Rwanda: Kigali and Bisoke

Known as the “Land of a Thousand Hills,” Rwanda is one of Africa’s most densely populated countries and sits just south of Uganda. After finishing my Uganda trip, it felt natural to continue onward by road, the Rwandan border is less than an hour’s drive from Kabale, making the transition between the two countries remarkably easy.

The land border at Katuna has a small but efficient immigration post, and the entire process took less than fifteen minutes, thanks to my East African multiple‑entry visa.

Patrick, my Encounter Africa Safaris guide and driver, had one final assignment: to take me across the border and all the way to Kigali before his engagement officially ended. The moment we entered Rwanda, his driving transformed, from cruising at 110 km/h in Uganda to a steady 60 km/h in Rwanda, as he kept a close eye on the speed cameras that enforce the country’s famously strict traffic rules.

Kigali has no shortage of good restaurants, and one I tried was Repub, a lively spot serving excellent African fare in a setting decorated with regional art and warm, earthy design touches.

Late the next morning, I took a taxi to the Kigali Genocide Memorial, where I began to understand the cruelest and saddest chapter of the country’s recent history. I spent nearly three hours inside the museum, moving slowly through the exhibits, and left feeling shaken: sad, angry, and deeply depressed. Those emotions stayed with me for several days, a heavy reminder of how much Rwanda has endured and how remarkable its recovery truly is.

Over the past century and a half, Rwanda’s population came to be categorized into three groups: the Twa (about 1%), the Hutu (roughly 85%), and the Tutsi (around 14%). These were not ethnic groups in the biological sense, Rwandans shared the same language, culture, and appearance, but the labels were historically tied to socioeconomic roles. Tutsis were traditionally cattle‑herders, often wealthier and owning more cows, while Hutus were primarily farmers. Colonial administrations, especially under Belgian rule, hardened these fluid social categories into rigid identities, issuing identity cards and institutionalizing discrimination. This deepened resentment and laid the groundwork for future violence.

By 1959, before independence, anti‑Tutsi violence had already begun, and waves of refugees fled the country. Decades of propaganda followed, portraying Tutsis as enemies of the state. The final trigger came in April 1994, when the plane carrying President Juvénal Habyarimana was shot down as it approached Kigali. Within minutes, extremist Hutu militias set up roadblocks across the country. Tutsis were dehumanized as “inyenzi”, i.e. cockroaches, and a meticulously organized plan to exterminate them was put into action.

During the genocide, men, women, and children were killed with shocking brutality, shot, attacked with machetes, beaten, and left to die in the streets, churches, schools, and fields where they had sought refuge. Many women were subjected to systematic sexual violence, including rape by men known to be HIV‑positive, used as a deliberate weapon intended to cause long‑term suffering. Children were not spared, and entire families were wiped out. Some victims were thrown into latrines or pits and killed there, often with stones or heavy objects hurled on top of them. The scale and cruelty of the violence are almost impossible to fully grasp, and the memorial does not let you look away from that reality.

In just 100 days, an estimated 800,000 to 1,000,000 Tutsis, along with moderate Hutus who opposed the killings, were murdered. The world largely looked away, and the United Nations failed to intervene decisively. After ten Belgian peacekeepers assigned to protect the Rwandan prime minister were brutally killed by extremist Hutu forces, Belgium withdrew its troops, and no meaningful reinforcements were sent.

Lieutenant-General Roméo Dallaire, the Canadian commander of the UN peacekeeping mission (UNAMIR), repeatedly warned the UN of the impending genocide and requested permission to act. His requests were denied, and he was ordered to operate under extremely limited rules of engagement. When the violence erupted, he had neither the mandate nor the resources to stop it, despite being on the ground and fully aware of what was unfolding.

Paul Kagame, Rwanda’s current president, led the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) from exile in Uganda. When the genocide began, it was the RPF that advanced into Rwanda, gradually taking control of the country and stopping the killings where they could. After the genocide ended, Rwanda faced the impossible task of pursuing justice for hundreds of thousands of perpetrators.

