By now, I'm quite a pro at taking moto-taxis. I've successfully argued my way out of paying too much on several separate occasions in which the driver was trying to take advantage of a seemingly-naïve muzungu.
Not so!
I daresay if you try to make me pay more than 300 frw, I'll bite your head off! Just kidding. The best one was in Kigali. Now, this time the joke is really on the driver because he really could have ripped me off good and I would have had no idea. So I was at a bank after having yet again tried and failed to find a place that will cash traveler's checks. Long story short – there are no banks in Rwanda that accept them. Good. Anyways, I needed to go to this bookstore next, and since I don't know my way around Kigali I just flagged down a moto, told him where I wanted to go, and agreed to pay the 300 frw that he quoted me. Well, silly me, the bookstore was seriously a block away. It was just around the corner and about 200m down the street. I felt really stupid, but how could I have known? But this driver, honestly, why he didn't drive me around in a couple circles and bring me there I'll never know. I would have paid him the 300, thinking it was a fair price for such a long distance. And since I have the worst sense of direction in the world, I would not have realized he'd ripped me off. So, this guy actually just drove me down the road and let me off. Here is the conversation that followed (which was in French actually):
me: eh! We're here already! I am not paying 300 frw for that! Maybe 100 frw, but since you only drove me down the road I will not give you 300 frw.
driver: (smiles and laughs. He seemed to be a real light-hearted guy). No no, that's too small an amount of money.
me: that was too small of a distance! (rummaging through purse) And I see that I don't have 100 frw. Here's 50. Take your 50.
driver: (laughs at my response. Also another moto comes up beside us to listen to the debate and see if he can recuperate some business from an unsatisfied customer. Another bystander stopped to watch and listen as well.) No really, it is not enough!
me: Nuh uh, you cheated me! You drove me just down the road and you tell me its 300 frw! That's not right. Take your 50. (all the while I was also laughing too. It was kind of a friendly chuckling debate, but I was determined.)
driver: it’s a lift, it's a lift.
me: I know, it was a very short lift! Here, take your 50 frw.
driver: no no, it’s a lift.
me: aaah, you mean its free?
driver: yes, its free.
me: ah, ok. That's good. Thanks, have a nice day.
Since this incident, I've been able to put into practice these debate tactics, and have never paid more than the fair price of 300 frw from home into town!
Just today somebody tried to charge me 400 frw but accepted 300 frw, and even told me along the way that when they see a white person, they up the price because they assume we don't know what the normal price should be. But me, hah! I know! I argued with another guy for several minutes before getting on, and he wouldn't back down from 400 frw, but he said to get on and we'll negotiate later. Hmm…well along the way we were riding right next to one of his moto buddies, and I asked his friend "He tells me its 400 frw – isn't he cheating me?" And his friend said "You son of a bitch, its 300!" (they spoke good English) Wow. Bold.
Actually, he was joking and we were all laughing quite a lot the whole ride. I should probably mention that the 100 frw difference is equal to about 20 cents. So really its not worth all this trouble.
But I just enjoy the fun I have in weaseling my way to a fair price the satisfaction of winning the debate!
Skipping ahead to 4/19/2010 (hopefully to catch up on exam week, Easter, and things in-between later):
I took a weeklong vacation to go visit Lauren, another VIDES volunteer who hails from Minnesota, in Kenya! We had such a blast…where to begin…
I traveled with Sr. Rose, who had to go to Nairobi also. We took the Kampala Coach, a 26-hour coach bus ride. Basically, it sucked.
We were miserable together. But hey, its at least a good story to tell! So, this bus is not air-conditioned, and it does not have a bathroom. The seats are comfortable enough, but only about half of the journey is on paved road. The rest of the way is on rocky, pothole-y, uber dusty roads. And of course, the sun is bright and shining during the daylight hours, so its quite hot.
You can find a bit of respite by falling asleep, but you'll shortly be awoken by the "turbulence" (if I can even call it that) of the ride, and you'll be nice and hot and sticky. As an added bonus, you'll find a lovely mixture of your own sweat and dirt underneath your fingernails after scratching any part of your face. Mmm.
