Rwanda: Hitchhiking in the Land of a Thousand Hills

Arriving in Kigali, Rwanda’s rapidly modernising capital, it is impossible not to be struck by the orderly manner of the place. The police, clad in royal blue and appearing more like a paramilitary force, are a conspicuous presence on street corners. Black batons hang from their sides, and their numbers have increased sharply, one month out from national elections. The traffic in Kigali is obedient, adhering to red lights and zebra crossings, while moto-taxis carry secondary helmets for all passengers. Every morning and afternoon cleaners traverse the streets, sweeping up food wrappers, plastic bottles and leaves. It is a unique sight, replicated nowhere else on the continent. In the evenings, as the temperature drops, street lights flicker to life. Kigali shines bright, while the surrounding hills are coated in darkness.

Order and predictability are unusual when travelling in Africa, where tardiness and disorder often rule. The passage to Rwanda begins in Arusha, Tanzania then through Babati, Kahama, and Kigoma, an idyllic small town on edge of Lake Tanganyika. From there, a journey through Burundi, where disorder often descends into unrest, and finally, Rwanda, the Land of a Thousand Hills. To escape the constriction of Kigali, and to repel the restrictions of Rwanda, hitchhiking through the countryside strikes me as the ideal way to travel.

Butare to Cyangugu (via Gikongoro)

Cyangugu rests on the southern edge of Lake Kivu, the largest lake in Rwanda. In the far west of the country, Lake Kivu marks most of the border between Rwanda and its enormous neighbour, the Democratic Republic of Congo. The town of Goma, in DRC and at the northern end of the lake, is where Ali and JP are travelling. They pick me up a short distance outside Gikongoro, and I climb into the spacious cabin of their petroleum truck. What the truck offers in comfort and elevation, it lacks in speed, and we crawl along the snaking, winding, undulating highway. The truck heaves, groans and squeals, protesting against every bend, incline and decline. Inside the cabin, ornaments and decorations swing with each movement.

Ali introduces himself as being from Arusha and is pleased to hear that that is where I currently call home. JP, a Kenyan, is less talkative, and spends most of the day chewing on khat, a stimulant commonly used by truck drivers. He keeps the leaves in a small black plastic bag by his side, and his teeth show the stains from years of use.

To reach Cyangugu we pass through the Nyungwe Forest National Park, one of the oldest rainforests in Africa, home to chimpanzees and colobus monkeys. At our glacial pace of travel, we bathe in the rich green foliage that surrounds us, while overhanging branches occasionally flick and scrape on the cabin roof. Somewhere along the highway, as the day is beginning to end, a clunking noise emanates from below the truck. Ali carefully navigates several bends and hills, before finding a place to pull over. He and JP jump down to investigate, and I amble on the roadside, gazing at the mountains and looking for monkeys in the trees.

An hour passes, and Ali and JP have yet the diagnose the issue. Another truck has stopped to help, and they are busily chatting and prodding and opening and closing compartments. In the Land of a Thousand Hills, the chill of the night arrives rapidly, and as the sun drops over the horizon, I pull on my jumper and shiver. It also dawns on me that we will likely be spending the night here. Ali and JP, perhaps sensing my concern, encourage me wave down a ride to Cyangugu. They have two mattresses in the rear of the cabin but cannot offer me anything more than the front seat. There are few vehicles travelling this way, at this time of day, but isn’t this what I wanted? Unpredictable travel? Disorder? Adventure? Freedom?

Standing in the dark now, I swing out my hand, waving at the few vehicles that pass. Ali and JP are working by torchlight, still tinkering with the insides of the truck. After several unsuccessful attempts at hitching a ride, a minibus pulls over. Inside, a dim light illuminates the faces of tired passengers, and there is one vacant seat.

‘Cyangugu?’

‘Yes, get in,’

The door slides shut, grating along its tracks, and the driver accelerates with a speed I have not felt all day. It feels anticlimactic, though is preferable to spending a night in the forest.