Over the past two decades, the country turned to gacaca courts, community‑based tribunals inspired by traditional conflict‑resolution practices. Between 2005 and 2012, these courts tried nearly two million cases at the grassroots level, encouraging perpetrators to confess, seek forgiveness, and reintegrate into their communities. It was an imperfect but deeply pragmatic system, and many Rwandans showed remarkable generosity of spirit in choosing reconciliation over revenge.

Walking through the exhibits and then visiting the communal mass graves, where more than 250,000 victims are buried, I was overwhelmed. The sheer scale of loss left me thoroughly depressed, overcome with helplessness, despair, and a lingering melancholy that was impossible to shake.

That afternoon had to be devoted to something active, and we chose an e‑bike tour of Kigali. The “e” part of the bike was essential for climbing the city’s many hills, and the three‑hour ride offered by Josh of Nuttin to Do was a perfect way to spend the time.

We cycled past Kigali’s landmarks, learning not only about the city’s layout but also about Rwanda’s aspirations for economic growth. Beyond the significant income generated by gorilla treks, the government has invested heavily in MICE tourism, attracting conferences and international events, which in turn creates opportunities for the local population to provide accommodation, culinary services, and other support. It was an engaging way to see the city’s present and glimpse its future.

On the bike route, we stopped at the site where ten Belgian UN peacekeepers, assigned to protect Prime Minister Agathe Uwilingiyimana in the first hours of the genocide, were captured and taken to Camp Kigali. There, they were deceived into laying down their arms and then brutally killed by members of the Rwandan Presidential Guard on April 7, 1994. Their deaths marked a tragic turning point, leading to Belgium’s withdrawal of its peacekeeping contingent. Today, the Belgian Peacekeepers Memorial stands at the site, and the bullet holes from machine‑gun fire remain visible on the walls as a stark reminder of that day.

We rode through Kigali’s bustling food street and paused for an hour to enjoy a local favorite, the Rolex, a chapati rolled with eggs, while Josh shared more of Rwanda’s brutal history, adding perspectives that helped fill in our knowledge gaps. From there, we continued riding past the famous Hôtel des Mille Collines, better known as “Hotel Rwanda” from the film, before finishing the tour as darkness settled over the city.

The next day was reserved for the epic hike up Mount Bisoke in Volcanoes National Park, about 110 kilometers from Kigali. It meant an early start: out of bed by 3:30 a.m., picked up by our driver at 4:30, with the hotel kindly handing us a large brown bag filled with breakfast items. Even at that hour, Kigali was already alive, bicyclists and boda‑bodas crisscrossing the streets, going about their business.

After a brief shut‑eye in the car, we reached the park headquarters and were astonished to find more than a hundred people gathered there, all preparing for their own treks into the misty Virunga mountains.

The roadside views as we approached Volcanoes National Park were stunning, revealing the dramatic Virunga range. The park itself encompasses five of the eight volcanoes in the chain, Karisimbi, Bisoke, Muhabura, Gahinga, and Sabyinyo, their mist‑covered peaks rising above the farmland and villages. Rwanda has only four national parks in total, and Volcanoes is one of its crown jewels, famed for gorilla trekking and high‑altitude hikes.

The trip cost about $270, which covered the drive to and from Kigali, lunch, and the park permit. The permit fee for the Bisoke hike is $75 per person, which includes entry to Volcanoes National Park and the services of a park guide.

At the park headquarters, I was astounded to find a modern café in the waiting area, serving lattes, cappuccinos, and Americanos, all freshly made to order and offered free to visitors. It was an unexpected touch of comfort and hospitality, setting a welcoming tone before the rigors of the hike.

Before long, more than a hundred people had gathered at the visitor center. Some were preparing to track gorillas, others golden monkeys, and still others, like us, for the Bisoke hike. After a briefing, our group of ten set out with our guide — a strong, seasoned veteran of Volcanoes National Park, now in his fifties — who led us toward the trailhead and into the misty slopes of the Virunga range.