We took a bus that left at 3pm, traveling north through Rwanda, all the way across Uganda, and into Nairobi in the middle of Kenya. So it was good that we drove through the night because it was cool. But I know I woke up thousands of times because it seemed that the whole night-drive was on rocky roads. But the driver speeds ahead, probably at a dangerously fast pace for that type of terrain. We arrive at the main station in Kampala, Uganda at about 5am, where people are strewn all over the place sleeping on mats and blankets.
Here, everyone gets off to take bread and tea. That was nice, but unfortunately the butter on the bread or something must have been slightly contaminated, because about an hour after our tea when we were back on the road, I had mild diarrhea. Oh good There's no bathroom on this bus! Sr. Rose later reported that she had the same problem, only a bit later than it hit me. So I basically had to just pray and deal with the discomfort until we stopped, which was maybe every 3 hours. And when we did stop, there were only stand-over-this-hole-and-squat toilets. Vive l'Afrique.
When Sr. Rose and I purchased our tickets, we were under the impression that a meal was also included in this price. However, the bad bread and tea was all they gave us. So we were hot, dirty, hungry, jostled to and fro, and having digestive issues. We bought some juice and cookies for lunch during the second leg of our trip.
Also, I was amused, but not at all surprised, by the things our chauffeur tried to pull. It is quite normal for drivers to pass those in front of them who are going to slow. Well, somewhere in Uganda there was an accident in which a container became detached from the semi pulling it. It was blocking the entire road, and it seemed to be in the middle of a marketplace where there were tons of pedestrians. The cars had to take turns letting traffic in one direction pass through one lane; it was extremely slow-going.
Well, our driver decides that because he's got a monster of a big red coach bus he must be king of the road. He pulls right up onto the shoulder, which is really just a rocky ditch because this is an unpaved road, and crawls along past everybody. Soon the rocky ditch becomes too steep, and it seems our bus is gonna topple right over, but we press on. Its kind of funny, as we were driving along like a horizontal tower of Piza, you'd think I should be terrified. But by now, these kind of things don't really surprise me or phase me very much. Its Africa. What is "sketchy" for us is normal here. Just roll with it, you'll be aight. And indeed we were.
Our leaning bus needed to merge back into the one lane of traffic, and all the other cars were justifiably pretty mad about that. The pedestrians standing around were shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads in a gesture of "seriously, what does he think he's doing?" So the cars in the lane had no choice but to re-arrange themselves, them being tiny subjects of the giant red king of the road who is much bigger than all these. It probably took a good 20 minutes of this gradual pushing our way forward, disturbing all the other cars, moving on and off of the rock-ditch-shoulder, forcing the direction of traffic flow to change to let us through, etc.
But we made it through and continued on our way, speeding waaay too fast when we broke free of the traffic jam. But alas, here I am safe and sound, made it through this bus ride!
When we finally got to Nairobi, the entire trip took 2 hours longer than scheduled (28 hours). Part of it was probably due to that traffic jam, but I still have no idea why we took so long. Many of the smaller towns in Kenya have lots of speedbumps in commerce areas, so maybe that caused us to be so late? No idea. But anyways, we arrived and found a taxi to take us to the Sisters' house (the Salesians also have a community in Nairobi). The guy drove us a couple hundred feet and then ran out of gas. He said "Don't worry," and got out and pushed the car while reaching through the window to steer. He steered us to a nearby parking spot, asked Sr. Rose to spot him a couple shillings, got a plastic jug out of the trunk, and walked to the nearest gas station to fill er up. Good golly. So we finally arrived at the Sisters' house around 9pm. I really can't describe how wonderful it was to eat some food and go to the bathroom in a flushing toilet.
Like I said, it’s a good story to tell. But I was not looking forward to doing this all again on the way home. Actually what really discouraged me from taking the bus home was the fact that you need to cross two borders, and I'd be alone the way back because Sr. Rose needed to stay a bit longer in Nairobi than me.
