Road Safety

Fluids. They provide us all with the life we have. Water is essential for us and and our food to grow. Oil furnishes the food with unnecessary calories, negates any benefits it once had, and can propel our Land Cruisers when fuel is unavailable. Petrol, radiator fluid, transmission fluid, etc. ensure our steel steeds do more than replace flamingos as garden ornaments. It's on these I would like to make a note. In America, when one of the low fluid level warning lights illuminates, or any other alarm for that matter, the typical driver becomes perturbed because of the forthcoming expense. Here, I occupy a passenger seat, but warning lights bring joy to my day. Why? It means nearly everything works. When I see a light, the issue is recent or rare enough that the bulb hasn't burned out. Similarly, the sensor might still work and hasn't been bypassed to save the annoyance. And so, what you consider a nuisance provides me relief.

Last week, I hurried to Kigali, which proved to be a frivolous endeavor. But I did notice something regarding the motorcycle taxis from the hospital to Kibuye and the return trip the next day. The distance is 30 km and one requires an hour to traverse. Computing the average speed is trivial and straightforward. Instantaneous speed is something I always wondered. Both motorcycles had working speedometers, the first two I had seen on bikes in all of Rwanda! However, both gauges were readily dispensable, but for different reasons. On the way into town on Thursday, the taxi arrived promptly at 8, and we departed. The driver gingerly attacked the road (if you can even call it that). Although missing the bus hardly worried me (indeed I still arrived 45 minutes early), the driver's cautious nature probably rendered the device useless because no laws (if there were any governing the path) were broken. Conversely, on the return trip, the driver made haste and mincemeat of the road. The gauge was of as little interest to the chauffeur as daytime soap operas to an employed person.

And now a story from a few months ago. Some may recall that in late November, about a dozen of the Gimbi-ites ran the Great Ethiopian Run. The night prior, most of us indulged in some (ok, a bit more than some) delicious Indian food. Feeling the need for exercise, we decided to walk back to our lodging, perhaps 3 km away. All was going well. Despite being foreigners in downtown after dark on the eve of a major event, we had safety in numbers. About halfway back, a police cruiser (which was a Land Cruiser) stopped and told us to get in. Odd! He was alone, asked our destination, and offered us a lift. Hesitantly, we accepted, but in no time at all, our compound welcomed us.

Finally, a much more recent narrative. In light of last week's failed Kigali excursion, I departed once again for Kigali on Thursday morning. Although the start was later, our bus driver fancied the accelerator. I met someone for lunch downtown, discussed project matters, visited the suppliers, and checked the time. Nearly 4 pm and I still hadn't secured a sleeping berth. I decided to try to acquire my groceries, it being the last item of business, and catch the last bus home, which egressed Kigali two hours later. Food for home- check, dinner before the trip - check, got on the wrong bus only to be warned five minutes before it left - check (I wasn't the only mistaken one). Darkness descended, but this is when many trucks operate. About halfway through the journey, we caught a dump truck, with a Land Cruiser Prado between us. Several blasts of the horn warned the SUV of the overtake. Then he cuts us off. More honking and more cutting off. The Prado brakes to a halt, always keeping us directly behind him. Because we are a bus, stopping in time was no easy feat. Immediately, the back door of the Prado opens, which sends the bus driver into fanatic mode. Throwing it into reverse, he prepares to make a textbook getaway...in a bus. The man who opened the door exits the vehicle and his clothing identifies him as a police officer. He chats with the bus driver, thanks the Prado driver, and piles into the bus with his comrade as if nothing had happened.

You may rave about all the places you have visited, lauding their beauty, and cursing the cramped space because your sibling overpacked. I am thankful to get there at all, because more often than not, the journey seems to occur on the precipice of disaster.