Jared and Dianne

It was more for our distaste of wearing backpacks whilst riding a motorbike than tight ass tendencies which led us to take the mini-bus to the top of the hill. We stood by the side of the road as dozens of packed buses passed us by. After 30 minutes and a few side adventures we found one with empty seats. I stuffed the bags in the back while Di clambered aboard. When I got in Di looked me in the eyes and said "we're in a school bus" I turned around to survey the scene and a dozen kids in uniform stared back. I burst out laughing and so did they. In fact they didn't stop until we got out. Actually, with all probability they kept laughing until lunchtime.

The Lonely Planet warned that the Cyangugu-Kibuye route had only one bus per day and nothing else so we made sure we had a seat. Before we took off the driver said a prayer with the passengers. It was delivered with gusto and I assumed he was Pentecostal. As we drove off the bus broke into song and didn't stop for hours. I was astounded that an entire bus load of people could sing so well. The road was bumpy and would probably be considered fit for 4WDs only back home but after 4 security stops we arrived at what the conductor called Kibuye. We were both hesitant because no one else got out. On top of that Kibuye looked like it consisted of nothing more than a tree and a dirt car park.

Still unsure we left the bus. A guy asked us if we wanted to see Hotel Bethanie, per chance we did so we let him take us there. It was a descent hike but well worth the effort. It fronted straight onto the lake and had everything we needed. We had lunch sitting no more than 1m from the lapping lake waters. After our food settled we walked to another part of town which looked slightly more developed. Upon arrival we discovered we were wrong. We had a chat to some fishermen and milled around for a while but the threatening weather and the few thousand metres between us and the hotel called for a retreat. We settled in to some comfy chairs and watched the storm roll in. The rain was practically horizontal and the sky was almost constantly illuminated by lightening. If the setting wasn't amazing enough a rainbow formed with one end striking the water only a couple of dozen metres from the restaurant, we even got a photo. Locked inside by the torrential rain we spent the rest of the day between our room and the restaurant.

Kibuye was a beautiful place, possibly the most scenic destination of our trip but there was nothing to do. With a cheap water-skiing operation or some walking we would definitely have stayed longer, but there wasn't. So after just one night we caught the bus to Gisenyi. Due to being misinformed about departure times and bad alarm setting on our part we waited for over two hours watching the local minors acted like wanna be hoodlums. The trip to Gisenyi was much the same as the previous day's journey, minus the singing and road blocks.

I had just finished unloading our bags when a fight broke out. Ever minute of every day we see some people tussling on the street in Africa but nothing like this. Two guys were beating the crap out of another man while a crowd gathered around to watch and laugh. It seemed so fitting that the only real fight we have seen was in Rwanda, it's not a country that leaves you feeling at ease.

Gisenyi is a known expat weekend retreat so we expected it to be quite developed but the streets were unpaved and the buildings neglected. Our hotel was much the same as the rest of the town but nice on the inside. We walked down to the beach in the afternoon. I had full intentions of swimming but a few plastic bags put me off, although I was being soft because the water was generally clean.

We took a seat on some grass to save getting sand through the few clean clothes we had. A few local guys came up to have a chat and practice their English. It was hilarious because one of them wanted some hot tips on how to pick up white women. He was a human rights lawyer, in super fit shape and well spoken. So we said move to a western country, get a job and dress well. We asked him what was wrong with the local girls and he said that he just wants to surprise his family. We started walking back when the clockwork-esque rains came in. We were refined indoors for the last hour or so of daylight.

Despite having spent less than 24 hours in Gisenyi we decided to leave the next morning. There was nothing wrong with the town, but nothing really going on either. We caught a mini-van the short hop to Ruhengeri where we intended to do some trekking. We went to a tiny little park's office in the middle of no where to inquire about the fees for Parc De Volcanes. It cost something like $50 each per day just for entry and then all sorts of extras on top of that. I considered it just because it felt like we had passed in and out of Rwanda having done very little but knowing that the fees were much cheaper just over the border in the continuous Mgahinga National Park in Uganda we passed it up. The rain came again and we wasted the afternoon and night.