Now, the border-crossing was actually quite complicated, and I'm pretty sure that if I were alone, they would have left me behind while I stood there waiting in line not knowing how to push my way through and get my visa. How it works is the bus drives up to the barrier separating Rwanda and Uganda, and the driver has to do some kind of paperwork in order to get the vehicle across. Meanwhile, all the passengers get out, run to the Rwanda immigration building to get their exit stamp, (literally, we run because nobody wants to be left behind), and then cross the border into Uganda on foot. And we arrived at the border at about 2am, so its dark out, mind you. After entering Uganda, you need to again run (Sr. Rose and I walked briskly and were just fine) to the Uganda immigration building, which was actually kind of hard to find. You'd think it would be the very first thing on the other side of the border, but it was a bit of a ways down, amidst all kinds of other random shops. I would not have found it alone. So there you need to pay for your Uganda transit visa. $50 just to drive through their country. Sheesh. You need to repeat this entire process at the Uganda-Kenya border. Except here, the Kenya immigration building is even further away from the border that everyone gets back on the bus to drive for about 20 seconds down the road.
Again, would not have known that I should get back on the bus. Actually it was pretty funny – before paying for my Kenya visa, I had to, of course...... go to the bathroom. There was a bathroom attendant collecting a 100 shillings. I told him it was an emergency and that I'd pay after. He agreed, but I certainly knew that I didn't have any Kenya shillings. After relieving myself, I told him I'd go find Sister who has my money and come back and pay him. Yeah, paying the bathroom man is not high on my priority list when I've got to run like a madwoman to get a good spot in the visa line lest the bus leave me behind. So I got my visa ($25) and didn't pay the bathroom man. Bahahaha. I think he called after me a little bit, but I just ignored him…oops. But there are tons of people around trying to sell you things or change money for you, its actually quite annoying. All you want is to find the immigration building, and people swamp you saying "You want Kenya money? You need to change dollars? Euros? Ugandan money?"
So, I felt very very very grateful to be traveling with Sister Rose through all this immigration stuff. And people really respect Sisters. When we joined the masses of people in the immigration lines/blobs, they were very helpful towards us. They gave us a spot at the table to fill out our forms, they sent someone to get forms for us, and overall people were very willing to give us priority, help us out, and answer our questions. But, these crossings were into Swahili and English-speaking countries. Sr. Rose speaks Swahili, but her English is still in the elementary stages. So we had to make a team effort of asking questions in one language to the immigration officers, and translating the responses into French in order to communicate with each other. It was a learning process for both of us.
So, the heat/dust/rocky road/diarrhea/hunger plus the complicated border crossings led me to decide that I should book a flight back. It was a fantastic decision. The flight was only an hour and fifteen minutes, they gave us food, and I was so beautifully comfortable. The total cost of my return trip was $100 more than my trip going into Kenya, but I'd say it was well worth it.
The rest of my trip:
Lauren and I had so much fun together! Its really awesome that we only just met during VIDES formation, and now I feel like we're best buds :) awww… It was quite funny to see all the similar ways in which we've both adjusted, particularly in speaking. With each other we talked with normal American colloquialisms and rapidity, but the influence of several months in mission always slips through in humorous ways. We both tend to speak in the same overly clear, very exaggerated and highly enunciated way, and we use very simple descriptions that, in America, would be considered as the worst explanation ever. Example: in a conversation about the difference between Siakago, a city in Kenya, and Chicago, Illinois: "Chicago? Well, It’s a place with many people and many buildings."
The matatu experience is certainly worth describing. So, a "matatu" is the Kenya version of the "local taxi's" that we have in Rwanda. They're these junky, beat-up, dirty 14-passenger vans that are found everywhere and go everywhere.
They (and all trucks/vans actually) often have big lettering across the top of the windshield or across the back bumper saying something like "God lives," or "Jesus love" in Swahili or Kinyarwanda or sometimes incorrect English (hence the "Jesus love" as opposed to "Jesus loves.")
I had a fantastic time taking the matatu with Sr. Agnes from Nairobi to Makuyu, where Lauren and Sr. Agnes live/work. It was an hour and a half ride, and it was unlike any other public transit experience I've ever had, let me tell you.
So, as I mentioned, these things comfortably seat 14 passengers. But do you ever find only 14 people in a matatu? Absolutely not. It is not unusual to cram 40 people into one of these beasts. You just squish and squish, getting real comfortable and cozy with your matatu-mates. And not just people, but sacks of stuff too. People bring big burlap sacks of maize or shoes or glucose biscuits imported from the middle east (yes, they're very common) or whatever they just bought in Nairobi, probably to sell in their shop out in the more rural parts.
