KIGALI, Rwanda — In my neighborhood, dirt roads suddenly turn into concrete.
Taxi motorbikes whizz dangerously between honking cars with their passengers nonchalantly texting on the back.
Fancy cars mix with women balancing baskets of fruit on their heads.
Yesterday, I saw a man standing casually at the bus stop with at least a six foot saw, and no one but me seemed to be alarmed by it.
It all makes for an exciting, exhilarating, adventurous and mildly terrifying commute.
The bus system in Kigali, Rwanda, is nothing like the bus systems in the United States.
Kigali buses are packed to the brim, with an additional seat folding out into the aisle when the bus is in motion.
Bus parks contain a dozen or so buses weaving in and out, coming dangerously close to hitting each other.
The scene is chaotic even early in the morning, with many people bustling about, trying to get to their correct bus.
The buses are not numbered or labeled in any way, so in their replacement, a worker just hangs off of side, shouting its destination to passersby.
My first day taking the bus, all I could do was say the name of my school’s sector, “Kacyiru? Kacyiru? Kacyiru?” over and over again.
This is not a foolproof system. The way I pronounce it almost took me to a completely different location on the opposite end of town.
My first bus ride in Kigali was cramped, smelly and bumpy.
I tried not to sit on top of my neighbor, but that seemed to be the norm. Being “muzungu” — a white person — doesn’t help me go unnoticed.
I was the only white person on the bus.
Rwandans are not used to seeing people like me.
It was very uncomfortable to have a bus full of people staring at you, knowing that there’s no way you could be confused as a Rwandan.
But I pretend anyway. I pretend like I’m just part of the normal crowd when in reality I’m experiencing something new and unusual every second.
As the bus chugs along, emitting exhaust and speeding through the streets, I look at the guy with the saw, the rushing businessmen with their briefcases or the women with babies strapped to their backs.
I’m living a life that’s as fast-paced as the traffic around me.
That’s the way to school.
On my way home at 5 p.m., it was even busier, and there was a 20-minute line before I could board.
The ride took even longer because we got stuck in traffic, at a standstill for way too long.
I got off at the bus park near my homestay, but I still had another 15-minute walk back — downhill this time. Instead of winding down, people seem to get more animated.
Music plays and people try to sell clothes and shoes on the side of the road.
Even in the late evening, I still could hear the remnants of a busy day. Neighbors chatting, children shrieking, people preparing meals outside. I wondered if this city is ever truly quiet.
And then, late at night, when everyone had gone to bed, there was a break.
Crickets are chirping.
There is no talking.
There is no honking.
All is quiet.