Cyangugu to Kigali (via Butare)

On the return trip to Kigali, my first ride is with a family on their way to a wedding. They pick me up about ten kilometres outside Cyangugu. In the cool, crisp morning, the surface of the lake eases from silver to blue, brightened by the sunbeams that penetrate the forest canopies. Children, on their way to school, walk alongside me and imitate the marching of soldiers. In the villages surrounding Cyangugu farmers work in riced fields that are carved into the hills. It is a blissful start to the day. When the wedding party drop me near Kibuye they apologise for not being able to take me further, ‘hamna shida,’ I assure them, ‘no problems.’

Alone again, I amble along the highway and am eventually picked up by a car filled with four young men. The brothers and cousins are travelling to Kigali via Butare, which is a considerable backtrack, though I am in no rush and am following no predetermined route. One of the men in the backseat shuffles across to the middle and I climb in. As we snake down the highway all four men are deep in conversation. They speak in Kinyarwanda, which, like Swahili, is a language of the Bantu family. Despite my familiarity with Swahili, I hear only vague similarities in the sounds of vowels and am lost in the muddle of R’s, N’s and G’s. Instead, I turn my focus to the music, a CD of African pop playing on the car stereo. The topic of conversation is apparently so enthralling that each song plays six or seven times before anybody notices. Then, somebody presses skip, the conversation resumes, and the cycle begins again. As the hours pass, my skills in Kinyarwanda show no progress, though my knowledge of Afrobeat and Bongo Flava improves out of sight. Hours later, we arrive in Butare, and an auntie’s home, share food, beers and stories of home. It is almost dark when we arrive in Kigali, and the end of another adventurous, surprising and rewarding day hitchhiking in the Land of a Thousand Hills.

Ruhengeri to Rusumo (via Kigali)

One of the highest towns in Rwanda, Ruhengeri sits at over 6,000 ft, and is surrounded by the Parc National des Volcans. At dawn, the air is crisp, with clouds and mist blanketing the town and obscuring the surrounding mountains. As the morning progresses, the sun prevails, and the spectacular peaks are unveiled. In the Land of a Thousand Hills, Ruhengeri is blessed with some of the most magnificent.

At the edge of town, a group of business men in a Mercedes Benz stop to pick me up. In the two hour journey to Kigali, we console each other over the sad demise of Ghana at the FIFA World Cup and discuss the upcoming elections in Rwanda. Ghana’s Black Stars were riding a wave of momentum through the tournament, defeating Serbia and USA in the group stages. On their home continent, they were aiming to become the first African team to reach the semi-finals. In a seesawing round of 16 match against Uruguay, watched by millions across Africa, they were unable to take their chances, and eventually lost on penalties. It was a cruel blow, one that reverberated across the continent, yet pride eventually replaced the disappointment and the team return home as heroes. The business men are animated in their recounting of the game, arms flailing and smacking the dashboard as they bemoan Luis Suarez’s handball, missed penalties and referee decisions. As discussion moves to the other great game, they are more circumspect. Ruhengeri, like everywhere else in Rwanda, has an unsubtle police presence, and they serve as constant reminders of President Paul Kagame’s security state. The general consensus, from most people I speak with in Rwanda, is that Kagame has succeeded in stabilising the country, yet is now moving towards cementing his position for life.

‘Kagame will first become Museveni,’ they predict. The Ugandan President promised a return to democracy when he claimed became head of state, way back in 1986. ‘Then he will become Mugabe,’ they lament, the increasingly erratic and monstrously corrupt leader of Zimbabwe, ‘already we are living in a police state. You have travelled here, you can see them, si nidyo?’ Perhaps feeling they have shared too much, the conversation is steered towards questions about life in Australia and other safer subjects, and soon after we arrive in Kigali.

Later that afternoon, the Rusumo Bridge marks the end of my travels in Rwanda. The Kagera River thunders underneath, raging and writhing, before coalescing into the spectacular Rusumo Falls. The falls, garnished with a lightly painted rainbow, signal the end journeying in The Land of a Thousand Hills. The end of lush green landscapes, the end of rice paddies on hillsides, and the end of circuitous mountain roads. In Tanzania, baobab and acacia trees populate the wide, dusty expanses. On the horizon, slim black figures appear, their colourful shukas flapping in the wind. They amble through the grey landscape flanked by herds of trotting goats. In the rear view mirror, a thousand peaks fade from view, but the memories never will.

Rwanda: Hitchhiking in the Land of a Thousand Hills

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