My Birthday Bash (with a lot of help from St Patrick)

Mar 15th and 16th

Saturday dawns bright and hot. We’re up early, making sandwiches and packing a massive picnic. We’ve even bought luxuries like Pringles and packets of western biscuits

We collect Christi (Karen’s hurt her back and had to drop out), then Janine and finally Geert at the Kobil petrol station. We have a quick conflab as to whether the FHI truck runs on petrol or diesel. Tom thinks petrol but isn’t sure. So we check on the filler cap, and it clearly says diesel. So we fill the tank full of diesel.

While this is happening, Geert has bought me a present, a lovely piece of batik cloth full of lively designs with drums, women carrying pots and bowls, and warriors with shields. Beautiful and it’ll look lovely on my wall.

A mile up the hill out of Gitarama and the engines dies. We realise that some bone head has put a different filler cap on the truck and that it was, after all, a petrol engine. So we now have three guests in a broken down truck with nearly 40 litres of unusable diesel and a damaged engine. And a party to get to which is about 80 miles away.

We manage to get the truck turned round despite being on the main road, and coast back downhill to the garage. Tom rings his boss, who in turn phones a mechanic, who in turn phones a friend, and they come out on a matata with their tools. It takes about three hours to get the tank drained, and involves jacking the truck up precariously on lumps of concrete (when you’ve seen the photo you’ll realise just how precariously!)

Then there’s a ruined fuel filter and various other parts of the engine which have to be stripped down and cleaned. The whole fuel supply system needs to be purged of diesel. The mechanics do this by taking a mouthful of neat petrol from a can and spitting it directly into the engine, then running it at full power. The last dregs of diesel spray out from a hose all over about twenty little boys who’ve spent the whole of the three hours sitting barely three feet away from the car and following every move. Even funnier are two young women, one with a basket of sweet potatoes, who’ve abandoned their business and also spent a couple of hours in the blazing sun watching the show. I’m driven by the sun into the shade of the garage awning. Opposite the garage there’s a batik workshop; Geert and I go over to have a nosey around but there’s nothing I fancy. (What I want to get now is a big piece of batik with one single design; one of these lovely ones of dancers or musicians in which the whole fabric feels full of movement as well as colour).

Eventually the engine seems to be working again, so we load up and set off. We get a hundred yards and the engine dies once more. This keeps on happening. We ring the mechanic again; he returns with a handful of tools, this time by moto. For the next half hour he tinkers around; something he’s adjusted is not quite right and he can’t work out exactly what he’s done wrong. Eventually we strike a deal. He’ll come with us most of the way to Kigali to make sure the engine really is behaving, if we pay his matata fare back. Done deal, and finally, four hours late, we roar off. Even then, we spend another half an hour near Kigali trying to get the machine running properly; every time we stop, the engine won’t start without a huge amount of pumping the accelerator. But by Kigali it’s purring like a Rolls Royce (or so it feels to us). We’re finally on the road; we’re not squashed into a matata, and we’ve got plenty of time to get to Gahini before the party. We eat our picnic in the truck and all’s well with the world. This is Rwanda, after all, and it wouldn’t be right if everything went like clockwork! The whole disaster has cost us less than ten pounds for the mechanic, and about thirty pounds waste of fuel. (We agree that we’re not going to pay that; FHI needs to shoot whoever put the wrong filler cap on a shared-user vehicle…..)

In Kigali we stop briefly at the VSO office so Geert can collect his papers (he’s been driving his moped illegally for months and doesn’t want to get caught in the last few weeks before he leaves), and collect mail for everyone who we know will be at the party.

Then finally we’re off to Gahini down the road leading East towards Tanzania. Through Rwamagana and finally to Kayonza where there’s a lovely road sign saying Ouganda to the left and Tanzanie to the right (see photo).

It’s only a few miles more to the lake and we pile in with all the rest of the crowd for a cold beer and gossip. They laugh like drains at our epic journey.

We’re in an outdoors eating area under a massive thatched roof, like an African hut without walls. There’s a breeze off the lake; some people have hired a boat for a trip on the water and one or two have even been swimming off the boat. We set to, decorating the hut with balloons and glitter; the girls have made some super “St Patrick’s Day” banners and even a “Happy 60th Bruce” banner. There’s paper shamrocks, and (of course) Irish tea-towels to adorn the African structure! Karen has given me presents of party poppers etc and a wonderful badge which I wear with pride the whole evening. It’s the Rwandan coat of arms, with the slogan “Bruce – you’re not over the hill, just still climbing the mountain”. You couldn’t really have thought of anything more appropriate for me, could you? And I’ve got cards from the Irish who are so pleased that we’ve joined forces to get more than half the entire VSO contingent, plus lots of friends, into one place for a knees-up.

Crested cranes strut around and look peevishly at us for disturbing their peace. Weaver birds are frantically building nests, chattering non-stop all the time. There are some beautiful flowers; I don’t know their names. The only jarring notes are fibreglass giraffes at the entrance gates, and fibreglass elephant heads set into the bar…… sort of Longleat meets Butlins, but very expensive by Rwandan standards! So there are few other Rwandans in the place, and as more and more VSOs arrive we take over.

We decide to check out where our accommodation is situated while it’s still daylight. Our guest house is the cheapest joint, about a mile away and up a hill. To say its basic is an understatement, but it’s incredibly cheap (£2.50 a head for bed and breakfast), so we’ll put up with the odd cockroach and the smelly bathroom. After all, if you’re going to swim in a lake, who cares about the washing facilities elsewhere?

