I am praying so hard that we are allowed to buy right hand drive vehicles. The simple reason is that they are so cheap! So, people like Diaspoman could have a chance to abandon the RAV 2s and switch to real RAV 4s. I have been a user of a RAV-2 for a long time. Other people prefer to call them Foots-bishus. For me, I have used this RAV 2 from the mid 90s when I first set my foot in Rwanda. Those are the days when Aggrey and I were simple lads trying to make ends meet by hook or by crook! At that time, Aggrey and I were proud to be owners of RAV-2s. They were ever clean and ready for instant service. Every morning, they would slip into nice white socks and black shoes and head out of the house. They would take us up the path leading to the “Payage” bus stage. We would then jump into the “Twegerane” and roll down to Gikondo. The nearest bus stop was a 15minute walk to our NGO compound. Once the bus arrived, we would disembark and re-start our RAV-2s and speed off for work. But as months passed by and the crispy dollars notes accumulated, I beckoned Aggrey one night. I informed him about my RAV-2. I told him that it needed a break. Therefore, I was going to buy myself a new motorbike! This was the ideal solution. I showed Aggrey how efficient it would be for us, riding the bikes to work and in the evening, making some extra bucks by ferrying people around Kigali for a fee! Aggrey immediately bought my idea. The next day, we searched for potential bike suppliers. The order was made and within a few days, we were hiring some small boys to teach us how to start a motorcycle. It did not take so long for us to learn how to man these machines. We applied for “riding” permits and everything was on course. I rode the bike for 1 week. I was always on time and my boss was impressed. He was considering promoting me. That implied an increase in the salary. This was all due to my nice bike. I loved it so much… The next Saturday, I rode my bike to town. I was off duty and I needed to spend some of my dollars on new Jeans and Jackets. So I parked my bike along the busy “Quartier Commerciale” street. There was a strong pole on the side for tying my bike. I firmly chained it with a padlock and walked into the shop. I was lucky to find a good helmet. I did not hesitate to pay for it. Then I spotted the leather jacket plus the Levis jeans. Being too eager to impress upon the onlookers, I requested the shopkeeper to avail a room so that I could change clothes immediately. A few minutes later I stepped out of the shop. I stretched my arms out wide to show the whole world about my satisfaction! I fastened my new helmet and mounted my bike. I kicked the starter with pomp. I kicked again. Again and again. However, the bike refused to start. I got off and checked around the bike. Had someone spilled some water in the fuel tank? With the little knowledge I had obtained from the NGO drivers, I opened the tank lid and sniffed. Was it pure petrol? Had it been contaminated? As I pondered on my next move, a young man approached me. He had been standing idle all along as I fidgeted with the Bike. He claimed to be a mechanic and he claimed to have the answer to my problem. Did I have five thousand francs for the job? Being so desperate, I agreed and handed him the money. He then bent down and touched some wires, twisted them around and hammered some into place. He then told me to try again. I kicked once, twice, and thrice! No way. The bike just refused to start. The mechanic once again fixed some wiring. After some minutes of hammering, the mechanic asked me for the keys. He sat on the bike and kicked once. The bike started. Wow! Before I could thank my Good Samaritan, the bike was already speeding down the street. I convinced myself that the mechanic was on a road test. So I waited for him. It was after 1 hour that I realized what a fool I really was. I had been conned out of my white socks! By the time I called out for help, the Motorcycle was history. Onlookers came to console me. They told me that the trick was a very common one indeed. They explained to me that the quack mechanic had eyed me when I first entered the shop. He had quickly disconnected a cable so that when I tried to start the bike, it would not work. He had then waited for me to sweat with it before coming to my aid. He had calculated his moves smartly and had indeed outsmarted me. With my new helmet sill fastened, I walked away in misery. I called out for a taxi to take me back home. When I searched my pockets, I realized that the only cash I had was paid to the “mechanic”. I was stuck. But thanks to my good old RAV-2, which transported me safely back home. diaspoman@yahoo.com
