Motos!

Motorcycle taxis are ubiquitous in Kigali, at least in the city center where I’m staying. They are painted green, yellow, and white, and they actively seek customers or beep their horns in greeting to one another, pretty women, and anyone who looks like they might need a ride somewhere.

Each driver negotiates his own price and I’m using the masculine pronoun here because I haven’t seen a female moto driver yet. The drivers are usually young men, and most seem to have some basic vocabulary in English, especially regarding prices.

Traffic in Kigali is amazingly dense. Cars, trucks of all sizes, public mini-buses, and motorcycles all share the same roads or “roads.” All passengers must wear a helmet that the driver provides, and there’s no side-saddle riding. This is where a tiny bit of experience riding horses helps, especially if you’re not tall: put your foot on the passenger foot rest and then stand over the bike, swinging your other leg over. Amazingly enough, the drivers keep balance. Flip down the visor and zooooooom! You’re off!

Some passengers play it cool and hold onto the rear bar behind the seat. Me, I’m not at all cool, so I get up close and personal with the driver and hang on for dear life. That was especially the case when I travelled back to my lodging after Dr. Joseph’s wedding.

It was pitch black, but there was a stand of motos waiting outside the hotel. I agreed to pay 800RF to get back, put on the helmet and climbed on. I think the hotel must have been at the top of the highest hill in Kigali because we went down so many steep hills on those dark, paved and sorta-paved roads. You can bet I was hanging on. The first couple minutes of any ride are white-knuckled for me anyway, but both the driver and I laughed when I made some strange noise as we went down a steep, unpaved road that was full of ruts, bumps, pedestrians, and lots of other traffic.

Oh, and stops signs are for wimps. Traffic lights too. Oh ya, and street signs. Who needs those anyway?

And make sure you keep your elbows tucked in. Otherwise you might knock someone off a passing moto.

When we finally got on a straightaway, the driver really picked up speed, maybe 45 miles per hour. Then all of a sudden there was noise and flashing lights and eeeek! we came to a complete stop. I thought maybe the driver was going to get a traffic ticket, but he said that President Kagame’s motorcade was passing, and no one is allowed to drive when his cars—four or five—pass.

When we got to the city center, I pointed to the bridge-type sign that marks my neighborhood and we zoomed down yet another hill. He got me back and for the extra thrills, it seemed fine to give him an extra 100.