In the end I almost regret going to Rwanda. The genocide memorials were well worth while but beyond that I didn't feel welcome. It was a case of give us your money and get out. It started with the $60 two week visa and persisted at the national parks.

Despite having spent only one and a half days in the only real city in Rwanda we were ready to leave. It had an uneasy feel to it. Whilst I never felt genuinely threatened there were several occasions when the locals would do their best to intimidate us, especially at night time. So without remorse we retraced our steps to the conglomeration of mini-vans and bought a ticket to Butare. We were treated to more sights of beautiful, rolling green hills for the three hour ride south.

After dropping our bags in our room and Di had eaten her fill of slops from a local buffet eatery we walked to the National Museum. The museum was almost as big as the town itself. It was filled with a diverse array of articles and information boards. They ranged from land use and erosion, to colonisation and traditions. Like so often in Africa we were the only ones there. It was a shame to see such a well presented exhibition going unnoticed. Towards the end of the displays Di started to lose concentration but found amusement in the ramps which linked the different areas. She found that they were polished enough that she could slide from top to bottom on her feet, I tried it but my thongs (flip-flops for non-Aussies) were too grippy. So whilst Di amused herself on the ramps I finished studying the rest of the displays.

That night we discovered a very satisfactory staple of Rwanda. Like much of East Africa, brochettes (meat skewers) are found in abundance. The difference in Rwanda is the meat quality, the size of the servings and the fact that they are served not only with chips but also salad. Happy we ate and drank our fill, this marked the downturn of the buffets.

Day two down south we determined the differences between buses and mini-vans. Buses are cheaper, slower and leave at a fixed time albeit irregularly. We caught a bus to Gikongoro and then took a motorbike to a near bye tech school come genocide memorial. It was the locale of one of the most blood thirsty massacres of the genocide. Something like 45,000 Tutsi were murdered here in just one day. As a memorial many of the bodies exhumed from the mass graves were covered in lime salt for preservation. They were then placed on display throughout the many rooms of the school as a permanent reminder of the bloodshed.

As Di and I waited for our guide to unlock the doors I prepared myself for what we were about to see. The first door swung open, Di and I took each others hands and walked in. It was a horrific scene with bodies laid out willy-nilly across cyclone fencing mattresses.

It may not have been stomachable if the bodies had not been turned white from the mummifying salts. It gave them a slightly non-human appearance when combined with their shrivelled forms. Yet the hair and teeth were testament to the realness of the people that lay before us and the machete wounds and cracked skulls evidence of the pain they had suffered. Many of the victims had wounds across the back of their ankles where their Achilles tendons had been cut to prevent them from running away whilst they were tortured. The most horrifying sight of all was the death screams impregnated on the faces of some of the victims. Faces that immediately draw tears to the eyes yet someone looked into them as they delivered the death blow.

The memorial consisted of dozens of box like rooms each filled with as many mummified bodies. Some cells contained nothing but remains of babies no more than a few months old. I thought of my nieces and my friends new baby back home. I had to grab the wall for support.

There were too many rooms to visit them all so our guide just took us to a selection. One contained a couple of uncovered weapons. They were crude instruments such as a short heavy stick with an iron ring surrounding it. When the guide started to explain it to me she began to get emotional. Soon she began to explain to me that she was from a family of twelve. Her nine siblings and both parents had been murdered. Many of them at this site. Unfortunately my French was too lacking to understand everything she said yet alone to offer my condolences.

Our guide led us from the mausoleums to a large hall. The clothes of the victims lined the walls. There were so many clothes here that it would make the Salvation army blush, not so long ago these had been stripped off the Hutus by the Interahamwe.

The remainder of the sites were outdoor. A plaque marked the location where the French flag was raised during operation turquoise. The second marked the spot where French soldiers played volleyball during the same period and right beside that was the first of many mass graves. In is inconceivable that a western country could support such an evil event and even assist the retreat of the genocidaires whilst in their spare time play games on the graves of the dead.

