When my professor travels to Rwanda, she almost always contracts the same driver. It sounds very posh to me to have a “driver” at all, but that is the way it is here. It’s not as simple as just renting a car and getting behind the wheel, there are other things—including the rules of the road—that require greater understanding and finesse. What happens if you get in an accident? What happens if you break down? I don’t think AAA will be standing by to take your call… Our driver recently asked me if I would ever drive here in Rwanda and the answer is a definite NO. Partly, it’s because I hate driving, and partly it’s because I have no desire to learn to navigate the traffic situation here. I hate traffic at home and that’s in a place where I already understand the rules. Here? No thanks. If it were up to me, I would prefer taxis and public transport, assuming I could learn to master where I wanted to go and had enough time to get there (buses can take much longer because of the routes).
That’s not to paint Rwanda’s roads as disorderly or scary in any way. Though I’ve only been to three countries in Africa, I have travelled quite a bit. If I had to choose in order which countries I’d be willing to drive in, I would probably pick Rwanda first, Japan second. Really, Japanese roads terrify me and I never had any desire to learn to drive there. At least here, the roads are somewhat proportional to the size of the vehicles. Rwanda separates itself from other developing countries with stoplights (though I don’t understand exactly how they work, because sometimes red means “go” and I don’t think there’s a yellow, instead there are numbers that count down), crosswalks (but you should cross at your own risk), painted lanes on the road (which only appear to be a suggestion), and traffic police (who bravely stand in the middle of the road directing traffic during rush hour but also spot-check drivers for their license, registration and insurance). The chaos that I’ve experienced in other developing countries on the road (thinking here parts of China, Thailand and India for sure), Rwanda is by far the most understandable. As a side note, I don’t know that I’ll ever understand the phenomenon of giant roundabouts. They had them in Senegal as well, and it just seems to add to the chaos. Maybe it’s a French legacy? The roundabouts here in Rwanda, in comparison with those in Senegal, are much more beautiful and informative. As you drive around in what seems like more than one full circle, the center of the roundabouts feature beautiful, manicured lawns and gardens with a statue or fountain as a centerpiece. On the outside of the roundabout are all kinds of billboards promoting international products and warning: “There is no room for corruption in Rwanda!” or other public service announcements. As another side note though, my friend here told me that before the genocide Rwanda was chaotic and dirty just like many of its regional neighbors. After the national tragedy, things really changed, and by 2000, all the trash had been picked up, order restored, and national working days to maintain the beauty of the country had been set in place. One has to wonder if it’s not a coping mechanism for all that happened here in 1994. Regardless of Rwanda’s move toward standardized road systems and higher tech infrastructure, I think I’ll pass on the driving.
So, I did have one driving experience here on my last night that rivaled some of my scariest vehicle moments throughout my travelling life. I was dropped off at the fancy hotel to catch up on some Interneting (and steal a shower) and so my host mother arranged for one of the taxi drivers to take me home. She explained to him in Kinyarwanda exactly where I would need to be dropped off. She did tell me though that if I said “Red Cross,” anyone would know where to go. When I finished my work, I went out to the taxi stand but no one was there. Not the guy in blue that I was to see. No one. So I waited. And waited. Eventually a taxi driver came, but I let the guy in front of me take that one (I regret that decision now). Finally, I gave up on my man in blue. A taxi driver from the street side quickly walked up to me (in the dark!) and asked if I needed a taxi. I asked him, “I need to go to the Red Cross. La Croix Rouge. Do you know it?” He replied that he did, and he scurried back to the street where he’d parked his falling-apart, maroon Toyota Tercel—yes, that old. I could barely keep up with him because he was in such a hurry. He hardly waited for me to close the door behind me when he zoomed off, cut a U-turn and zoomed off down the road. I’m not that familiar with the streets of Kigali, but I had a feeling we were driving in the wrong direction. After what seemed like ages, but should’ve been 5 minutes, we pulled into the driveway of the ICRC. “Oh no. This is the International Red Cross. I need the Rwandan Red Cross.” Oops. I totally didn’t think about the fact that ICRC had a separate compound! He looked very puzzled and obviously had no idea what I was talking about. I made him call my friend. He was very curt, hung up and zoomed off again down the road. Back through town. Back down the same road. First, he scolded me for not specifying. (No one told me I had to!) Then, he said “Oooh. Traffic jam!” It wasn’t like he was upset about it, more