July 29th, 2011

July 29, 2011

I am STILL in backtrack mode, but I hope to get caught up sooner than later, as I know it needs to be done.  It is simply that I am running a hundred miles a minute and haven’t had a chance to slow down.  I am continuing with the story…

Saturday, July 23^rd, 2011

Beforehand, mom and dad, you may want to skip this part.  Love, your safe and smart-decision-making daughter.

Once we boarded the bus back to Uganda, I thought I would have ample opportunity to spend the time reflecting on all that I had seen and learned, and it did start out that way.  We boarded the bus around 5:00pm and took off at the scheduled time of 5:30pm (to my delight!  It was on time!).  The sun was just starting to set on those breathtaking Rwandan hills, and at moments, I felt like I was in a postcard.  Looking out of that bus window, I was amazed at the simple beauty of this country. 

Towns are spread apart, and when we did come upon a new one, it lasted only a minute or two bus-passing-by-time and consisted of a few homes, scaling up the hills, and usually a tiny town center.  As the sun began fading, light also became sparse, as many of the towns had little to no electricity.  One image I will have a hard time forgetting is looking up into the hills at a farm with the sun setting behind it; the farm laborers were hoeing against the disappearing sun, which blackened out their features and left only their silhouettes of movement.  It reminded me of those tissue paper mosaics I made in art class in grade school.  If you remember, the front image is cut out of black construction board, and the tissue paper is then glued onto the back to add the color. 

I think all of these images added to my Rwandan haunting, as I had just finished the museum an hour before loading the bus and the massacre was fresh on my mind.  Then, as I sat on the bus while it navigated dark, winding roads, all I could think about were the hills and their secrets.  How many people were killed in this tiny villages?  How many neighbors turned against their friends as a result of a campaign of hate?  Who remains in that wilderness, never to be heard from again?  The darkness was descending.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that when a gentleman who worked for the bus company stood up to talk, I was a bit jarred.  Obviously, he was speaking the local language, so I could not have understood him anyway, but the lights that had been turned on for his announcement increased my mind’s confusion, making the commotion that ensued that much harder for me to understand.  For, as soon as he stopped talking, people stood up and clamored to the middle aisle.  At this point, I really don’t think anything of it, as I figured the man must have said something about getting close to the Ugandan border.  Ok.

Now would be a good time for an explanation of the bus set up.  If looking from inside the bus to the front of the bus (as if you are sitting down), there are two seats on the left side for passengers and three seats on the right side.  A crude table, with the red X depicting me and the blue Miranda…

FRONT OF THE BUS
X  X	Aisle	X   X   X

So, we were riding along in the bus, now with the aisle completely full of people, with the majority of the passengers having stood up from the side with the three chairs.  Again, at this point, I am not thinking anything about it. 

                Until we come to a curve in which the bus must veer to the right.                 Pure, pure, pure terror set in very quickly, because as you can imagine the weight of the bus was severely off balance at this point and the driver was going the normal 55-65mph on these curves.  I, sitting in the left window aisle felt the bus starting to tilt as it rounded the curve and also saw how far it was tilting when I looked at the window.  I turned to Miranda, who also realized what was happening, and said, “The bus is going to flip over.”

                Around that time, the road leveled out, and the bus straightened.  Miranda and I, both turning white with fear, were looking around and wondering what to do should we hit another curve like that one.  Miranda, being very reasonable, suggested that we must be very close to the border.  I nodded my head, still almost paralyzed with fear.  And then the bus starting to round another corner…

                I don’t know if the bus was actually tilted more the second time, or I was just too aware of what was happening; regardless, I grabbed the chair in front of Miranda to stabilize myself and was so terrified I shouted, “Please sit down.  You are throwing the weight of the bus off.  Please sit down!”  People looked at me like I was crazy, and one man even turned to me in PERFECT English and said, “You need to speak in French.”

                I went between terror, utter disbelief, and anger in the matter of moments.  All I could sit there and think about was that if this bus tipped, I would be these people’s landing pad.  Needless to say, when the bus started on the next curve and I looked through the window to the ground coming closer, I turned to Miranda and said, “Let’s move.  I’m not staying here.”

                With the aisle full of people, Miranda and I stood up in our seats and climbed across the aisle to sit in the three chairs opposite us, which were empty.  Although she and I both sat in silence and prayed, I thought about how I had a fighting chance on this side.  The thought of survival is awful.

                Pulling into the border was less than refreshing, but at least I was able to put my feet on the ground.  It was dark and scary, and I did not want to stop walking.  In fact, a man said something to us, and I walked right on past as Miranda slowed down to talk.  I turned around and yelled at her to come on, only to discover that that man was a border officer.  I had to go back and show my passport.  Oops.

                We got through customs and got back on the bus, which I was not excited to do; however, my choices were either stay at a dark border by myself or get back on the bus of terror.  I thought the latter was the better of my two options.  It, obviously, was, but it did not get any better.  Instead of winding roads, Uganda’s roads are straight; due to this, the driver thought it appropriate to lay on the gas pedal.  My guess is we were going approximately 80mph through the dark, whizzing past cars and swerving in and out of traffic.  I couldn’t even talk at this point; I just wanted to get home.

                Seeing the Mbarara sign was my saving grace, as I knew I only had minutes before I was leaving the death trap.  And, when I got off and saw Pamela’s husband Martin waiting for us, I ran over to hug him, as I was so damn happy to be alive and on the ground.  As we were driving back to our new home, Martin went on to say how happy he was we were back safely, as busses are so very dangerous and leave groups of people dead regularly.  Again, I was so damn happy to be alive and on the ground.  No more busses for me.