Ode to the Moto

The sound of the Moto

Tss, Tss, (wave, wave)

Muraho.

Muraho.

Amarkuru?

Nymeza.

Mumugi.

Yego.

How much? Combien?

Mille franc (smile).

Oya! C’est Muzungu price.  500.

800.

500.

700.

600.

Sister, sister, too little. Is very far. 700.

Oya. 600 (walking away).

Ok we go.

I never thought that I would say this but I am really going to miss the hundreds of motos in Kigali.  Where else in the world can you walk out of your front gate, walk a few metres, tsss at a man on a motorbike, and then get a ride anywhere in the city for at most, one pound! 

My love affair with the moto was not always so.  In fact, for the first month or so, the moto and I had a very love hate relationship, which ended up costing me a considerable of money in taxis.  I remember well – actually to be honest, I remember it as well as you can after your first trip to a cheap restaurant in Ngaboagogo complete with cheap, large bottles of Mutzig beer.  Anyway, my first trip was a rush of adrenalin and fear, complete with a giant bag of vegetables, darkness and fuzzy vision.  It was so much fun.  Then, with the light of day I came to my senses and realised that I do not like the thought of dying on a moto on the roads of Kigali, and I promptly resumed my moto avoidance mission.

Ride number two was not such an enjoyable affair.  Having been at a late meeting at the Laico Hotel and being both short of cash and in a hurry to get to Car Wash to watch the Germans play against Ghana, I decided to soberly brave a moto.  This was a mistake.  Sometimes I think that moto drivers are like dogs (bear with me before dropping your jaw).  Dogs smell fear; so do moto drivers.  My moto driver sensed my fear and decided to exploit it with high speeds, swerving and a lot of laughing.  By the time I got to Car Wash I had jelly legs, a pallid white complexion and I think I had suffered a small heart attack.  I am laughing to myself as I think back on my yelling at the moto driver to slow down because my shoe was falling off – it wasn’t, but at the time it was the only thing I could think of to do to get him to ease up on the throttle.

Oh how times have changed.  Now I barely bother to hold on, I often point the moto in the quickest gap to take through the backed up cars, and the thought of riding in the bumpy, uncomfortable and frustratingly slow scooters, makes me shudder with impatience.  Unlike Elyse, the lovely Canadian journalist, I have few funny moto stories.  There are a couple that stick out in my mind though:

1. On the way from my house to the girls’ place in Kimiharura (about 7mins moto ride) at around 7pm one night, my moto driver decided that he should strike up a conversation with me.  Well, it wasn’t so much a conversation as a monologue in Kinyarwanda which I could not for the life of me follow.  Turns out though, Mr moto driver did speak a few very interesting English words...halfway up a hill, he reaches back and places his hand on my thigh and muttered something inaudible.  “What was that?” I yelled back at him over the engine noises.  Again, this time louder, the moto driver directed something at me in Kinyarwanda.  “I don’t understand,” say I. “I want love!” he shouts.  Well, that was unexpected.
2. 
   
   Funny incident number two involves a moto that wasn’t even actually a moto driver – the funniest stories always start like this.  Walking up to the Ministry of Justice one day I hear a honking behind me.  This isn’t unusual as honking is used by all motos to get your attention, either because they want you to get out of the way or they want you to jump on.  In this case, the moto that honking at me was a Rwandese guy about my age driving a Fedex moto.  “Sister, can I give you ride?”  “No thanks.  I’m fine.” “Sister, where are you going?  It’s hot, get on and I will give you a ride.”  Mum don’t read this bit...it was blinking hot, so I thought, sure why not, I’m only going around the corner and it’s the middle of the day. 
   
   
   We arrive safely at the Prosecutor’s office and I go to get off.  As often happens, the driver wants my contact details.  What makes this story special though, is the fact he asks for my address...so that he can send me a present in the UK.  “I work for Fedex,” he tells me, “so I can use it to send you a present.”  No there’s a pick-up line you don’t hear everyday.