Getting Stuck in the Rwandan Backwoods at Night
By: Dave Smurthwaite
Tags: Travel, Africa, Family, World, Short Story

Getting Stuck in the Rwandan Backwoods at Night

All we wanted was to find our way home. Instead, we were the local evening entertainment

Photo by Eerik Sandstrom on Unsplash

It’s 8:00 PM and our family minivan is completely lost in Rwanda’s backcountry.

It’s so bad, in fact, that I’ll never be able to use the phrase “completely lost” again without it seeming trite and inappropriate.

It is pitch black all around us and I’ve not seen a paved road or even flat road for well over two hours. Little did I know that only 30–40% of Rwanda’s population has access to electricity (vs. 100% in the United States).

It’s not a fact I’ll be forgetting anytime soon.

How on Google Earth did we get here?

Next to me, a very large, very intimidating gentleman has just jumped into my car and commandeered the passenger seat.

“You! Me! Kigali! I take you!”

I can tell he’s eager to play the role of my Rwandan GPS system, even though he’s probably never driven a car to Kigali in his life.

He keeps yelling at me in his local dialect mixed with a few English words, while my wife, my children, and my father-in-law all run to catch up to the car.

Two minutes earlier, in a moment of desperation, I had followed a Google Maps prompt to turn right.

The second my four tires hit the sand I knew we were in trouble. Sure enough, within seconds, local villagers started coming out to see the commotion.

Given that A) we were the only car in the village and B) probably the first Muzungus (white people) to ever get trapped here, it wasn’t more than a minute before our car was surrounded with locals shouting directions in Kinyarwanda and shaking their fingers at me.

“Can you help push me?” I called out in desperation to the crowd, but I could tell all they were hearing was gibberish. That didn’t stop me from repeating myself once more, EE-NUN-SEE-ATE-ING EV-ER-EE WOR-DE as loudly as I could.

“CAN-NE YOU HEL-PE ME?”

Not only did the villagers not speak English in the village, but I soon discovered they also didn’t know what to do with a car.

“Pu-shuh? Pu-shuh?!”

I said, moving my arms back and forth like a third-rate talking mime.

“Can-ne you pu-shuh da car?” I repeated.

I tried pointing to the back of the car while doing the “push” mime. At this they started nodding without moving an inch.

I was obviously entertaining them with my show in a slowly sinking car, but little else constructive was happening. Finally, in desperation, I turned to my wife, four young boys, and 72-year-old father-in-law.

Please exit the vehicle

“I’m sorry guys, but can you get out and push?” I asked, hoping that their example might encourage the crowd to join in.

Looking at their expressions, you would have thought I’d just asked them to jump out of our lifeboat and snorkel with sharks.

Unfortunately, with our minivan sinking, the cold harsh reality was either swim with the sharks now or later. Thankfully, everyone dutifully jumped into the swell of local villagers, made their way to the back of the car, and began pushing.

This, I assumed, would prompt an immediate reaction from the able-bodied group of men still trying to speak to me in Kinyarwanda.

With my family behind me ready to push, my attention narrowed to my foot on the gas pedal and road two feet ahead of me.

“Ready!” I yelled. “PUUSHUH!!!”

My heart skipped a beat as I felt the minivan budge forward. A little more gas, a little more silent praying, and soon the car was rolling out of the sandpit with a throng of spectators running alongside cheering.

I never imagined I would be so grateful to once again be firmly planted on a ravaged clay road.

Assuming it had been a team effort, I began thanking the crowd in Kinyarwanda. This, of course, prompted a series of open hands and a well-recognizable English phrase.

“Gimme money…. need money.”

Oh, so now they spoke English.

Nonetheless grateful to be saved, I handed out a few hundred Rwandan francs (less than a dollar). This is what must have prompted the entrepreneur of the village to jump into my passenger seat and bruskly begin offering his touring services.

I kindly but vigorously declined his offer, terrified that I’d have no better tonight than a non-English, non-driving Rwandan.

One thing I was sure of. Google Maps didn’t know jack about Rwanda’s backcountry.

Thankfully, within 30 seconds, all Rwandans had exited the vehicle and all Muzungus were once again safely strapped into their seatbelts, ready to recommence the roller coaster ride.

“Kigari? Kigiri?”

I asked the group, hoping they’d understand my butchered pronunciation of the capital city.

They all pointed down the hill, so we decided to follow their collective low-tech wisdom and drive deeper into the woods even if it scared the Rwandan bejeebers out of us.

An hour later, after bumping through multiple other villages (but thankfully no sand traps), we finally spotted an asphalt highway.

I’ve never thanked God so fervently for asphalt in my life.

Hopefully, it won’t happen again anytime soon.