Kigoma to Kigali

In Kigoma, it took the best part of a day to find out anything much about buses, never mind buy a ticket. I was told that if I got to Nyakanazi, it should be possible to get transport from there to the Rwandan border. My informer had that eager-to-please optimism that doesn't always bode well, but as I could see no alternative, I decided to give it a go.

My 05:30 departure left only an hour and a half late, already with passengers standing in the aisle. We had two armed guards - that is scruffy youths with big guns - as this area isn't considered very safe. After half a dozen stops in the first two miles, the bus was bursting. I had a child on my lap, a bum in my cheek and a shirt in my face. It was impossible to move. At stops more people fought their way on and there was no chance to get off even at longer market-place stops to make sure that my luggage stayed on - I mentally waved it goodbye and focused on trying to wriggle some blood towards my numb toes. I was becoming seriously tempted to get off - anywhere - and sleep by the road or thumb a lift, or anything other than stay on that bus.

We passed a number of aid stations and refugee camps - this area is home to quite a lot of Congolese and Burundian refugees. There was not much else to see, except the harshness of life and the level of poverty.

At one point we met a broken-down truck blocking the road, so our driver tried to pass by driving with one set of wheels in a ditch. When the bus reached a critical angle, I was more than relieved by the decision to get everybody off. The bus made it without toppling over and we all piled on again - a time consuming exercise with space so limited. In the re-seating arrangements I managed to swap the largish child for a toddler, which seemed like a good deal - a lot cooler and better for circulation to the legs.

It was dirt roads all the way, for which I was quite grateful, as it kept our speed down - Tanzanian buses are famed for their high speed and dangerous driving. Even so, I was surprised that the 270km to Nyakanazi took over nine hours, not including the initial delay. There was certainly no point pushing on to the border - it was past four o'clock when I squeezed myself from the patchwork collection of scrap metal that called itself a bus. I returned various infants to their respective parents (possibly) and was delighted to be reunited with my luggage, now so red-brown with dust that I didn't at first recognize it.

Nyakanazi is just a junction, one dusty street which luckily had a grotty guesthouse (no running water), food and beer on offer. I partook of all of these, and even managed to find out that there might be a daladala going all the way to Rusumo in the morning, which would save me doing the journey in four stages.

After a night of bites (bed-bugs again?) the morning saw me sitting dustily on my dusty pack on the dusty roadside, nursing a swollen eye and hand, waiting to see what would come along. After only an hour, the promised daladala turned up, so full I couldn't imagine fitting so much as a chicken inside. But of course there was room for me and my pack. It was uncomfortable, but better than yesterday's bus, although the driving was quite alarming at times. I particularly admired the ploy of putting speedbumps (piles of sand) across just half of the road, so as to slow down only the downhill traffic. The result? We went careering at high speed down the winding road on the wrong side, blind corners included. But soon enough we were at Rusumo and the border, I had the whiff of new lands enticing me onward and I wasn't sorry to leave Tanzania behind.

Walking across no-man's land between Tanzania and Rwanda, I realized how much the landscape had changed since leaving Nyakanazi. I'd been aware that we had entered hill country, but only once out of the minibus did I see how lush and green and tropical this area is. The river runs brown, lumps of floating vegetation sail by, and the road crosses the river at the short but impressive Rusumo falls.

On the Rwandan side of the border, a minibus waited. I bought a ticket (!) and only had to wait for an hour and a half for it to be ready to go. It took me a while to realize that we were driving on the right, because sides seemed irrelevant most of the time - at least when compared to the horn which is clearly the single most essential part of the vehicle. I closed my eyes.

From Lusaka all the way to Kigali has been a journey - a journey for its own sake. It has been a real experience of African travel, and at times a journey into the unknown - just trusting that at each stage the next stage would become apparent.

Coming into Kigali, the city appeared quite modern and prosperous. Built on a series of hills, the city has many spots offering good views, so it is easy to see where the development diminishes and dirt roads begin. Everything is in French, which is un peu d'une probleme, mais je croix que c'est plus facile que Swahili. Actuellement, c'est un peu humourous. Last night I enjoyed getting clean, fed and watered as never before. I've spent today pottering round Kigali, soaking up the atmosphere. Moto-taxi drivers are all in team colours, wearing bibs and matching helmets bearing their license number, and they even provide their passenger with a helmet. On the pavements, boys in yellow bibs wander around clutching phones. Proper desk-top phones, which apparently are running on the mobile network. Want to make a call? Just grab this mobile phone-box.

It's been a good day, resting, doing laundry, banking, lazing over coffee with the local paper... I like it here. Tomorrow I must go to the genocide memorial centre, which is not something I am looking forward to. This place feels so untainted, so pleasant, it is hard to imagine that just a few years ago the streets ran with blood.