2 January 2006

That’s weird to write. Happy New Year, everyone.

We got back safely from our country weekend late yesterday afternoon.

As I said before we left, Bec, her parents and I spent New Year’s weekend at the Esperance Children’s Village in Kigarama, a village in the hills around Lake Kivu in Rwanda’s west. And just to make sure everyone knows what I mean by hills, we were at around 6,000 feet.

The Esperance Children’s Village is a home for 103 orphans ranging in age from 18 months until, in theory, 18. At 18 the kids are supposed to leave and head off to a new life. Some of the kids are as old as 21. Victor, our friend who runs the place and invited us for the weekend, recently discovered that one of them was 30.

We got there on Friday afternoon. Bec hired a driver even though the CRS drivers told her only around the last kilometer was tough. Apparently their definition of tough is far different than ours. The last hour of the journey was on windy, rutted dirt roads. Jude, Bec’s mom, Steve, Bec’s dad, and I sat in the back, and poor Jude, who was in the middle, was bouncing between the two of us on every violent switchback. I got well acquainted with the door.

The Children’s Village is in one of the most beautiful settings you can imagine. At the top of a hill, it is surrounded by lush greenery and little else. Clusters of homes are scattered around the compound, but the area is not densely populated. There is nothing taller than one story anywhere near where we were. We were firmly in the countryside, in the version of Rwanda where there is no electricity or running water and people can go a lifetime without seeing a foreigner, especially a white one. Victor, who is Guatemalan but travels on a German passport, is the most exciting thing to happen to the area in a long time.

As I’ve written before, Victor is aiming to develop eco-tourism along with the agricultural projects he’s working on. So he wanted to take us canoeing and hiking. The hiking was necessary because the canoeing was 20 minutes away, pretty much straight down a mountain.

After the walk, which was surprisingly easy and pleasant early Saturday, before the sun really got angry, we saw the canoes. Victor told us they were dugouts, but until you actually see them it’s hard to comprehend. They were carved tree trunks. After Steve, Bec and I – Jude stayed back to read and have some alone time – figured out how not to tip the boats, we were off. Victor told us that it would take over an hour to paddle out to our island destination. I assumed that it would be no big deal.

Steve, who had spent more than a week in a dugout canoe in Papua New Guinea almost 20 years ago, got his own canoe. Victor and one of his kids, Innocent, took another. That left Bec and I in the last.

You have to understand, both of us like to be in charge. Okay, let’s be honest. We both can be bossy. And neither of us had any idea what to do. So we spent the first 45 minutes or so trying to figure out how to go straight. And while with normal people, that would be handled calmly and quietly, we bickered the whole way down. Bec was convinced the boat was tilted right. I was convinced that it was all her fault. And we filled the quiet, pristine lake with the sounds of our arguing. She just happened to be right.

Finally, Bec asked, “Didn’t you go to summer camp? What did you do there?”

“Well, played soccer and softball. The only nature I got was hiding in the bushes after lights out, jumping out the windows of the girls bunks.”

After we made it past the first outcropping, the expedition pulled into another small cove to separate the two of us. Bec went with Steve, and I got my own boat. I still had no idea what I was doing, but was happy to be on my own.

It was only after I pulled the canoe out of the brambles that I realized the canoe and I were not going to get along.

After Victor pushed my canoe off the shore, I didn’t back out enough. So I paddled and I paddled and I paddled and I didn’t hit the rocks I was heading for. And then I paddled and I paddled and I paddled, and I ran into the tree. There were many sharp things sticking out of those trees, and they all seemed to find me. The fisherman near us thought this was the funniest thing they had ever seen.

After I freed myself from the green prison, I was still stuck in the middle of the lake. Steve is a university professor, and I had never before seen him in action. He skillfully gave me suggestions of how to get where I wanted to go, and I even listened. I finally got myself going, almost straight, and was paddling along. Everything was going smoothly until I realized we were going to be doing this for a while.

And then I started to turn again. “Oh goddamit, why does this thing only turn right!” I screamed, channeling George Costanza. I gave up, let my boat turn around to face the opposite direction of where I was heading, and smacked my paddle at the water. Steve gave me more instructions, and after sulking I was on my way. And then it hit me again. We were going to be doing this a while.

“I feel like we’re in ‘Apocalypse Now.’ Where are the guys with the spears?” I asked.

Most Rwandans are long and lean, skinny to the point where you wonder whether the ones who have enough to eat actually do. The canoes are built for them, not me. So I couldn’t find anyplace to put my legs. As they started going numb from being straight out, I saw the island. Victor and Innocent started to pull in. And then they didn’t. “I think they’re going to the far side,” I said.

“No they’re not,” someone in the Stich canoe said.

“No, they are.”

“Oh yes, they are.”

We got there, almost two hours after we started but without any sunburn. It took a while for my legs to come back. We had lunch and spent about an hour on the island. It was gorgeous and worth the pain, small trees set against rocky outcroppings and bright green grass. But then we had to go back.

Bec went alone and I went with Steve. The idea was with the two of us in the boat, we’d have some serious speed. I had a round banana branch to sit on. As you can imagine, the mixture of wet and round and easily tipped canoe was not a winner. I spent the whole trip back pretty much reclining without a backrest, and I still have the bruises under my arms to prove it.

At one point, Bec said, “Why don’t you lean forward so you can paddle?”

Okay, I thought, why not. And then I heard “whoa” from behind me and saw the horizon moving from side to side. “No more suggestions!” I shouted back.

Steve Stich is my hero. We made it back with him paddling all 300 pounds of us back. I realized two things. One is that stunning natural beauty can carry you only so far. The second is that Jews and canoes usually don’t mix.

When we got back, Victor decided he needed to figure out what to do if a canoe tipped.

The rest of the weekend was picture perfect. Victor was hospitable beyond reason, constantly apologizing for the lack of running water and the latrines. Hey, that’s Rwanda and the company was worth it. It was refreshing to be away from Kigali.

The kids were adorable, and while their lives were incredibly hard, they managed to keep singing and laughing. Two choirs sang for us on Sunday, right before we left. The little kids choir did a song that Bec calls the “Shake the White Person’s Hands” song. Each one of them came by to shake hands with each one of us. I think Bec wanted to take at least a couple home.

So we’re back to Kigali, with one more day with Jude and Steve. They’re off on a 12-day safari through Uganda tomorrow. And I start editing tomorrow as well. Wish me luck.