Not much better were the countries including my own who watched it all happen. In perfect summary is a press conference by Clinton where he casually acknowledges that with just 5000 troops they could have saved around 400000 lives. His words were something to the extent of "I think we coulda saved about half of them".

When the tour was finished we left a donation and a tip for our guide. We asked someone to call us some motorbikes which took an age to arrive. As we waited the only other tourist there sprang up a conversation with me. He was an American guy who was working at the genocide tribunal in Arusha. He was really interesting to talk to and gave me some insight that few could.

When the bikes did come they took us to the town where we waited for a bus going to Cyangugu. The first section of the drive was the ever stunning Rwandan countryside. Whilst the majority of the second half cut through the Nyungwe National Park. Dark green trees stood thick on steep hillsides, the air was cool and the only noises came from within the bus. Apparently a haven for primates I kept my eyes peeled for a chimpanzee but saw only a few baboons. After leaving the park boundaries we began our descent to the town of Cyangugu which is nestled on the shores lake Kivu.

The town was split into two main parts, the upper being the rougher region and the lower sitting right on the lake's edge. Both had their charm but we chose to stay at the bottom. It was only a small town so with no activities as such we just soaked up the serenity from our hotel's decking. The restaurant looked nice so we ate where we slept although I was a little unsure about the option of horse which appeared on the menu.

For our final day on the southern border we decided to take a hike in Nyungwe National Park so we doubled back on the ground covered previously. The ride was uneventful but I did have a good laugh when Kenny Rogers was thrown into the mix of traditional African songs coming from the tape deck. We arrived later than desired at the gates but it was still morning. The ranger said due to the time restrictions we could not do a walk exceeding 3.5km. Then he proceeded to inform us that recent rule changes meant that all walks must be accompanied by a ranger. The nail in the coffin came when we were given a price: 65 USD each, we declined. I was tired of being treated like a cash cow in Tanzanian and Rwandan national parks and I started to get annoyed. I can sort of understand that if we wanted to track the primates which the park is famous for then they may charge us a high fee but we just wanted to walk in the forest. Whilst we sat to eat our shitty sandwiches I noticed my sunglasses had broken, they were only crappy street jobs but I crushed them to vent my frustration. Ever patient, Di tried to comfort me but I was still worked up when we left the park. I am embarrassed when I remember these tantrums but at the time, somehow, I think I am right. We hailed an already packed bus and filled it even more. I started chatting with another passenger and soon forgot my problems. During the return trip to Cyangugu a great mystery was solved. For some reason everyone always assumed Di was my sister. The guy I was talking to had made the same assumption he was surprised when I said she was my wife (many East Africans don't know the term girlfriend). The he explained that Di looked 16 and I looked 28, so much made sense.

Back in town we decided to go explore. There was a a hill on a peninsula which looked like a good place to view the lake. We walked towards it and came to some boom gates on the road. They looked strange but we just walked around them. As we approached the bridge which connected our position with the peninsula we were stopped by a man with an AK. It was a common site and were kind of used to standing face to face with people carrying automatic rifles. He asked us if we had visited customs and immigration, with surprise we turned around to see where he was pointing. The penny dropped we had inadvertently passed into the no man's land between Congo and Rwanda. We apologised quickly and got out of there. The rest of the town was pretty deserted so we returned to our hotel.

Rwanda is a tiny blip on the map, meaning the capital to anywhere and vice versa is achievable in less than a day. With this in mind we were in no rush to get out of the picturesque Rusumu area. We woke naturally and took a seat at the balcony overlooking the accelerating river water as it approached the falls we had crossed the day before. Personifying the essence of life Di and I had a ridiculous conversation about whether the water knew its inevitable fate whilst we waited for the chef to prepare our breakfast. An hour later we lethargically rose, collected our bags and went to find a van to Kigali.

