Old Lovers Don't Die (12 page)

“Rwanda air-conditioning,” Willy laughed as he climbed in the driver’s seat, lashing the door closed with a piece of green rope.

Christian smiled, wondering whether the floor was a specific deterioration or whether it applied to the whole vehicle. He guessed he would soon find out. Sitting on part of the seat which did not have springs protruding, he wondered whether they would make it to the hotel. Perhaps it would have been better to take one of the motorcycle taxis, which might have, in many ways, been safer. Since Willy had now closed the sliding door, he would have to take his chances. Willy turned the key and started the motor; immediately exhaust fumes suffused fimicolously up through the holes in the floor. Christian started to have serious second thoughts about survival in Willy’s van. He was on the verge of telling Willy to stop - that he would get out, when they started moving and the fresh night air rushed in through the many holes, diluting the exhaust fumes.

Leaving the airport, the van was surrounded immediately on all sides by small bright lights. The lights were in constant motion; motorcycles, each with a paying passenger, were weaving and constantly tooting while gesticulating to everyone to move aside. Motorcycles of all shapes, sizes, and colours swarmed around them, clearly the choice of transport for most who lived in Kigali. Experience and intuition appeared to be the only prerequisite for survival.

Willy tooted back and weaved unconcernedly. Christian watched as one motorcyclist waved wildly and then cut in front of them. Strangely, no one seemed to get upset. The tooting and waving always seemed to be accompanied by a smile. Rwandan road rage did not appear to exist, at least on the main road from the airport. Even allowing for that, he could not help but think the emergency department fracture unit in the local hospital could be very busy on any given day.

Willy accelerated towards the first judder bar, a raised concrete mound placed across the road to slow down traffic. This caused the van to leap in the air and bounce several times in an unstable manner when it landed on the other side. Not only did it not slow the van, but it also appeared to be part of the enjoyment Willy got from driving. After the fourth and last bounce, his grin was again lighting up the van when a motorcycle and its pillion passenger passed on the outside with much tooting and waving. Willy was mortified to be overtaken by a motorbike; it was a personal affront. He accelerated in pursuit, changing the bouncing into a nauseating side-to-side movement.

The swaying in the van caused Christian to reach for the inside door handle for support; as he grabbed at it, the van swayed to the right and the door handle promptly fell at his feet. He sat back, resigned to the skill or otherwise of Willy’s driving. Peering out through the side window into the darkness, he wondered whether all those years ago this was how his father had made his way into Kigali. His thoughts of where his father might have stayed were interrupted as he looked up and saw they were approaching another judder bar. He quickly moved so that he could use his legs to brace himself against the driver’s seat. This time to Willy’s great delight, the van leapt at least two feet into the air, returning to the road with an enormous screech as the chassis ground into the asphalt. That caused part of the floor next to Christian’s feet to disintegrate with the exhaust pipe then visible, discharging its fumes directly into the van.

“Open all the windows, Dr. Chris,” said Willy over his shoulder after quickly glancing at the hole in the floor. He turned his attention back on the road ahead, and the challenge of the disappearing red light of the last motorcycle.

Christian changed position so that he straddled the exhaust pipe and opened all the windows.

“Put your head out the window,” Willy said, as he started to cough, the fumes beginning to irritate his lungs.

Christian moved to the window and looked around the van. Even with all the windows open, the carbon monoxide could still be toxic to them both. The other danger that became obvious was that in leaning too far out the window, stray motorcyclists trying to pass, may hit him. As he thought that there was nothing he could place over the hole in the floor to stop the influx of fumes, Willy quickly looked around and lifted up the floor mat from under his feet. He then handed it to Christian in such a nonplussed manner that Christian could not help but think that exhaust pipes appearing in the back of Willy’s van were a regular occurrence. Christian quickly draped the mat over the exhaust, reducing the amount of fumes somewhat; he hoped it was not too far from the hotel or otherwise they might well have to contend with the smell of melting rubber as well as the carbon monoxide.

The first stop sign appeared out of the night like a glowing red ember invoking another unusual driving practice. Firstly, Willy put his foot on the brake, which caused a sound, not unlike fingernails on a blackboard, but which did little to slow the van. The sound, Christian understood, meant that the brake pads were now non-functional and just a figment of the van’s history. Not that that seemed to perturb Willy too much as the second part of the routine for slowing down appeared to be a well-practised art. He rapidly changed gears using the engine to slow the van down before bumping into the curbing at regular intervals to bring the van to a stop just in front of the red light. Christian thought it was such a skilful performance, it really needed an ovation; therefore, to Willy’s great delight, he clapped his hands as the van sat quietly at the red light. After looking both left and right, Willy coaxed the van, with several hops, onto the main road into Kigali. Christian with his head out the window relaxed enough to smile at the numerous motorcyclists alongside.

