Motos

They’re the cheapest and most efficient mode of transit in Kigali, and they’re absolutely terrifying.

Motorcycle taxis (or “motos” as they are called in Rwanda) can be found absolutely everywhere, dodging around cars and barrelling  over dirt roads. I’m never stuck waiting more than a minute before one bolts past me, ready to take me anywhere in the city for a cost of about 500-1000 rwandan francs (About $1 to $2 Canadian). Car taxis are expensive and buses are both confusing and slow (they only leave when they’re full), so motos are the transit of choice for Rwandans.

I’ve told my Dad I won’t take a moto in Rwanda because they’re dangerous, but I’m in Kigali for less than a day and I’m clambering onto the back of one. Natalie, a fellow intern from Carleton and roommate here, has luckily been on one before. We hail two motos and she haggles with the drivers over the price. Because we’re clearly “muzungus” (white people) and not from here, the moto drivers will often attempt to overcharge. Luckily for us, we always make sure to know what the price should be beforehand. Natalie is also ridiculously good at haggling prices. Doing so often draws a mob of multiple moto drivers and a collection of random Rwandans who come to watch the entertaining exchange.

Motos zooming along my street. Note how both the driver and rider are barely holding on!

We finally decide on a price for our trip—800 francs— and the moto driver hands me a decrepit helmet with a visor so scratched I can barely see out of it. I tell myself that they helmet damage is just from overuse. Natalie looks at me while buckling on her own helmet. “Just try not to think about it too much,” she says. Wise words.

I hop on the back and we’re off, winding in and out of trucks and cars with surprising skill. There is a bar on the back to hold on to and I clench it so tight my fingers turn white! Since I’ve grown up riding snowmobiles (from the North, eh?), I at least understand some basic rules for keeping my balance on a machine like this.

It’s a beautiful way to see the city though, and this early morning ride is my first view of Kigali in the daytime. The rich colours of the city streak past me, the deep red soil and the lush green trees. People gawk at me, the word “muzungu” on their lips when they notice my pale skin.

I look at the moto’s dash. It reads zero kilometers per hour. Hmm. It’s probably better not to know my speed anyways. The trip odometer has over 200,000 km on it, and the gas tank reads empty. (I later learn that this is exactly what the dash looks like on most motos.)

After about 20 minutes, we arrive at our final destination, and it’s time to pay the moto drivers. Holding onto your helmet is the only way to make sure you get your change back. Natalie notices her driver has tried to take an extra 100 francs for himself.

He laughs and reluctantly hands over the coin.