The hike culminated at Mount Bisoke’s summit, 3,711 meters (12,175 feet) above sea level. We began at about 2,300 meters (7,545 feet), with the trek expected to take six to seven hours. The cutoff to reach the summit was 12:30 p.m., after which thunderstorms were likely. The trail was extremely muddy and slippery, the descent was expected to be particularly treacherous.

Our group included two Australian girls, two Germans from Hamburg and Freiburg, a Belgian couple, a young Belgian man, a US/Kenyan NGO worker, me and my friend. Local villagers offered shoes and gaiters for rent, while sturdy walking sticks were provided free of charge. Porter services were available for $10 for the entire trip, a godsend given the slick conditions and the weight of daypacks.

Jimmy, my guide, stayed by my side the entire way. He carried my small backpack, held my water bottle, and made sure I didn’t slip on the mud‑slicked slopes. Before long, the hike became brutally hard. The gap between me and the other eight hikers widened until they were completely out of sight, and out of earshot. It was just Jimmy and me, inching upward through the mist.

At around 11,000 feet, I noticed my heart rate spiking to 175 after barely twenty steps. I had to stop each time and wait for it to drop back to 140 before moving again. I explained this to Jimmy so he wouldn’t think anything was wrong; this was simply how I had to climb. I had it down to a science: walk 20 to 30 steps, stop for 20 seconds, repeat.

To keep myself focused, I invented a little game. I would mentally count out — “one one‑thou…sand, two one‑thou…sand”, all the way to ten. On the harder stretches, I could barely make it to five before needing to stop. The mud, the altitude, the solitude, everything pressed down at once.

By the time I reached 11,800 feet, I was struggling. Then, suddenly, I saw all the hikers from my group coming down toward me. My heart sank. I assumed the guides would never allow me to continue if everyone else had already summited and begun their descent. I felt a wave of hopelessness wash over me.

But as they passed, each one told me the same thing: “You’re only five minutes from the top.” I didn’t believe it. Five minutes felt impossible. Still, my friend turned around, came back up the trail, and walked with me. And just as they had said, the summit, the crater lake of Bisoke — was indeed only five minutes away.

We took our photos and videos at the summit, but the person happiest about my success wasn’t me — it was Jimmy. He said it more than once, beaming with the pride of someone who had willed me up the mountain step by step.

Then we began the descent.

Downhill is usually my strength; I love moving fast, letting gravity do the work. But on Bisoke, that enthusiasm came with consequences. The trail had turned into a network of narrow ruts, some two to three feet deep, carved by years of rain and footsteps. They were treacherous. My foot would get wedged in one, and the rest of my body would twist as the mud or a hidden tree root sent me sliding. More than once, I was a centimeter away from popping a hip out of place.

People ahead of me could hear the chaos, the slipping, the thuds, and my involuntary yelps of “Oh mama!” echoing through the forest. Twice I fell with such force that my Apple Watch triggered its fall‑detection alert, flashing the “SOS / I’m OK” screen. Each time, I jabbed “I’m OK,” and the watch politely asked me to explain what had happened, as if it could possibly understand the madness of Bisoke mud.

At the park boundary, we finally regrouped. One by one, the scattered hikers emerged from the mud and mist until our full group was together again. We relaxed on the bench, catching our breath and comparing battle wounds. The Germans, still cheerful despite the conditions, gave me more hiking ideas and told me about their Lake Kivu trek — adding yet another adventure to my growing list.

After a short pause, we started walking again. That’s when the sky opened.

Rain came first, heavy, sudden, and cold. Then hail. Then a full thunderstorm rolled across the mountain, lightning flashing in the clouds above us. Each time the sky lit up, I counted the seconds before the thunder arrived: eight… nine… ten. That meant the strikes were only three to five kilometers away, close enough to feel the vibration in the air.