“Here we are, Dr. Chris,” Willy said turning off the main road.

The bright lights of the Gorilla Lodge Hotel felt like the end of a survivor episode. And he knew he could not be certain until the van came to a complete halt. There was still the car park in front of the hotel to negotiate. Willy started his routine of changing down gears but this time appeared to be moving too quickly. Willy showed no concern for clearly he had something up his sleeve. Then right on cue, he turned left and headed for the small grassy bank next to the car park to bring the van to a complete and well-rehearsed halt. Willy then quickly jumped out of the cab and put a stone under the front wheel.

As the swaying movement in the van finally came to a halt, Christian went to slide back the door before remembering he had pulled off the handle. He sat back relieved that he had arrived safely and waited until Willy opened the door from the outside.

“I will take your bags, Dr. Chris.”

“Thank you, Willy.”

Christian walked up three small concrete steps to a small wooden veranda that led to the reception area. Inside was a small wooden desk and the person sitting behind it was someone who could have been Willy’s brother. His T-shirt, with the ever-present large silverback gorilla, slightly cleaner. His smile also almost as perfectly formed as Willy’s was. It had to be the Rwandan diet Christian thought, as he knew there were only eight dentists for eleven million people.

“Good evening, Dr. Chris,” he said. “I hope you had a good trip.”

“Yes, it was an excellent flight, and Willy’s superb driving got us from the airport very quickly.”

“We have you in a small room upstairs, which has a toilet and a mosquito net. There is a shower that all the guests use down the hallway.”

“That sounds good to me. I’m in need of some sleep.”

“I will come back in the morning,” Willy said, “to take you down to the genocide memorial.”

“Thank you, Willy. Are you sure the van will make it?”

“Oh yes, Dr. Chris. I know the way to go where there are no judder bars.”

Small mercies, Christian thought. He would deal with that issue once he had had some sleep.

“Breakfast starts at 7 AM. If you are not down, we will come and knock on your door,” said Willy’s lookalike from behind the wooden desk.

“Thank you, Willy. I guess I will see you tomorrow.”

The smell of freshly brewed coffee percolated through the door and the mosquito net. Christian stirred and opened his eyes. He felt refreshed and was delighted to have slept so soundly. He could not remember sleeping so soundly after flying previously, and briefly wondered whether there had been any contribution to his sleep from the carbon monoxide in Willy’s van. The rich smell of the coffee wafted in the door again, stimulating his cerebral caffeine centre and he decided he would shower and shave later; he needed to investigate and organise his caffeine fix for the day.

Walking down the stairs, he could hear enthusiastic voices coming from the dining room. Accented voices, American perhaps, although he could not be certain of their origin, partly due to the fact they were loud and very enthusiastic. At the bottom of the stairs, a doorway led left into the dining room. At the far side, he could see two women sitting at a small round wooden table talking very animatedly and laughing. He stopped for a moment and listened. It was their voices, which he had heard, and they were American. From where he stood, they looked like they were sisters; each had blonde hair pulled back tightly into two short ponytails, fine features, and both with gold hoop earrings. He made for the spare table next to them, under a large indoor palm tree, when they both turned towards him, waved and called out.

“Come and join us.”

Christian smiled and pulled the spare wooden chair out from the table. As he sat down, he introduced himself if somewhat formally as Dr. Christian de Villiers.

“I’m Cindy.” The first blonde ponytail on Christian’s left said smiling without considering a surname was necessary.

“And I am Donna, but we are not sisters which is what everyone thinks.”

“Where are you both from?”

“Well, you probably already established the United States. I am from the Bronx in New York and in Rwanda as part of an aid program associated with my church. Donna is from Houston and is training to be a teacher.”

“And you, Christian, here to work in a hospital?”

“Yes, at a hospital close the Congolese border in the little town of Garanyi.”

“Good morning, Dr. Chris. Would you like some nice Rwandan coffee?”

“Albert, if you’re getting some coffee for Dr. Chris, could I have a refill please?” Donna chimed in.

“Can you do a long black, Albert?” asked Christian, as Donna finished.

“I will get that for you both and don’t forget there is fresh fruit over there that you can help yourself to.”

Christian looked in the direction Albert had pointed. All kinds of fruit from pineapple to pawpaw were neatly cut up on square white plates. It looked very enticing.

“Albert makes the best coffee, just you wait and see,” said Cindy.

“Mais oui, and now we know that you’re a doctor, we also know where to get our drugs.” Donna added with a small laugh.

