Because it is that one there

There have been certain times in Rwanda when I have thought to myself, “oh dear god, I am about to die.”  Up until last weekend, all these moments involved public transportation, cows, cows interfering with public transportation, lit charcoal stoves interfering with my left foot, and a small tube of what looked deceptively like toothpaste but, upon closer inspection, was most definitely not.

On Saturday, however, I took doom into my own hands and headed up Bisoke with a group of other PCVs.  For those of you with scant knowledge of Rwanda’s geography, the northern region of the country is more ruggedly mountainous than the others and is home to Rwanda’s five volcanoes.  We set out for Virunga Park early Saturday morning, with high spirits and a zest for adventure.  I imagine the Donner party felt the same at the beginning of its expedition.

Waiting for us at the information center was tea, coffee, traditional dancers, and an eclectic mix of white tourists is various states of serious hiking gear.  I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.   I did not wear a hat.  My pants were not duct-taped into my tube socks.  I do not own tube socks.

While guzzling cup after cup of coffee (partly because it was so cold, and partly because I wanted to be able to say that I have peed on top of a volcano), we turned our attention toward watching the dancers.  Or, more truthfully, we watched the tourists watching the dancers.  It was meta-tourism at its finest.  I’ve come to a conclusion about white people in Rwanda: we’re awkward.  At the end of each number, the tourists would give a hearty round of applause.  This is not how we clap in Rwanda.  In general, we do not clap.  But when we do, it is in perfect unison, often accompanied by soft trilling.  The essential thing is that every claps at the same speed and volume.  As a colleague once told me at a ceremony, “In Rwanda, it is important to crap together.”  Even after nine months of living here, the easy interchange of “R” and “L” always finds new ways to amuse me.

We eventually got our guide and ventured forth into the park via the worst road ever created in the whole history of human existence.  At the trailhead, we picked up a couple of armed guards whose job it was to keep the wild buffalo at bay.  For the record, I did not see any buffalo.  However, there was ample amounts of buffalo poop along the trail.  At least someone in this country is managing to get fiber in their diet.

The trail begins easily enough, passing through pyrethrum and potato fields, gently sloping upwards and filling you with a sense of outdoorsy benevolence and general well-being.  It’s not until you clamber over the stone fence and begin the real ascent that Bisoke starts to show its true colors.  Its true colors are pain. The guide told me that the park remains open year-round, but I can’t imagine doing that hike during the rainy season.  I slipped several times and had very much the dirty on my pants.  And ankles.  And shoes.

When I wasn’t busy becoming one with the mud and actually got a chance to check out the surroundings, it was pretty spectacular.  For most of the hike, the vegetation was dense and jungle-like.  The occasional viewpoint/ “oh dear lord I’m about to die whose bright idea was it to make this mountain so tall” viewpoint provided spectacular vistas of the Ruhengeri hillsides.

Then we reached the cloud-cover near the top.  Until this point, it had been sweaty work going up, and I know I looked a hot mess.  As Deverna so astutely observed, “I feel like I’m struggling, but then I look over at you and feel so much better about myself.”  I would have been offended if it hadn’t been so true.  But once we got under the cloud cover, things got cold.  I never thought my lips would turn blue while living on the equator.

We reached the top, or as near it as we were allowed, and stopped to rest and admire the crater lake.  With the sparse vegetation and rolling fog, the area looked oddly like the Scottish highlands.  I kept waiting for a bagpiper to come wandering out of the mist because really, who hasn’t fantasized about shoving a bagpiper off a volcano?

After a few photos and snacks, we began the treacherous descent.  I’m fairly certain that every person fell at least once.  I think that even Matt’s pants had so much the dirty by the time we were finished.  Near the bottom, we got to see some wildlife.  The guide stopped us and pointed out the ten or so golden monkeys romping about in a nearby field.  Then it was back in the car and back on the worst road ever created in the whole history of human existence (which had somehow managed to become worse during the last five hours).  Back in Musanze, there were showers (hot), beer (cold), food (Italian), and dramatic apologies to muscles (sore).

So in conclusion…was it fun? Yes.  Will I take my family when they come to visit?  No.  Will I chuckle with malicious glee when other PCVs say that they are going volcano climbing?  I think we all know the answer to that…