like intrigued. I held onto my bags as we cut the corner around the traffic jam by zigzagging through a gas station parking lot. He swerved around other vehicles that were actually trying to get gas. When he realized the traffic continued around the corner he began driving on the sidewalk to cut in farther ahead. Yes, the sidewalk. He furiously banged on his horn and jerked his wheel to avoid boxes and other things in his way. But he had no time to worry about the pedestrians on the sidewalk as they were literally pushed out of the way by his bumper and jumped for safety as they saw him coming. It was like one of those chase-scenes from the movies, only all we were chasing was time. People banged on the window and the top of the car to show their anger at his driving style. Eventually he got me back to the Red Cross—the one I meant to go to all along—and I don’t know where he was planning on going in the compound because he zoomed through the gates and up the road. I made him stop, handed him some money, apologized profusely for the miscommunication and jumped out. I decided it was much safer to just walk in the dark (the electricity was out) to my friend’s house. Good grief. For your own info though, I don’t think he represents the norm…
So, this is where a contracted driver really comes into play. All around town, you can see giant white SUVs hauling various NGO workers around the country with no one sitting in the passenger’s seat. There, though I can’t be sure because I can’t ask them all how they feel about their driver, it seems to me that you have more of a long-term taxi driver situation. But, a driver in Rwanda is so much more than just the person who gets you from one place to another—at least for us. Part of what you’re contracting in these “drivers” is trust. I’m biased of course, but our driver is extra special. He doesoperate a vehicle and arrive punctually at our beckon call as we drive in generally the least optimized course around the city in order to make all of our different appointments. He is the person who gets up ridiculously early and goes to bed ridiculously late because we like to pack everything in while we’re here. And he does receive financial compensation for his time, so the economic relationship does complicate the notion of friendship. All those things make him a “driver.” But, our trusty navigator also negotiates cultural faux pas for us, steps in as a diplomat and often protector when we have overstepped our bounds or walked into trouble, which we sometimes do. When we’re in the car (and we sit in the front seat with him) and no one can hear, we are free to ask him anything about Rwandan culture and he does his best to explain what we are seeing. I’m sure this is tinged with his own experiences and understanding of the world, but he is infinitely patient and kind with our prying questions. He lets us talk to children and interact with the community, all the while keeping an eye out for when we are being overrun. At that point, he chases them all off by shaking his finger or a stick at them (sounds mean, but everyone does it). When people insisting that I give them money surrounded me at the border, he held my arm and led me out, explaining to them in Kinyarwanda that I had nothing for them. He understands our purpose here and he does everything in his power to step in and help mediate when he can. He’s the only reason that we got into the refugee camp the first time (reference a previous post where he talked for hours with the Council of Elders and successfully advocated on our behalf). We trust him enough to send him off into the city with wads of cash for exchanging and our passports for various reasons while we’re busy with our own agenda. He advises us on when it’s appropriate to give gifts or money to someone (Minister, no. One refugee among many, no. Admin staff who pushed our MOU through, yes.). And he feels free to tell us when we’re being exploited or when we look like we’re exploiting (or on the verge of doing so). These are the cultural missteps that one can make while travelling that can do serious damage—to international relations, community relations, or even our personal safety at the moment—and I trust him to help us navigate those waters.
It’s a complicated relationship. It’s linguistically challenging (he is mostly Francophone) and mired by the financial transaction that must ultimately place an economic value on the services he provides (what would a diplomat make somewhere else??). But I feel a real affection towards him. I trust him with my life while I am here. He’s like an uncle to me that feels it is his duty to look out for my best interest. Now I know that I sound like I’m romanticizing my African experience. Of course I understand that he does it for the money, and of course I understand that I cannot know the depths of someone else’s soul or intentions just from five cumulative weeks of interaction. But I do feel like I can consult him and rely on him in the same way I did when my uncle watched over me while I lived in Japan. You cannot put a price on trust, confidence and security like this. I’m sure some of our “driver” experience is embedded in the deeper long-term friendship that he shares with our professor. Without him, this experience would not be half as rich as it has been. Thank you, friend…