“You speak French?”

“I teach French and was hoping to improve it in Rwanda. That’s their first language, although most speak English.”

“Yes, I’d heard that was the case and was hoping their English was better than my French.”

“From what we have experienced, almost 80% would understand English, but it may be a little bit different when you get to your hospital, as that is close to the Congo.” said Donna

Christian was pleased to hear the statistic; he had learnt French at high school, but doubted that was going to be adequate to work effectively in the hospital. There had been a decree in Rwanda recently that the official language that would be taught in schools in the future was going to change to English. It was partly because the French had never fully apologized for their role in facilitating the genocide by supplying arms to the rebels. He wondered also whether it had anything to do with the fact that Rwanda was the democratic darling of Africa, with most of the aid supplied from the English-speaking United Kingdom and United States of America. Having English spoken as the first language undoubtedly would facilitate business with English-speaking countries.

“We are all going to the genocide memorial tomorrow if you would you like to join us, Christian.”

“Well, I was hoping to do that. Willy who brought me here last night is returning with his van this morning, but I would do anything to avoid travelling in that van again so that would be good.”

“He drove too fast,” said Cindy.

“The answer to that is probably yes, given that the absence of shock absorbers, brakes, tyres, and floorboards should have mandated a top speed of five km/h for any safety.”

Cindy laughed. “I think you have to get used to that here. That sounds very similar to one of the taxis we had.”

“Any other plans for today, Christian?”

“Drinking more of this coffee, I think. This Rwandan coffee is the best I have ever tasted.”

“Albert has a little hand grinder so it’s always fresh. We are having a meeting at lunchtime with our local supervisors. Why don’t we meet back here for dinner? There is one more in our group you haven’t yet met; Rafael is a German engineering student who is going to help out with a hydroelectric project in Shyra.”

“Sounds good to me,” Christian said. “Shall we say about 4:30 PM back here?”

At 4:30 PM, after another sleep to deal with his jet lag, Christian went down to the reception desk. Neither Cindy nor Donna had arrived and as he looked round, he felt a tap on his left shoulder.

“If you are Dr. Chris, then I’m Rafael,” said the heavily accented German voice as Christian turned round. Rafael’s rotundity suggested he had a good student allowance in Germany. Covering his ample frame was a large green T-shirt, in the centre a bright yellow light bulb. Underneath was written in italics “
light to the entire world”
with the sponsoring German company, whose name Christian could not read. At a touch over six feet, Rafael had an exuberance about him that projected well into Christian’s space, and reminded him of the character from the Jolly Green Giant cartoon.

“Would you like to try the local beer, Mutzig? It’s very good,” said Rafael.

“Love one,” said Christian.

“Count me in,” said Cindy who had just walked in the front door.

As Christian looked up, he saw Donna also walking in, and she just shook her head.

“I’m a Pepsi girl,” she added quickly.

The beer arrived accompanied by the smiling Albert; it was chilled to the point where it could have been an Australian beer. That was an excellent starting point when it came to beers. Christian was then not too surprised that it tasted so good, and was very similar in taste to Carlton draft, an icon Australian beer. At the equivalent of three Australian dollars a bottle, it could also be a cheap evening he thought.

“The water in the beer comes from Lake Kivu which is where your hospital is situated. That could be a good sign,” said Rafael, laughing loudly.

The evening turned out to be one of great fun with Donna finally capitulating and switching from coffee to Mutzig. After a few Mutzig beers, they all ended up laughing and telling stories from their student days; all seemed to have done remarkably similar pranks despite their different origins. Rafael had told the story about rewiring the common room in the girl’s dormitory at his university. Every time the lights in the common room were switched on, the fire alarm came on; this caused all the girls to run out of their rooms in various modes of undress. While Rafael laughed at the memory and Christian thought it was quite clever, Cindy just raised her eyebrows at Donna. However, a few beers later, Donna appeared to be the one most relaxed, perhaps because she was not used to drinking beer. By the time the third beer arrived, despite reassuring Christian that his lack of French would not be an issue, she was offering to be his French interpreter if needed. This brought a playful reproach from Cindy.

“And what particular phrase were you thinking of helping him with, soixante neuf?”

They all laughed which Christian noticed caused Donna to blush slightly. When Albert closed the bar at 11 PM, Christian felt like they had all become good friends. As they said good night, they agreed to meet for breakfast at 8 AM, and then go on to the genocide memorial.