The ones who booked early are in the old Bishop’s Palace, a magnificent building set at the water’s edge with fabulous views up the lake, and towards President Kagame’s private estate and ranch on the far side. Once again, these Rwandan Bishops know how to live…. Apparently the bishop himself is on tour in America (probably drumming up support for the gay-bashing of clergy that the African church seems so keen on, but we won’t get drawn further on that subject), so we can be sure he’s not going to suddenly appear and disapprove of our alcoholic night ahead. Any way, we five cheapskates make sure we visit the Bishop’s pad and take lots of photos. It reminds us of an English stately home next to one of those Capability Brown lakes, but on a grand scale.

Three of the VSOs, Ghislain, Ginette and Paula, are based here in Gahini, at the secondary school next door to our little guesthouse. It’s an idyllic spot, but I have to say I now prefer the hills and coolness of Gitarama! Gahini is a lot hotter and lower.

Christi has made me two chocolate birthday cakes; we light the candles on one and eat it. The whole contingent sings happy birthday, and a lot of very surprised Rwandans can’t understand why someone who is so old, and retired, should have chosen to spend a year working in their country. They’ve got absolutely no idea how much I’m enjoying myself here!

We eat well – whole tilapia fish – and the beers are flowing freely. Eventually we start the dancing. There are four Irish VSOs; Paula and Cathy from Ulster and Eric and Joe from Limerick and County Mayo in the south. Joe has brought CDs of Irish jigs and reels, but none of the Irish can remember how to do them. The whole party’s going to splinter just when it needs everybody doing something together. So I get everyone on the floor and do a circle dance (I can never remember how they go so I just make up steps from several and hope they fit the music), and then we do “strip the willow”) which goes down a treat and we do it again. I’ve now got a reputation as a dancing master…. Martine tells me it’s actually a Scottish dance, not an English one, and that it should be called “strip the widow”, which puts a whole new slant on it!…… A gay gordons or two later, we decide to call a halt to country dancing and get on with bopping.

Tom and the rest of the Gitarama crowd leave late evening; for various reasons they want to get back the same night. The truck is running well, and on empty roads they should be home in a couple of hours.

The party goes on till about half past two, when those of us remaining drift down to the boathouse. It’s turned out to be a lovely night; slight breeze off the lake but not at all cold. You can see lots of stars and hear little waves slapping the side of the building. A lot of people are drinking Waragi (Ugandan Gin) or banana liqueur, but at my old age I need to stick with beer. We share the second chocolate cake, and a big pack of honey biscuits. It’s very difficult to make cakes out here since we all use either paraffin stoves or charcoal, but somehow Christi’s managed it on a “camp oven” she brought from America. And chocolate – English chocolate – is even rarer here (you can buy chocolate but they make it differently to stop it melting in the heat, and it doesn’t taste at all as nice as ours in the UK). So Christi’s the toast of the party, even though by this time she’s back in Gitarama and tucked up in bed!

Next we sing continuously for nearly an hour until nobody can remember the words to anything else. We briefly consider staying up till dawn and watching the sun come up over the lake, but we’re too tired. We consider skinny dipping in the lake, but there’s too many Rwandans still around; within our own group we’d be fine, but the VSO girls with Rwandan boyfriends aren’t yet sure enough of them to risk it.

So, still singing, we tramp up the road to our various guesthouses, surprising some locals cycling at gone 3a.m. with loaded bikes. Half past three and into bed!


Sunday we’re up early and down to the Bishop’s palace to take photos. Half the gang are still in bed; others are drifting off home already. We chill by the lakeside for an hour or so; Marion and I go for a swim, then it’s the long trek back home. Flag down a matata to Kayonza (500 francs for about eight miles; its robbery!) Then a second matata to the Remera bus station in Kigali. I’m in the back seat, so jammed in that my head’s against the roof and I can only sit sideways on, which gives problems for the other three people with me in the back. They’re looking daggers, but even they can see I’m too big for the space so they just shrug and get on with it.

Outside the bus there’s a woman with a couple of squalling toddler twins, they look about two years old. She undoes her top and gives them a breast each. Unfortunately, with a breast in each mouth, the kids start going off in opposite directions, so she’s being stretched wide open and pulled apart. Great hilarity in the matata; great embarrassment and frantic clutching of kids, cloth and bosoms outside!

At Remera bus station I manage to get straight into my third bus, down to Mu Muji (town centre). I’ve no sooner got off the bus when I bump into Marisa and Els, who left ages before me from Jambo but who’ve had a slower run. So we decide to go to Bourbon café and pamper ourselves with a western-style lunch. I find the Rwandan coffee desperately strong, but the Bourbon’s hot chocolate is super.

Even now, I’m being looked after by someone up above. In Bourbon we meet Nix and Isidora; Nix is going for a swim at the Novotel pool but returning through Gitarama to Shyogwe in her jeep. Would I like a lift with her? Turns out Nix is the same age as my Catherine; yet she’s running an orphanage for 98 Rwandans, most of whom are now in the 18-30 age range. And Nix makes the most wonderful comment of my whole birthday. “We all think of you as a twenty five year old, but with a grey beard”!

Back home Tom and I chop up loads of veg and make soup, but I’m too tired to do anything else; looks as though, whatever Nix might say, at my advanced years I can’t be doing with only four hours’ sleep a night! Still, I manage to put my party pictures into a power point; I’ll load it on the VSO office computer some time next week and use it as a pictorial “thank you” to all the gang.

Best thing about the weekend – everything, really. I can’t think of a better way to spend any birthday, let alone a 60th
Worst thing – sitting around waiting for the truck to be mended. But even then, there were things to do and people to watch! I’m so, so lucky.