Weaving in and out of the Kigali traffic headed west and north away from the city, our bus turned abruptly right and began a long, steep, twisting climb. The driver downshifted noisily and the bus’ transmission eased into a more comfortable gear as the incline kicked up. Curving around countless s-bends, the bus plodded upwards as other vehicles whizzed past downhill. Putting the thought of head-on collisions in a securely locked mental box is an excellent skill to develop in Rwanda. Anyway, through breaks in the trees the steep ridges of outlying Kigali framed the narrow valley below. The mountains grew taller and more impressive with each sweep outwards away from the hillsides. Everything seemed on the verge of rushing downhill into the valley floor. The bus finally crested the hill and chugged onwards, straining under its load of human cargo.
Outside the bus windows the landscape began to change dramatically. The road snaked through valleys and clung to the sides of nearly sheer cliffs, often following a small, fast flowing river the color of ruddy caramel. It resembled the savory icayi stained cloudy red-orange with ginger, cardamom, and other spices I had earlier that morning – a giant river of steaming African tea! Willy Wonka would be proud. The trees and other vegetation took on bizarre and fascinating forms, and all of it appeared ludicrously placed on the mountain sides. Tall, skinny Cassia trees with multiple plumes of lacy leaves stretched vertically to compete with enormous banks of invasive yellow-stalked bamboo. Along the road, large conifer trees (yes, fir trees) shaded small, spindly trees topped with bright flashes of large poppy red blooms, their forms blurred by the motion of the bus. The oversize splashes of vibrant color resembled an Impressionist’s quick and agile dabs of paint to a canvas. The elephantine leaves of green banana groves filled the patchwork hillsides, where they shared space with carefully crafted terraces, stands of native vegetation, and smudges of raw red earth. Tiny dirt paths criss-crossed the hills like a monumental size ant farm kit as farmers traversed the trails twisting upwards from roads and valleys to the towering ridgelines.
At points the bus would round a turn and large panoramic vistas opened before me. The rugged terrain around Musanze has a distinct appearance when seen collectively from a distance. For one, the road and mountains are so high clouds appear to float in amongst the peaks. The mountains are stacked one upon the next as far as the eye can see, and each one is more verdant than the next. The tectonic plates colliding to the west at the Great Rift Valley have creased this land and driven it skyward. So much so, the earth itself appears wrinkled by the geologic and human forces acting on it.
This region also witnessed some of the most horrific violence during the genocide. At first blush, the astounding beauty of Musanze and its surrounds is so at odds with the brutal violence of 1994. However, Rwandese are quiet and reserved, and many of them silently carry tremendous psychological burdens as a result of the genocide. I began to wonder if the earth did not, in fact, reflect the weight each of the people living in the hills bears, the land drawn tightly into deep furrows like the psyches of Rwandese themselves. I don’t mean to dwell on 1994, but it is truly inconceivable a place so stunningly picturesque and lovely should have witnessed the single most effective mass murder in history. Just some food for thought on the human condition.
Photo courtesy of fellow WT volunteer Meghan (although I don't think she knows I borrowed it! Sorry Meghan.).
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