Volunteers Behaving Badly (New Year's)

I began my New Year’s weekend with one of the worst stomachaches in recent memory. I hadn’t eaten much, so I didn’t see what the problem was. Then I realized that I was still on the stupid malaria medicine and that it must be taken with food. On the occasions that I have stayed on doxycycline, it may or may not have stopped malaria, but it has definitely had some obnoxious side effects. Other than the sun sensitivity of course. That’s a bonus. I always get rockin’ tans when I’m on doxy.

Anyway, our first night with all the volunteers back together we hit the tiny town of Kibuye hard. I was feeling awful in my stomach all night, plus I was coming off five hours of sleep and a day of travel, but I soldiered on. We had a good night of dancing at one of the town's two or three bars. At 2 or so in the morning people started to head back home. I was finally feeling back at 100%, but nobody would stay with me, so I followed them back.

I couldn’t believe that when I woke at 8 the next morning everyone else was already up. That was stupid. Everyone was wasting their money on expensive hotel breakfasts and coffees. I ordered a beer because New Year’s Eve. They were all talking about going on some boat tour out on the lake. I wanted to punch this idea in the face. Initially. Then I realized that twenty people were planning to go on it. This should have sent me running. I mean, it did at first. Then, for whatever reason, I decided to join them. It was kind of expensive, but not outrageous. Plus, I was in bad enough shape that the thought of having my hand held through the day actually sounded kind of nice.

As soon as I got on the boat at 10:30 AM, I regretted my decision. Someone had brought some portable speakers and was playing the most god-awful offensive music. Think about what songs they would play in hell just to piss you off. They were playing all of those songs on this boat! My company was constantly annoying me, and I tried to shut them out and enjoy the ridiculous scenery around us. Kibuye is on a part of the lake where there are lots of islands. You can tell that the lake is deep by the way the land juts out of the water at an impressive angle.

They said we were going to be taken to two islands. When we arrived at the first one I was surprised to see that it looked developed. There was a sandy beach, a volleyball net and what looked like a bar and a guesthouse. Already I could have used another beer, but the boat drivers said that this island had a 1000 franc entrance fee, plus they didn’t serve beer. So we skipped the first island. At this point I wanted to know who had negotiated this boat trip where we would go to two islands…but then we would have to pay to get on one of them. Either way, the next island was far better. If anyone actually lived on this island, which was about an hour boat ride into the lake, it was a primitive lifestyle. The island was small, but had a fast-rising peak that might have been 800-feet high. There were a few cattle on it, that we saw, and I wondered if people were using the island as a natural pasture. There were a few kids wandering the island, and we did see one spot that looked like a little camp. I could only assume that this island did not have any permanent settlement.

We followed the boat drivers onto the island. I had no idea where we were going or why. Herd mentality I guess. Good thing we were on a pasture. I just kind of wanted to swim. Suddenly, as we approached a small forest, we saw an eruption of bats plume out of the foliage. A thick could of the them filled the sky. This caused at least a couple of the girls to stay behind with the boats. I could criticize them for that, but if trees had erupted with spiders, I would have done the same thing.

Then the boat drivers started to point our crew up toward the island’s peak. Nobody knew where we were going, but after ten minutes of walking we were above the island’s pathetic tree line. Another twenty or so minutes and we realized we had gotten to the top of the island. It looked much more daunting from below. In fact it looked so steep I would have that climbing it in flip-flops would have been impossible.

BORED BORED BORED.

From the top, Dan Kiezelstein looked at the girls from our group swimming down below and said, “man, don’t you wish sometimes that you had a rocket propelled grenade?”

When we did get back down I felt like we had truly earned the swim. The temperature of the air and water on Lake Kivu provides, maybe, the most perfect swimming conditions I have ever been been a part of. It felt special there.

The boatmen selfishly screwed us out of a ride back to our hotel, since it would cost them a lot of time and money, and we were 20 functionless gringos that didn’t know when we were being taken for a ride.

Whatever.

That night, as we were easing our way into the New Year’s festivities, Dan promoted the idea of “slap shots”. That consists of taking a shot (or, in our case, a pull from the bottle) then receiving a swift slap in the face in lieu of a chaser. As it was also the eve of Dan’s birthday, who were we to argue with his party games? Most of the slapping occurred in the appropriate realm of “hard enough to make you forget the bite of the liquor, but not malicious.” That is, until Luke took one. Yoga instructor and self-strength-under-estimator Tom was the designated slapper. He cocked his arm back so far and slapped him so hard that the entire bar seemed to go silent for a moment as everyone turned to stare at what had happened. Of all the things that happened that night, this was maybe the most memorable. More memorable than the number of girls that Dan gave slap shots to, that batterer.

We moved onto a bar that was fit for dancing and I was clutching a walking stick that I had discovered on the island earlier that day. The security guard at the bar said I couldn’t take it in with me. I explained, in Kinyarwanda that I was an old man and I needed it. He laughed but still refused. I acted offended and turned around, as if I was going home. He stopped and said, “ok, ok, you can go in.” I hated to give him a hard time, but really, what was I going to do with a three-foot stick?

Embarrass myself, that’s what.

I had been dancing with my walking stick for a while, when I saw a handicapped guy walk into the club with crutches. I realized that maybe my walking stick/dancing prop was a little insensitive, so I put it away. Later that night, at 3 AM, a couple of German guys with shaved heads scolded me for my cane, saying it was disrespectful to have a cane when I didn’t really need it. While they maybe had a good point, 3AM on New Year’s is not a good time to be on a high horse, especially when you are a German who looks like a Neo-Nazi.

When we got back, I managed to rally a small group of people to go swimming. Our hotel was on a hill right above the lake, and it wasn’t far to get to a spot for swimming. Night swims, as we all know, are the best.

The next day, New Year’s Day, everyone felt great, of course. So great that we could barely leave the hotel, so some of us just sat around the dining room and watched the worst American music videos imaginable on Trace, Africa’s MTV. Only another swim could save us from the misery.

That night I tried to rally another miraculous A-team for a dance party…but I think even my heart wasn’t in it, and we just hung out languidly at the hotel.

The next morning, everyone started to slowly leave Kibuye. It had been a great holiday, but the school year was starting in a few days and we needed to get back to or sites to do work. As minister of travel in my group of Luke, Caitlan and I, it was my job to find out how to get back home. We knew there was a public boat that could take us back home, but getting accurate information about its departure was tricky. I had done the best I could, and it seemed that it would be leaving that day, late in the morning. It only runs twice a week, so we were lucky.

The “pier” where we were to wait for the boat was simply a grassy hill in a bay. Literally, the most informal dock or pier I have ever seen. I would have denied to believe a boat was really coming, but a couple of other people were waiting. We broke Rwandan protocol and ate in public while waiting, then went swimming in our boxers with the kids, while the adults looked on in laughter. It was one of the best waits ever.

Luke and I swimming while waiting for the boat.

The boat, when it arrived, looked in great shape. I was kind of surprised to find that it was both a solid, sea-worthy vessel, and for passengers only. Not long ago, the only boat that traveled between Rwandan towns was the “Primus Boat”, which hauled Primus beer between lake towns as it was needed. Passengers could ride on it, but its schedule was irregular.

It was almost the same price and amount of time as the bus that traveled between the two towns. Plus it was just as beautiful and about ten times as comfortable. I mean, we could walk around, read books, play backgammon, order one of their three beers. It was lovely. As much as I love being on boats, I am amazed I have not looked more seriously into making a career on one.