Mamas bring their babies strapped on their backs or their toddlers sitting on their laps. And children aren't considered in the head count. There apparently are laws about how many people can be in a matatu, but the farther away from Nairobi you go, the less it is enforced. So, Sr. Agnes and I were able to get a seat when we found the right matatu at the "stage" (the station). But, in no time we were squeezed in like anchovies, with people sitting on their bags of stuff packed in between the seats. Eventually we had not only packed the inside of the matatu full of people, but we decided it would be fun to try and fit about 6 more people into an already full matatu. Result: about 4 guys had to put their feet on the runners, reach their arms in to grab onto one of the bars on the front seats, and leave their backs exposed to the open air as the sliding door could obviously not close. I wish I had a picture.
Apparently there was also an incident with one of the passengers urinating on the seat. He had some kind of developmental disability, so he probably just couldn't control it. But, the poor woman and her baby who were sitting next to him – when he got out at his stop, she had no choice but to slide over and sit in the vacant spot. There were simply too many people hanging out of the sides of this vehicle to leave a place open, even if it had been peed on. So, over she slid. Ew.
Let me also tell you about the interior of this most delightful vehicle: just like the Rwanda local taxis, these things are just basically metal shells of a car with seats put in them. But man alive, do they ever try to pimp these things out…the seats are often covered with a dashing bright orange and blue or other strange color-combo vinyl, or some kind of retro print. And, some of them have tv's and play music videos! It is ESSENTIAL that the matatu play very loud music. Lauren says that the drivers compete to have the loudest music, because they believe that the young adult customers who are hip and cool won't want to ride in a matatu that doesn't play good music. But, in Nairobi its illegal to blast music, so they always turn it down when nearing police, but as soon as we're out of earshot, up goes the volume.
Another vital aspect of the matatu experience is the role of the "conductor." The conductor is the guy who collects money from everybody and opens the door when we approach a stop. These guys get a workout, really. They open the door while the car is still moving, they stand up and yell out to people standing on the side of the road, they jump out to see if anybody wants to get in, and they're always the last one to cram in after all the passengers, of course jumping in after the driver has already started pulling away. So this guy is often sitting on somebody's lap, or just standing up in a bent-over kind of position. And you must have a good memory to be a matatu conductor. He remembers exactly where everybody got on and where they want to go. When he wants you to give him your fare, he just taps you on the shoulder, sticks his hand in your face and rubs his thumb across his fingers in the "where's the cash?" gesture. Usually they just hold all these bills and coins in their hand – no wallet or cash pouch or anything. And they never let any of it blow away, which is amazing because they spend so much time hanging out the window with all this money in their hand. They also use the coins people give them to notify the driver that somebody wants to get out. Tapping any part of the metal shell with a coin, nice and loud so the driver can hear it over the blaring music, indicates a desired stop.
I still haven't figured out if matatu's have scheduled stops at specific places, or if you can just get out whenever. I think they have final destinations in terms of what city/village they're traveling to. But anywhere along the way, they'll pick up any people standing by and let out anybody who wants to get off.
And of course, the drivers are crazy. They speed like there's no tomorrow, and they pass other cars on the dangerously rocky shoulder. Once, in Nairobi during rush hour, Lauren and I were in a matatu that got a ticket! It was because traffic was at a standstill, but our driver decided (much like the Kampala coach driver) that it would be ok for him to drive on the shoulder and try to pass everybody. Yeah, that's not allowed.
So, Lauren and I rode these things quite a lot, and we've decided to start a business. It seems that in order to be a matatu driver, you need to know somebody as your "in." And you need to get your cousin or brother or somebody to be your conductor…it's not just anybody you entrust that job to. But since driving a matatu takes lots of guts, a no-fear attitude, and an auditory adjustment to loud music, special training is required.
