As I carried my now familiar bowl of cold water into a patch of sunlight for a strip wash I thought of The Hotel Inspector. What would she say about the place where I'd just spent the night? "Points to improve: first, build a road; then install electricity, and most importantly get the bathroom facilities sorted!"
I hesitated, let's delete that last improvement. Standing naked surrounded by dancing swallowtail butterflies and turquoise and yellow birds in the early morning sun was...an experience to treasure, definitely a Unique Selling Point.
The lake, which would eclipse any in the Lake District, was dotted with fisherman in paddle canoes, the light shimmered blue and the flora bright green. The Rwandan tourist industry had missed an opportunity. The Chinese road builders had not. It's pity they want to sell cheap goods, not great locations.
Always helpful our Hotel Inspector might suggest this as a strapline for my lodging;
"Built in 1944, this charming missionary retreat house boasts bedroom views over Lake Kiva. Period furniture and fittings, a rich abundance of wildlife both inside and out add to the getting away from it feel, for this out of the ordinary location"
This little gem was a precious discovery and its whereabouts, even if I knew them, remain secret. Hotel Inspector stay away.
After a pleasant interlude breakfasting by the lake, we retraced our steps, with all our luggage, to our abandoned and mechanic hungry car. The road to this delightful place, could at it's most favourable, be described as an unused bridleway, it was not an easy walk and impossible to drive. We'd left the Toyota on the edge of the Congo Nile Trail, an exotic and evocative name for a place that was even wilder than my imaginings.
We were to spend much of the day feeding our hungry car a variety of village mechanics, which it spit out in distaste. Held together by bits of wire and crank started by hand, the car limped onward to Changugu. As the butterflies of the morning were replaced by flying mud, any notion of retreat was banished far from our minds.
But to my surprise I was to have a retreat that night, a hotel had been booked for me. Granted no running water, limited electricity, no flushing loo, but these seemed extravagances now. A clean bed, on my own. Rest.
I was mistaken in thinking the long drive would allow time for chatting and snoozing. Our first stop was just a few metres away, in true African style we were collecting passengers. Two headmasters and a child (henceforth known as "the children" ), squeezed into the back seat, along with their luggage. It was never clear to me why they were joining us.
We stopped for lunch at a restaurant whose speciality was mushroom 'pottage'. More importantly I was finally to get my first cup of Rwandan coffee. "Drink Rwandan coffee for a better life" is plastered on hoardings, but it is rarely offered in cafes and homes. In this region of coffee planations and paddy fields it finally gets to be a reality. Although delicious, it's flavour is tainted, as the coffee planations seem to bring poverty. It was only a snapshot from a car window- the sight of a wooden bicycle, children a little grubbier, the burdens balanced on heads a little less nutritious - but I'm told it's true.
The only female amongst 4 males, 3 of whom were total strangers, was at times, a challenge. I quickly learnt what "short call" meant. Peeing at the side of the road is commonplace, and I was to get used to it too. Though I was a little less brazen than my fellow passengers.
At Nyumgwe Forest, a National Park famed for its golden monkeys we entered the clouds. With no visibility and rock falls happening around us, the road suddenly gave way. Bouncing our way around the ravine edge was a white knuckle ride causing much hilarity. "What do you call roads like this in England?" asked Emmanuel. I thought of the health and safety implications of keeping a road like this open and replied "We don"t", "we haven't anything like this in England". It was, I have to add, thrilling; the cheating death, the rapid drop of the African night, the pouring rain. Thorpe Park could patent "The road through Nyumgwe Forest" as a new attraction. We didn't see any monkeys.
My amusement was soon to be quashed and instead of tolerating my travelling compainions I was only too thankful of their presence as we turned out of the Forest for the next leg of the journey.
At the checkpoint my rather weak French misinterpreted the policeman, I thought he was asking us to a party. His body language should have told me I was wrong. With a machine gun nuzzled against the car window he was demanding paperwork from Antoine, checking the lights - traffic patrol. Nothing to be frightened of, but everyone was. Where were we going? What was I doing in Rwanda? Where was I from?; the liturgy I was getting used to.
With our already struggling Toyota jumping over rocks in the track and 35 km of Glastonburyeque mud, I began to wonder whether the better option might have been a party with our jolly policemen. At which point the car started to pour steam and refused to negotiate the knee deep sludge any longer.
In the middle of a Chinese road construction project, on the edge of a lake, in tropical rain, surrounded by increasing numbers of roadmen, here I was, a woman alone in a country known for it's volatility. There wasn't one person in the world knew where i was, I didn't know where I was. In actual fact I thought I was in my own disaster movie. I felt sick.
But you know what, those 4 men and "the children" took off their shoes, rolled up their trousers, borrowed spades from the roadmen and dug us out. Not quite the AA, but heros none the less.
