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.
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