Road rage, or, why not to live with a doctor

Two days ago, I wrote a post like this, but it was all wild and triumphant. It was a love note to motos, and a farewell to my old, cautious self who had refused to get on the back of them.

The computer died, though, and I lost the post. Since then, I have again lost the courage to get on the back of them.

Here’s the temptation: A moto, which is short for ‘motorcycle’ (you knew that? you’re so clever, that’s why we’re friends), is a kind of taxi here. It’s the best of both worlds: like a voiture, it is almost always immediately available. Like the little buses, it’s cheap. And there’s the added thrill of, you know, being on the back of a bike. You hop on the back, pop on the helmet, and you’re good to go.

Here’s the problem: They’re dangerous as hell. My initial fear of motos came from friends in the Peace Corps, who had told me that one of the few immediately deportable offenses was hopping on the back of a moto. More volunteers died in moto crashes in Africa than from anything else, they told me.

So I imagined that was a bad idea. And then, I hopped a moto with a roomie and we zoomed about town. Actually, to get down to the roadway, we both hopped the same moto, which was a degree of intimacy I wasn’t exactly prepared to have with either of the men I sat between, but this is Rwanda. You have to be flexible. Sometimes literally.

Our quasi joy-ride redeemed motos. I was sold. I said to myself, “The real reason those Peace Corps volunteers are dying is that they live in remote villages, so when they have an accident, they can’t get to the hospital.”

The one roommate moved out, and another moved in. The New Roomie is a doctor, doing an internship at the teaching hospital of National University. Yesterday, a patient came in who’d been, somehow, electrocuted, and they needed to shock his heart to make it start again. Except the paddles weren’t working, and so the guy died.

My New Roomie says he’s seen a few moto accidents around town, and they look messy. He also works in the place where they get treated, and says he doesn’t recommend a trip.

So goodbye, motos. We both knew it was an affair of the utmost indiscretion, and I should’ve known I can’t change you. But how good it could have been.