Let loose in Kigali: Five days of chaos.

After three months in rural Rwanda, we were suddenly let loose in Kigali for five days with no curfew. Ostensibly this was mostly for our swear-in ceremony, where we would become real live Peace Corps volunteers. Looking back on it, though, that was one of the more forgettable moments of the week. I was trying to squeeze as much as I could out of the city, since I knew that I would rarely be coming back here. My site is the farthest one in the country from the capital. This meant I would need to get as many things as I could for my site that I could only get in Kigali. Mostly this meant a lot of spices, peppers and coconut milk from the Indian shops.

It also meant as much hanging out and partying with everyone that I wouldn’t see again for a while. There was plenty of time spent at the nearby open-air bar, where I quickly made friends with the staff. Somehow this is something I can never manage to do at bars in America, but  do great with everywhere else. One of the nights I met a guy whose name meant bullet. Nickname, perhaps. He spoke great English, and I eventually found out he had gone to college in Chicago. He was a really interesting guy and spoke many languages. Eventually we were speaking in a weird mix of French, Kinyarwanda, English and Spanish, which he had picked up (very well) in the streets of Chicago. In the end, though, he kept slipping things into conversation about his family’s gorilla safari business and it seemed he was looking for us to hook him up with some gringo clientele. I, nor anyone I know, would be able to afford the $750 permit to see the gorillas, let alone all the other costs of the trip.

Like I said, the swear-in ceremony was a forgettable and formal affair. It was at the US ambassador’s beautiful house. There were speeches, a traditional dance by some of my colleagues, and an ungodly amount of group pictures. I was glad that I was not the only person among us that felt that group pictures might be one of the worst activities you could involve yourself in. After taking the oath (the same one the president takes on inauguration day) we were officially volunteers. Yay.

That night was what it was really all about. We were invited to the home of two Peace Corps Volunteer Leaders in their third year of service. They had created something that was as close to a college house party as I could have imagined. They had bought a couple cases of beer, set up a fire pit, a beer pong table and even had a hookah. I did not expect to be in such a nostalgic setting. After a couple hours there, we moved on to a bar for dancing. A lot of us were, at first, disappointed by the place since it was a little bit upscale and the type of place expats and rich Rwandans would go to. It was the type of place that would search you at the door and confiscate the $1 bottle of gin you had in your shirt pocket. Not that that happened or anything. The DJ was good, though, and we were all there, which was what really mattered. It was an awesome night of dancing and a lot of the older volunteers showed up to help us celebrate. There were a million stores from that night, but I guess that several people were pick-pocketed and three girls lost their brand new Peace Corps IDs with hours of their being issued is enough to tell you it was a fun night.

The next morning the first group of people had to leave at 7AM to get taken to their sites. I don’t know how they did it. I couldn’t even get up to say goodbye, even though I was in the middle of all the commotion of people leaving. 

That night everyone was incredibly tired, and rightfully so. Six of us, though, were able to make it out that night to meet up with some older volunteers who were celebrating a birthday. The first place we went was a place called “The Executive Car Wash”. The kind of big open air kind of place common in Africa. Comfortable and relaxing. This one was a step up, though, and felt almost like a sports bar with big TVs and the nicest bathrooms I have seen in Rwanda by far. The six of us were basically following the older group, and they wanted to go to a place called “Papyrus” next. We had heard mixed things about it being a nice place, but full of gross old man expats. It was nice alright. No, it was aristocratic. I felt like this place was not for Peace Corps types, but for NGO types, business people and embassy workers. I was glad that Nick, one of the older volunteers, was wearing his gaudy green and red Obama jersey. The best part was that my comrades Dan and Luke felt the same way about the place as I did. “I feel like I’m coming here to meet my father-in-law!” Dan shouted as he walked in. The entire time we were there, hilariously rude things like this poured from his mouth. I mean, we were there for the birthday of a guy we barely knew. It was on the roof of a building and had a safari lodge feel. In fact, there was even a handi-craft stall there. Plus, it was almost empty, and it was a Saturday night. When we finally left it was not a moment too soon. It was getting late, but they decided to back to the place where we had gone the night before. Our crew was down for the change. The older group didn’t stick around long, but we somehow had a lot of energy in us and we danced for hours. Luke and I met an Irishman who I swear should have been Australian by his confidence, friendliness and ability to have a good time. He said his name was Larken, which I guess I laughed at. He said he didn’t mind being made fun of for being Irish, and said we could call him leprechaun or  potato-eating bastard if we wanted. We didn’t, but he called Luke and I “uncle drunky” and “caveman”, respectively. Mind you, I was as clean-shaven as I have been in my life. We finally left at some ungodly hour, returning to the Peace Corps quarters with tales of triumph.

The next morning we lost another group of people as they were dragged off, kicking and screaming to their sites to serve the people of Rwanda. There were still about a dozen of us, though, that got to stay for a few more days.