Christian slept until about 7 AM when the coffee smell again caused him to stir. He was surprised that the mosquitoes had not bothered him with their buzzing in the night. Cindy and Donna had complained the buzzing kept them awake most nights. Christian, despite feeling very relaxed after drinking quite a few beers, had thoroughly checked the mosquito net before he went to bed, finding two little holes which he had managed to close with two paperclips. He reminded himself to tell Cindy and Donna to check their nets for small holes.

He showered and shaved, remembering to keep his mouth closed in the shower and not use the tap water to wash his teeth. Keeping his mouth closed in the shower was a tip given to him by Rafael; it was a way to avoid getting gastroenteritis from the local water. Towelling himself dry, he briefly wondered what Petrea was doing. She had probably completely forgotten about him. He quickly glanced at his phone to check and there were no messages. He unpacked a change of clothes, inhaled the coffee aroma drifting up the stairs, and headed down to breakfast.

“Good morning, Christian. Did you sleep well?” Cindy said, watching him come down the last few stairs.

“Wonderfully well, thank you.”

“It’s that Mutzig beer; it should be marketed as an antidote for insomnia,” Rafael said smiling.

“We have a taxi organized for 9 AM to go to the genocide memorial.”

“How expensive is the taxi?” asked Christian.

“Nothing seems to be expensive here, with the exception of course of certain American French interpreters.”

Christian laughed remembering the banter from the night before. There was no reproachful look from Cindy this time, just a smile to suggest that she had also enjoyed the previous night’s interaction.

“I hear the genocide memorial is a very emotional journey which takes about an hour and a half.”

“I think, from what I’ve heard, the fact that it has interactive screens and videos of victims describing the horror of seeing family members hacked to death, leaves you feeling emotionally drained.”

“It sounds like we will definitely need some Mutzig therapy afterwards then,” Rafael added, the practicality of an engineering student relating any kind of emotional issue to an alcohol solution.

The taxi that turned up to take them to the memorial was a Mazda circa 1970s. Its original colour had been a bright red, but over the years had faded to a colour somewhere between burnt orange and rusty pink. At a cursory glance, Christian could see no parts missing, as distinct from what parts were left on Willy’s van. While it appeared a huge positive, it did not necessarily suggest that it was going to be any safer. An elderly Rwandan driver emerged who appeared to be from the vintage before cars themselves. His neck bent from arthritis, he could only look at the ground as he walked slowly to meet them, taking the stairs one at a time to reach the small landing at the top. Christian also noted as he walked through the door at the top of the steps, he had cataracts in both eyes and a small tremor.

“Good morning. I am George, your driver,” he said as he reached the top of the stairs, puffing slightly, a toothless grin accompanying the greeting.

“Twenty dollars American for everyone to go to the genocide memorial.”

“Ten dollars,” said Rafael. George looked at him for a minute and then nodded, his toothless grin endorsing the price.

“Always halve whatever gets quoted to you,” Rafael whispered in Christian’s ear. “It’s expected.”

They walked down the concrete steps in front of the hotel and with a degree of trepidation climbed in the Mazda. Christian was delighted to see no holes in the floor and that each door had a door handle which appeared to work. The back seats had been repaired with duct tape but there were no springs visible. They all climbed in, having voted for Rafael to sit in the front, arguing humorously that he had the most cushioning should they bump into anyone. Christian, Cindy, and Donna squeezed into the back seat, the duct tape in places sticking to them. The driver’s window contained no glass at all which Christian thought was reassuring should the exhaust pipe decide to follow the example of Willy’s van.

Passing through the centre of Kigali, Christian was amazed at the lack of traffic. The roundabout in the centre of the city had almost been in gridlock the previous night, with the number of cars and motorcycles trying to make their way through. There was no waiting this time, just the odd motorcycle and passenger and George did not have to try to push across in front of other motorcycles or vans.

“Where is all the traffic?” Christian asked Cindy.

“It’s Sunday and 90% of the population will be at church. Rwanda, as you know, is a deeply religious country and practices its faith vigorously.”

“This would be the time to invade them if you were a foreign nation,” said Rafael from the front seat, his practical nature forcing its way to the surface.

The taxi ride turned out to be as equally eventful as the van ride with Willy the night before, albeit for slightly different reasons. George firstly drove very slowly peering intently over the steering wheel. His intense concentration was clearly driven by his diminished ability to see very far ahead. The thought that they might hit something due to his poor vision was reassuringly tempered by the fact that there could be little damage, given the speed he drove at. The slowness of the travel had another positive: it minimised some of similarities with Willy’s van. The Mazda had, like Willy’s van, little by way of effective shock absorbers and tended to bounce and sway at the slightest unevenness in the road. However, at the slow speed, the bouncing was not as vigorous or as nauseating as it had been in Willy’s van.