It isn't that I don't know how to drive on roads filled with things other than cars. I do. In Rwanda, the roads are filled with cows and chukudus and bikes and kids and goats and old people leaning on canes. Someone told me once that the government had told the people that the roads were for all of them, not just for the cars. (I don't know if that was a true story.)
I was just fine in Rwanda, sharing the road. I only had two leeeettle incidents in two years.
In one of them, I was making a right-hand turn in Kigali (without checking for pedestrians on the sidewalks approaching the corner) when a lady stepped out into the street (without looking - she was on a mobile phone), and walked into the side of my truck. She was fine, if startled, and a friend of mine who spoke Kinyarwanda happened to be on the opposite corner, and he translated for us, and we both went about our business. This could have happened anywhere.
The other incident was early in my time in Rwanda, before I knew what to do in a crisis. I was in Kibuye, heading home above the beach market, when two goats jumped off the little cliff on the side of the road and - I am not kidding - threw themselves in front of my truck. It was like they did it on purpose. One of them died on impact, and one of them stumbled to its feet and limped off the road.
I stopped the truck, even though I had heard all these horror stories about what can happen when you kill an animal (ok, the examples in those horror stories were cows: different). What else was I supposed to do? We were the equivalent of three blocks from my house. It's not like these people didn't know me. I came to their market every Friday. Also, it was just a goat.
"20,000 FRw," the owner told me, and I laughed.
"I buy goats for my work," I said. "I know how much a goat costs, and it is not 20,000 FRw."
I called my coworker in Kibuye, who arrived to bargain down the price of the goat, and then my boss in Kigali.
"Get a police report," he told me.
I was a little worried about going to the police station (what if they arrested me?), but I finally insisted to the goat's owner that he was only getting his francs if he came to the police station with me. "Oh, no," he kept saying. "No, that is not necessary. Just give me 10,000 FRw, and we will forget about it."
Hardened (heartened?) by his reluctance, I insisted.
When we arrived at the police station, owner and coworker and I, we stood in front of the counter and explained the situation. "Well," the officer sighed, "let me look at the vehicle."
We trooped outside and he inspected my front bumper. "Is this from the goat?"
"No," I said, "that's a smudge of bird poo."
"Is this from the goat?"
"No," I said, "that's a scratch from when I hit the gate backing out of a horrible driveway."
"So," he said, straightening up, "the goat did not damage your vehicle."
"No, it did not damage my vehicle. But the goat died."
"Do you want him arrested? Do you want to file a police report?" the officer asked me. "If you file a report, we will have to arrest the owner of the goat. He is supposed to keep his animals off the road."
"Oh, no!" I told him. "I do not want him arrested. I just wanted a record of the problem."
"We will make a note in the ledger," the officer told me, and we did.
We were all silent on the way back to the scene of the crime. When we arrived, I handed the goat's owner 5000 FRw, anyway, just to make amends among neighbors, and I made him sign a receipt. "Compensation for dead goat."
My point is that I am not unaccustomed to the idea of other moving objects on vehicle roads. Why then do the bikes in the bike lanes freak me out so very much?
I think it's because they move pretty fast, just there off to the side in your blind spot as you get ready to turn a corner. That, and I don't get to drive with one hand on the horn here.
I was just fine in Rwanda, sharing the road. I only had two leeeettle incidents in two years.
In one of them, I was making a right-hand turn in Kigali (without checking for pedestrians on the sidewalks approaching the corner) when a lady stepped out into the street (without looking - she was on a mobile phone), and walked into the side of my truck. She was fine, if startled, and a friend of mine who spoke Kinyarwanda happened to be on the opposite corner, and he translated for us, and we both went about our business. This could have happened anywhere.
The other incident was early in my time in Rwanda, before I knew what to do in a crisis. I was in Kibuye, heading home above the beach market, when two goats jumped off the little cliff on the side of the road and - I am not kidding - threw themselves in front of my truck. It was like they did it on purpose. One of them died on impact, and one of them stumbled to its feet and limped off the road.
I stopped the truck, even though I had heard all these horror stories about what can happen when you kill an animal (ok, the examples in those horror stories were cows: different). What else was I supposed to do? We were the equivalent of three blocks from my house. It's not like these people didn't know me. I came to their market every Friday. Also, it was just a goat.
"20,000 FRw," the owner told me, and I laughed.
"I buy goats for my work," I said. "I know how much a goat costs, and it is not 20,000 FRw."
I called my coworker in Kibuye, who arrived to bargain down the price of the goat, and then my boss in Kigali.
"Get a police report," he told me.
I was a little worried about going to the police station (what if they arrested me?), but I finally insisted to the goat's owner that he was only getting his francs if he came to the police station with me. "Oh, no," he kept saying. "No, that is not necessary. Just give me 10,000 FRw, and we will forget about it."
Hardened (heartened?) by his reluctance, I insisted.
When we arrived at the police station, owner and coworker and I, we stood in front of the counter and explained the situation. "Well," the officer sighed, "let me look at the vehicle."
We trooped outside and he inspected my front bumper. "Is this from the goat?"
"No," I said, "that's a smudge of bird poo."
"Is this from the goat?"
"No," I said, "that's a scratch from when I hit the gate backing out of a horrible driveway."
"So," he said, straightening up, "the goat did not damage your vehicle."
"No, it did not damage my vehicle. But the goat died."
"Do you want him arrested? Do you want to file a police report?" the officer asked me. "If you file a report, we will have to arrest the owner of the goat. He is supposed to keep his animals off the road."
"Oh, no!" I told him. "I do not want him arrested. I just wanted a record of the problem."
"We will make a note in the ledger," the officer told me, and we did.
We were all silent on the way back to the scene of the crime. When we arrived, I handed the goat's owner 5000 FRw, anyway, just to make amends among neighbors, and I made him sign a receipt. "Compensation for dead goat."
My point is that I am not unaccustomed to the idea of other moving objects on vehicle roads. Why then do the bikes in the bike lanes freak me out so very much?
I think it's because they move pretty fast, just there off to the side in your blind spot as you get ready to turn a corner. That, and I don't get to drive with one hand on the horn here.
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