I used this time to go to one of the cities bigger markets. It was one I had not been to before, but it was awesome. I had a ball, bartering over all sorts of kitchenware, jerry cans and plastic tubing. It was the best. I could have gotten most of the stuff at the nearest town to my site, but I figured it was easier to get it now, and let the Peace Corps bring it all to my house, rather than be responsible for transporting giant pots and containers. The highlight of the day, though, was when I saw a guy riding this modified green bike. It said, “igare ikawa” or “coffe bike” on it. It was almost twice as long as a normal bike and had a sprawling rack on the back, I assume to transport large loads of coffee. I asked the guy if I could take a ride and he told me to hop on. So I strapped on my Peace Corps approved bicycle helmet to be in compliance with policy, and hopped on the back. We took a ride around the block on the weird contraption and returned me to where I was. It was a ride enjoyed by all.

That night, with most of us having had a night to recover, were preparing to hit the town again. We went to the nearby bar for a couple beers while trying to figure out where to go and what to do. During the debate, a bunch of people got tired and decided to go back home. I chided them, asking if they wanted to be on the A-team or the B-team. I managed to salvage a few of them, to which I responded, “We’re all the A-team tonight! Cheers!” And so there were seven of us to take on what would be the crown jewel of our nights in Kigali.

A few others had gone out to a place near the bus station on or first night in Kigali. They had had a great time because it was nothing like any of the bars people had been taking us to. It was all Rwandans, and very seedy. I mean, it was by a bus station. Somehow, though, they had failed to get a taxi at the end of the night. They walked for three hours through Kigali’s hilly sprawl to get back just before sunrise. We decided this would be the best option for a good night.

I ran to negotiate with a taxi driver. I knew it was a slim chance that he would take seven of us, since it can be hard to get them to accept five passengers. I told everyone to wait at the table, so the driver didn’t know yet. After getting a good price, we all started piling in. The driver would have none of it. I told him it would be fine, and offered him a little more money for the risk of getting caught by the police. He accepted.

As expected, the bar was seedy, and just my type. It was underneath this six-story building that looked straight out of a horror movie. It had a big sign on top that said, “Resident Hotel”, where crows would perch. I don’t think it has operated as a hotel in a while though. The bar had a pool table, a guy making chapattis (flat breads), and a dance club inside. Everything you could ever want. After having a beer outside, we paid the $1.50 cover to get into the dance club. There were not many people inside. Just six guys dancing with their reflections in the wall-length mirror. I joined them, but eventually decided dancing with my reflection was getting kind of weird.

With our group doubling the population of the club, we were able to get the party started right. Within a few songs everyone was dancing recklessly. Slowly more people started to trickle in. Eventually I pulled out my secret weapon: Flash drive! I had just a few of the most essential tracks on it, and luckily for everyone, the dj was willing to pop it on. And the crowd went wild. Or at least a few of us went wild enough for the whole crowd. We all had moves that night. Luke, Casey, Caitlin, the Rwandans. When the Rwandans started getting into our dance circles, I was actually surprised how seriously they could dance, since they are so reserved in real life. Dance move of the night, though, went to the middle-aged man that was with us most of the night. It was the high-five dance. And basically you would just give loud high-fives to the rhythm as long as you felt was necessary.

At some point, Casey and I didn’t know why our shirts were still buttoned. So we fixed that. Then we made sure that the Rwandan guys with button-up shirts got the memo that buttoning your shirt was passé. All the guys in polos looked on disappointed that they couldn’t join the new fashion movement sweeping the dance floor.

When it got late, and we were all drenched in sweat we started to leave. We were outside the dance club, just about to leave, when someone yelled out, “Is that ‘shorty fire burnin’ on the dance floor?!” So we all sprinted back into the club and danced for another half an hour.

We had heard from the people that had gone here before that the club was rife with prostitutes (again, the place is next to a bus station) that were trying to dance with the guys, and even pick-pocketed one of them. We didn’t notice any of this, but even if there were, our dance moves were far too overwhelming for any two-bit hooker to even try to keep up with. We were far too engulfed in the music to be aware of any dirty biz trying to creep up on us. I needed some water badly, but the bar apparently had no taps and I wasn’t going to buy bottled water. Somebody walked me out of the bar, up some stairs through the abandoned second floor of the “Resident Hotel”, where dozens of people seemed to be squatting, or at least conducting some sort of clandestine business and sleep. It was like a maze of people and walls, but somehow we arrived a grimy bathroom and I filled an empty water bottle. Then I put my iodine purification tablets in the water and waited thirty minutes before drinking so as to be in compliance with Peace Corps policy.

When we finally did leave, we were worried about getting a taxi. Somehow, though, our coach was waiting for us just outside the ball. Without hesitation, he accepted all seven of us. It was a Christmas miracle and it was only December 9^th!

Needless to say, our final day in Kigali was pretty lazy. I had to get myself to town at some point for some last minute errands, but it was the bare minimum. I was curious if I could rally another A-team victory that night. I think I felt as tired as anyone, but knowing that we would all be saying goodbye for a while the next day made me open to another night out. In the end, though, a few of us just had a couple beers at the little local bar.

As fun as Kigali was, I didn’t feel like I would miss the city. I guess I do love cities and all there is to explore, but during that five days I felt like I had not done as much of my own exploring as I normally would have liked to. Maybe this is why I didn’t feel bad leaving the city. I just felt a little sad to have to leave such a good time with my friends. At the same time, I was yearning for some solitude. After the three months of training and almost a week cramped into the Peace Corps house with dozens of other people, I needed desperately to unwind in my own space and integrate into Rwanda on my own terms, alone.