In Only 3 Hours...

So… the idea of driving down to Lake Kivu for a weekend (24-hour period to be exact) sounds like a great idea when the bus ride is only 3 hours each way right? Well, let me tell you what… 

Last weekend, the entire KIVU group decided to travel to Lake Kivu as a weekend get-away, leaving on Saturday morning and returning Sunday afternoon. My Saturday morning began like any other, with me sluggishly turning off my music alarm clock (I refuse to wake up to angry beeping) and getting ready with a light breakfast. Don’t let go of the sight that my breakfast was light this particular morning; it will come back into play. Anyways, after about 20 minutes in the car, I arrived at the Kigali bus station, joined the group, and hopped on the bus. Although at first the group nodded approvingly at the bus, which was like the type of tough and rickety van you would take to a mission trip to Haiti or Mexico, we quickly realized that it was going to be more crowded than expected. After we all piled in, about 20 more Rwandan locals joined us, using the pull-out seats to fit. Suddenly we were shoved together with full body contact- body odor, bad breath and all. Still, we figured it was nothing we couldn’t handle. Good thing we were so confident, because about 20 minutes into the ride, we stopped at a pick-up and another 10 or so locals joined our party bus. It was cramped, but who are we to complain? Then, after a short chat with the man basically on my lap (whose name was Jean Peter), I began feeling a quease in my stomach. As someone who was very accustomed to getting motion sick as a child, I immediately recognized the feeling and began attempting to look out the front window, lean back, and keep my mouth shut. Unfortunately, the “looking out the window” trick apparently only works whenever there is some consistency to the scene outside. In this particular situation, our tough bus was sky-rocketing through the bends and turns in the hills of Rwanda. If there really are a “thousand hills” in this country, I’ve probably whipped through all of them at this point. It probably didn’t help that our driver seemed to be under the illusion that he was actually beginning a Nascar division in east Africa instead of driving a passenger van. He was out of control (but we survived, so don’t be concerned). As I began feeling more and more sick, dear Jean Peter started inching away from me, which I appreciated. At the time, I thought he was merely noticing that I was turning even more pale, which he probably didn’t think was possible since I’m assumably so much whiter than most people he associates with. Maybe he thought I would turn see-through if I kept going at that rate. However, after slowly rotating himself away from me, he suddenly exploded in a colorful and violent array. There was vomit everywhere. Obviously I wasn’t the only passenger who fell victim to the windy hills and wild driver. The bus was completely silent as everyone surveyed the damage- stomach acid and putrid vomit- all over the windows, walls, and floor. I immediately picked up my bag and feet as the mess started sliding towards me. I, however, was far luckier than Katie, my KIVU leader who was sitting in the row in front of Jean Peter and I. Her back and curly hair were covered in vomit. I couldn’t even look at it. Although the bus remained silent out of shock, I began smelling the mess and predictably began gagging as well. After Drew, my other KIVU leader, demanded that our Nascar driver stop the bus, Jean Peter and I hopped out. Because of my light breakfast, I had nothing left in my stomach, so I just dry heaved before collecting myself and hopping back into the still-vomit-covered bus. I had no other option. After a few words exchanged in Kenya-Rwandan, the bus driver shut the door behind me, and we sped off again. Although I’m still not sure what was said and how informed Jean Peter was, we left him there on the side of the road with his bags, his face and shoes still covered in his own throw-up. Poor guy. I felt so bad for him. Hopefully he was close to his stop. Anyways, after playing a game of “don’t touch the ground” to avoid the slime on the floor, I made my way up to the front of the bus to sit basically on the dashboard in the hopes that the new arrangement would help my stomach. Although I was fortunate to have an empty stomach, for lack of the explosion like that of Jean Peter, I was unfortunately shaking from low blood sugar. I probably looked like some crack addict going into withdrawals. Nonetheless, my stomach eventually eased up, and then I only had to worry about 1) not looking at the puke behind me and in Katie’s hair 2) keeping my head forward to avoid the traveling smell 3) most importantly, hanging on as our (probably drunk) driver flew through the hills with a new vigor. Although he was on the phone, texting, or drinking (who knows what) on multiple occasions, we never got hurt, and we eventually made it the promised land, which was anywhere but that forsaken bus. We even made a stop about an hour after Jean Peter’s stomach combusted so that we could water down the remains. All in all, it was a rather horrible experience, but it became funny as soon as it was over. I’ll never get over the hilarity of Katie’s disgusted face with her hair soaked all the way to her scalp with stomach acid. Also, Lake Kivu was beautiful, and the ride home was much better (the bus on the way home was enthusiastically decorated with Bob Marley and marajuana leaf stickers, so the driver was much slower. He probably thought we were aliens traveling at light speed, when in reality we were going about 5 under the speed limit). This trip has been full of great memories, but this one was probably the most blatantly unfortunate thus far. Oh well, from the worst circumstances can come the best stories.