We found an empty van at the suggested location. It was empty and from experiences in Tanzania and Ethiopia this meant we weren't leaving any time soon. With no other options in sight we paid for two seats to the capital. Amazingly we were actually given tickets. They even had a departure time printed on them, could it be possible. We stuffed our bags in the back and waited to see if we would leave on time. We had 50 odd minutes to pass so we sat on a concrete slab and watched the antics of the locals. They were taking bets on who could balance on their bike the longest. It looked like quite a bit of money was changing hands. Their was plenty of laughing and a clear victor. To back it up the winner then took more bets about how many static tricks he could perform. It was a riot to watch their reactions as he balanced in all sorts of positions, we got the impression that he could hold many indefinitely.

Time flew by and to our bewilderment there were still a couple of empty seats in the van when we pulled away on time. The trip took a few hours and on the way we were treated to some amazing country. With not a square metre of flat ground or a patch of dusty soil to be seen it was hard to believe we were still in Africa. Evidence of Rwanda's intense population density was abundant. As soon as the signposts indicated we had left one town, we were apparently entering another. I wondered how the council even decided where to put them sometimes.

Upon arrival we were utterly lost. We expected to be miles out of town due to the lack of multi-story buildings and congestion but after a brief investigation we found out we were only a few hundred metres from down town. We searched briefly for a hotel but most were prohibitively priced. We took a cheapish option and tucked into the buffet on offer. Once my plate was licked clean I hauled my bursting stomach around the local streets. We didn't really do much except get a taste for Rwanda.

That night Di refused to have another buffet dinner so we wound up at a flashy Indian restaurant. The food was delicious but it ended up being our most expensive feed since leaving home. We had no regrets though as we paid the bill, that's what capitals are for. You know that until you hit the next capital the menus won't vary in the slightest.

Our second day in Kigali was reserved for one purpose, to visit the genocide museum. So long after day broke we hired two motorcycles to drop us at the gate. Di and I held hands and gave each other a "here we go" look before crossing the threshold. At the entrance we were given a short brief about the museum and we headed into the exhibition.

The first and most significant section of the museum was about the Rwandan genocide. It followed the chronology of the atrocity from its build-up to the after mass. It was very informative and impressively set out. Every aspect had a professional touch. Following the statistics and political information we were confronted by hundreds of family photos of the deceased. The numbers were staggering but I felt a compulsion to give at least every one a glance. At times it becomes too much; knowing that everyone in the photos had died for nothing. In the middle of the room was a projector which shot interviews of some survivors onto a large blank wall. The stories were told by adults who had been children at the time. They focused mainly on the experiences these people had gone through, watching their family be murdered was the common theme. It was heart wrenching footage and I tried to put myself in their shoes. I couldn't, the thought was unbearable and I blocked it out.

The next room had articles of clothing from the victims. It would not have been so touching except that we could relate them to the people we saw daily on the street. Many Africans have a tendency to wear t-shirts printed with hilariously inappropriate slogans as they can't understand what they say. This category of attire was represented and it increased the humanness of the dead. Again a projector was screening interviews with the survivors. The people were the same but this time the editor made the discussion point their families before the event. For me this was the most emotional part. I know what it's like to have a loving family and it was beyond my capacity to imagine them torn away as had happened to the interviewees.

As we ascended the stairs out of the first display I wondered if I could handle another two whole areas. I had an obligation to. If people in the west saw the personal devastation caused by genocide they would never sit by and watch it happen. The second section was a montage of genocides from around the world. All the most well known genocides and a couple of the more under spoken were represented. Again the display was informative and very professional.

The final section was the one I dreaded the most. A part of the building dedicated entirely to the child victims. I entered with trepidation. in contrast to the previous rooms this was noticeably minimalist by design. A simple corridor, painted white. Positioned along the walls were lecterns with blown up photos of children and brief descriptions of them, what they liked, their personalities etc. It was easy to see what the architect had in mind when he conceived the idea. To represent the innocence of the children murdered. Yet somehow it fell a little short. Whilst it was still touching it was missing a personal feel. We even managed a laugh in such macabre surroundings when we read the description of a 5 month old baby's personality: "cried a lot".

The last stop was the comment box. The display had been excellent, some of the information had become obsolete since print, a few statements were contradictory and their was no mention of the Tasmanian Aborigines which is the only 100% complete recorded genocide. These were all minor gripes and in no way impacted on the informative and touching memorial. Di and I grabbed a drink and a seat to recover.

