off a copy for Cathy to go over. But Claude is nowhere to be seen; his office is locked and nobody knows where he is or if he’ll be back. Damn! Our cunning plan to waylay him over lunch is stillborn.

While I’m typing, several of the primary Heads from Wednesday’s outing come in to collect mail or drop off stuff; when they see me I’m greeted like a long lost friend. Life is good.

Leave early; I tell everyone I’m off to see Kibuye and the big lake for the first time, and without exception they all tell me it’s high time I went there. Makes me feel less guilty at not doing a full day at the office! Call in at the internet café, but the guy sends me away, telling me the connection is so slow today that he’d be embarrassed for me to try to use it. I can’t believe he’s been so considerate – anyone else would gladly have watched the muzungu struggle for an hour and then pocketed his 500 francs.

So I’ve got time to tidy up the flat, pack a few things in my backpack and still meet Cathy at “Tranquillité” by twelve. We’re not sure what to do about Claude; next week’s the run-up to his wedding and I wonder how many days he’ll be in?

Finally get to the matata park to escape for the weekend. Sit in a bus for an entire hour waiting for it to fill sufficiently for the driver to go. Still, I’ve got the front passenger seat – plum position – and as some others get on there’s mutterings about why the muzungu’s been favoured. The driver cuts them short.

The road to Kibuye is spectacular. Built by the Chinese, it’s 74 km with never more than about 500m straight at any one point. Our chauffeur drives through every bend, even if he can’t see what’s coming, and we overtake lorries ruthlessly. After a few miles we screech to a stop so a woman sitting in the back can get out for a pee. The scenery gets better and better as we rise higher and higher, with enormously deep valleys, big rivers, scary steep slopes. In the summit section there is a big forest, contrasting with the everlasting small farms and banana groves everywhere else. It starts to rain, then pours, then thunders yet again.

I tell myself we’re crossing one of the world’s great watersheds, from the Nile to the Congo, and that we’re just starting to descend down the Western Rift Valley’s steepest section, but all I can really think about is what happens if a massive lorry is also cutting the next corner, coming uphill.

Suddenly we skid to a halt at a road junction and we’re all pitched out into another matata. Our driver has decided to go on to Gisenyi, and there are protracted negotiations with the second driver about who’s paid and who hasn’t. We arrive at Kibuye. I’ve seen a couple of bits of the lake on the descent, but the view’s too bad and the windows too fogged up to do it justice.

I ask the matata driver for directions to the Centre Bethanie, our venue. He points south, tells me its four kilometres. I decide that’s walking range, and that although it’s raining hard, the rain will soon stop. Off I go.

Bad mistake. After four kilometres, and wet through, I reach the end of the tarmac road and know I’m lost. I ring Tiga, but she’s never been here before either and can’t visualise where I’ve got myself to. Turns out the matata driver didn’t have a clue where Bethanie was, but rather than lose face by admitting this, send me off in entirely the wrong direction. This, apparently, is a very Rwandan thing to do. With rainwater trickling down my neck, my sandals and socks soaked, my backpack and everything in it probably ruined, I didn’t appreciate the quaintness of the custom. Instead of the best lakeside resort in Rwanda it felt like Snowdonia on a wet Easter.

Help came in the form of a passing moto driver who couldn’t believe his luck at chancing on a bedraggled muzungu out in the wilds and with no competitors nearby to force his price down! We negotiated a rate and set off back to town. Turns out I picked the only moto in town with a clutch so knackered he couldn’t change gear. We came to a halt on one steep bit and a friendly local had to give us a push to get us over the summit. Nice touch. Then he said he was out of petrol so we had to call in at a garage. Finally I arrived at the Bethanie, leaving puddles on the reception floor and with a little pond of water on the top of my backpack.

Turns out the Bethanie is nice, but not cheap (for us) at RwF15000 a night. That’s three times my daily allowance just for the bed, without any food. The room was pleasant but everything was damp and cold. Almost all my clothes in the backpack had got wet, and my trousers (I didn’t bring a spare because I couldn’t fit any more in my backpack) were literally dripping. Fortunately all my hardware – camera, iPod, phone, and torch – was still working.

So spent the evening somewhat subdued and getting colder and colder. Kibuye is lower than Gitarama and should have been warmer, but the lakeside breezes and rain had really chilled things down. Marisa and Samira wouldn’t able to come until tomorrow, so we were five.

Nice to have good food and a couple of beers, but we went to bed early and I was glad to go – chilled to the marrow! Suddenly had the feeling that Kibuye was going to be a wet and expensive mistake; it had taken the shine off what had started brilliantly.

High points of the day – chequebook and post from homeLow point – discovering that the only clothes which hadn’t got wet were a spare pair of socks and a trekking towel. Not exactly enough to dress for dinner….