Likewise, conductors must practice jumping into and out of moving vehicles, holding money in their hand while hanging out the window, and they must learn the special conductor language that they all seem to speak to the drivers with. But, where do people learn these skills that are in such high demand? There is no such thing as matatu school. You simply must know somebody who can get you into this business. What an injustice! Share the benefits of this exciting and rewarding trade! So that's where Lauren got the idea to open a school. In order to help the underprivileged, we've decided that after I'm a doctor, I'm going to use my medical knowledge to cure the old ladies of their cataracts so they can see clearly. Then, Lauren will train them in her matatu driver school.
So, the next time you see an old lady throwing open a sliding beat-up van door while its still moving, think of us.
Rambura: Félicien called me a few weekends ago using his mom’s phone (he doesn’t have one of his own). I was super surprised to hear from him because he is away at a boarding school. Well, I was flattered when he explained to me that it was parent’s day, and his mom was at school. So of course he’s gonna borrow her phone to call his English teacher from back home…aw. Well, he told me that the next weekend, Sr. Gisele was going to come visit their school to do a talk on vocations, and that I should go with her! I asked her about this, and she said I’m welcome to join. So I went, and I had a fantastic day at this school!
I’m gonna try to summarize:
Took my first ride in a local taxi. That is, a junky beat-up van that is pretty much an unfinished metal shell with retro-print, plastic-covered seats. The people are packed-in, and there is no aisle, so when somebody needs to get out, the whole row must get up. But the people don’t mind at all. It’s really a very friendly atmosphere, and I can never tell if the people on the bus have been friends for years, or if they’ve all just met each other and are chatting happily on their way here and there. I was indeed the only muzungu inside, and everybody who boarded the bus did a double-take.
We first went to the parish that is near the school. It turns out it was Fr. Théophile’s parish, a priest who I taught a few English lessons to when he came to visit Gisenyi a few months ago! He was so welcoming and has an unbelievable memory. He recounted everything we discussed in those English lessons.
This parish was in the real village. As Sr. Gisele and I mounted the hill, a flock of about 50 children encircled us and stared. It was the first time many of them had seen a muzungu, and the first time many of them had ever seen a Sister in full habit. Sr. Gisele asked them why they weren’t at Mass, which was taking place, and actually many of them ran out of the church to come join the flock. They disbursed as she told them they should go back to Mass.
I received a huge, personalized welcome from three girls that I didn’t recognize but who apparently knew me! And of course Felicien came shortly afterwards, and Jules, another former student who I didn’t even know studied at that school! It was super fun to see all of them again.
The girls carried our bags everywhere, which is what you do for guests who are uber-extra special.
Another priest and a Sister from Poland also came to talk about their respective congregations. Sr. Gisele started the talks, and she did the bulk of the talking actually! The three different congregations didn’t even know they’d all be together talking about vocations, so there was a lack of planning. But everything went very smoothly, it was quite providential. Sr. Gisele talked for at least 2 hours about just vocational discernment in general, and then specifically about the Salesians. Providentially again, all of us had brought little pamphlets about each congregation. The students were so attentive and really eager to learn. I was deeply impressed. They asked tons of intuitive questions, and I even got a question about what it means to be a Salesian volunteer. That was fun. The whole meeting was a 4-hour ordeal, but the students didn’t seem tired or hungry at all, they were just ready to listen and learn. And they sang and danced to welcome us and to close the day.
It was excellent.
We went for a nice little walking tour with a few students, and I felt bad because Felicien was all ready to take us over to the school and show us everything. But Fr. Théophile had lunch and a separate walking tour arranged for us .
. I never did get to meet up with the students again after our lunch and tour, which bummed me out a bit.
We saw one of the houses that belonged to former President Habyarimana, whose assassination sparked the genocide.
I asked Sr. Charlotte about this, and she laaaughed! "Jacqui, that is only one kind of poverty. The vow of poverty is verrrry in-depth. Yes, some congregations believe that they must live at the same standard as the people they serve. But we believe in setting the standard high because when the people see a nice school, a nice convent, they want to also improve their lives to meet that standard."
She told me about how when the Sisters first came to Gisenyi in 2003, there was absolutely nothing here. It was the bush. They started with just a tiny house where they taught a few girls. Since then, look at what a beautiful school and convent we have here! And the area is now populated with lots of houses, and of course, Muhato parish.
People started moving here because the Sisters first established themselves here.
So now I feel much better about the standard-of-living issue.
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