Huge drops hammered down on us, giving barely a few seconds to yank our rain ponchos over our heads before we were completely drenched. The trail transformed instantly into a rushing stream of brown water, mud swirling around our boots as we pushed through the final stretch. With only two kilometers left, there was nothing to do but keep moving.

Oddly enough, the storm felt like a strange kind of blessing. We realized how lucky we had been, the rain had held off through the entire climb and most of the descent. Had it arrived earlier, the trail would have been nearly impossible.

Walking without a poncho (mine was with Jackson in my backpack), I must have looked miserable. Janvier, one of the porters, noticed me shivering in the downpour. Without a word, he stepped over, draped his own poncho around me, and buttoned it up as if he were dressing a child. It was one of those small, wordless acts of kindness that stays with you long after the hike is over.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of slipping, sliding, and trudging through waterlogged trails, we reached the clearing where Jackson, our driver, was waiting. It was time to thank the people who had gotten us through the day, Jimmy, Janvier, and Jackson, each of whom had played a part in getting me up and down that mountain in one piece.

I handed Jackson a tip and then asked if he might want my hiking boots. They were second‑hand ones I had bought specifically for the Uganda and Rwanda hikes — Kibale, Bisoke, all of it. He accepted them with a smile that made the gift feel like the right decision.

Then came the final challenge of the day: the ride back. The road out of Volcanoes National Park is a bone‑rattling stretch of volcanic rock and potholes, and with our clothes soaked through, every bump felt twice as sharp. We begged Jackson to turn up the heat, shivering in the back seat as the windows fogged over and the storm continued to hammer the mountains behind us.

It took more than three hours to reach the outskirts of Kigali. We were exhausted, soaked, and still shivering as Jackson navigated the winding roads back toward the city. We stopped for a very late lunch, more out of necessity than hunger, and tried to warm up.

Back on the road, we witnessed a small slice of Rwandan traffic enforcement in action. A police officer on a sleek BMW motorbike pulled Jackson over and issued him a 35,000 RWF fine for overtaking a truck illegally. Jackson accepted it with the calm resignation of someone who has seen this movie before.

The rest of the drive was a blur of African music videos playing from Jackson’s playlist on the video monitor of the vehicle, including Tompa, which became the soundtrack of our shivering ride. The word “Tompa” in Luganda roughly conveys “don’t stress me / don’t bother me / don’t play with me”, a playful, assertive vibe common in Ugandan dancehall. The song celebrates female confidence, independence, and fun, with the artists showing off dance moves, fashion, and charisma. The beat is infectious, the kind of track that plays in clubs, bodas, and road trips across East Africa.

By the time we reached central Kigali, we were only one kilometer from the Sheraton, and then everything stopped. Traffic locked up completely. It took over an hour to crawl that final kilometer, our clothes still as wet as when the storm first hit, the heater barely coaxing warmth back into our bones.

A warm shower and a proper meal finally brought us back to life. The mud, the cold, the altitude, the thunderstorm, all of it slowly dissolved into that familiar post‑hike glow, the kind that only arrives once the body stops shivering and the mind realizes it actually survived the day.

The next morning was devoted to a gentler kind of exploration: a walking tour of Kigali. We wandered through its markets, browsed its small but vibrant art galleries, and soaked in the city’s calm orderliness, a striking contrast to the chaos of the previous day’s descent. By evening, we settled into a leisurely dinner before heading to KIA for our redeye to Cape Town.

Rwanda left me with a mix of emotions that is hard to describe. It was heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. I was deeply touched by the generosity of spirit that Rwandans show so naturally, the quiet kindness of people like Jimmy, Janvier, and Jackson, and the warmth of strangers in markets and cafés. But beneath that kindness lies a sorrow that every person in this country carries. Nearly one million people were killed, and two to three million displaced, out of a population of just seven million during the genocide. Almost no family was untouched. Every smile, every act of hospitality, carries the weight of that history.

The resilience of Rwanda, its ability to rebuild, to forgive, to move forward, is something I will carry with me long after the trip.