During the trip back to the hotel a dust storm whipped up. Not keen to bear the conditions we retired to an internet cafe for the rest of the afternoon. We were drawn from our quarters some time later by what sounded like live music. We followed our ears to a hall nearby. Through the holes in the walls we could see a choir with band accompaniment singing beautifully. The gates were locked so we just peered through the holes. A lady came running up and showed us another entrance. We sat and watched them sing and play for about half an hour. It was a memorising performance. Good singers are a dime a dozen in Africa so whilst back home the hall would be packed there was only other man watching on silently.

As we got up to leave a man came to greet us. He explained that they were a church group who got together to sing on a regular basis. He welcomed us back any time and we parted in search of dinner.

The bus to Nyankanazi was leaving early and we were a long way from the bus station so we were at the road side whilst it was still dark. We were waiting for a mini-van but an empty full sized coach pulled over to offer us a ride. On the way to the station the driver kept asking us questions about which company we were using and where we were going. I started to realise something was wrong. When we disembarked someone pointed out that we were at the wrong bus station. Luckily a mini-van offered to drive the route to the correct station for us.

We drove all the way back into town before heading out in a southerly direction. The conductor started collecting money and he seemed to ask for a excessive amount. I questioned him, he tried to explain but I couldn't understand. I just let it go. The trip wound up taking almost 40 minutes, justifying the price tag. It was nail biting stuff and we started to wonder if we were even on the right bus, on top of that it was already past boarding time. Our fears were unfounded but we were the last ones to board.

I had expected the drive would take only three hours but it took around 6. Nyankanazi was a tiny little town built on a t-junction. It had no transport of its own so we waited on the roadside for a lift. We tried to hitch but no-one was going in our direction. After over an hour a matatu (mini-van) passed through. We squeezed in but it took about ten minutes before we left as we negotiated a fair price. Another couple of hours passed as we drove to Benako.

It was 5 o'clock and we assumed the border had closed. A taxi driver promised that we could make it. He drove via the service station, which are a sad sight in the remote parts of Africa. Due to the fuel shortages the pumps are never used, instead there is usually one or two guys with only two or three litres of fuel stored in coke bottles. On the way to the border we picked up another passenger. We dropped him off at a burnt out truck which had rolled off the road. I asked the driver to fill me in. The man we had dropped off was the owner of the truck and both occupants had died that same day.

At the border we changed some money on the black market and checked out of Tanzania. The staff in the office were really friendly and we had to laugh when the female officer asked if Di had any romantic novels she could read.

We started to cross the border on foot but as we approached the bridge which spans the Malagarasi river and connects Tanzania with Rwanda we stopped short. Rwanda is known as the country of 1000 hills but if Rusumu was any indicator then it is a conservative estimate. On the Rwandan side of the river, as far as we could see, the terrain was a continuous range of steep hills coloured a shade of dark green that we had rarely seen in Africa. The falls that ran under the bridge were thundering. They were not typical vertical falls but the ferocity of water was ample compensation. I usually can't wait to get through the standard filthy border crossings but here was different. We even risked pulling out the video camera in a security sensitive area to remember it.

Immigration and visas were a breeze. Within minutes of being inside Rwanda my fears were confirmed, French was going to be more common in Rwanda than I had hoped. The little French I had was rusty as hell and even in its hayday it wasn't much. Still we managed to get a room and relax for a beer. That night we were introduced to typical Rwandan food. The food itself was rather unremarkable, mounds of unrecognisable mashed vegetables with some beans and pasta thrown in for good measure. The unusual aspect is the serving style. It's a buffet with a difference. You pay per plate and can then load it as high as you like but you may not return for seconds (unless you pay again). It looked like an art perfected by the locals who somehow managed to fill their plate higher than they were wide. I did my best to imitate the professionals as did Di, but we ended up serving ourselves too much. For fear of wasting food in Africa we ate as much as we could and stumbled off for the night.