When the cruel war is over
Betsy and I had planned, all the way up till Wednesday, to hop over the Congolese border this weekend and climb the volcano Nyrangongo. It is a strenuous 5 hour hike, after which one sets up camp on the ridge. After sundown comes the climb to the rim of the crater, where the lake of boiling lava glows red and black in the night as the hot currents warm the chilly air. Our boss however had strong opinions about the safety of such an excursion, and in spite of assurances from the Security Specialists in London, requested that we not go. So, having woken up at 5:30 to travel together and save on gas, Betsy and I stayed at the border to play in the weekend get-away town of Gysenyi, as our friends hiked the volcano.
It’s not Gisenyi’s fault. It’s a cute town with lots of nice hotels where one can sit by the pool and look over the lake for the price of breakfast or a pot of coffee. Later we walked the 6 km (3.7 miles?) through the steep country semi-paved roads to the Primus Beer factory. Sadly it was closed to visitors so we continued on to lunch at another resort-hotel. After lunch we set out in search of the hot springs, rumored to be in the vicinity. We waved down a motor taxi and were looking for a second when a woman said “Don’t take them! They will charge you money, and you can walk!” A little boy offered to take us there and so we set off. Chattering away in English, French and Kinyarwanda he led us off the main road, down the dirt road, around the peninsula, down a cobblestone path back around to the lake, past an old man (‘He collects money”) and the children struggling with water jugs to a few shallow mossy pools where a man was hunched over washing.
“This is it? Are they hot?” “Yes!” said the little boy, quite pleased with himself “you can cook potatoes in that middle pool within 30 minutes!” Betsy and I padded through the ponds, trying to get our ankles wet without being scalded. The old man came down for his money, and upon receiving 500 francs ($1) smiled and told us we were good girls. From Heaven. Did we want to go visit his house? (Translation courtesy of the little boy) As we were leaving a HUGE tour bus pulled up on the cobblestone path. Out poured 35 Americans touring the area and excited for the hot springs. As we smiled and exchanged pleasantries we didn’t disclose that the hot springs were somewhat less than a Tourist Destination.
The little boy led us back to the main road (the American’s didn’t pick us up as their bus roared past), and we motorcycled back to town where we found another nice place to eat.
The next morning our friends came back with tales of the volcano, the armed porters, and the UN Peacekeepers they found at the top. “Next year…or next weekend” Betsy and I planned in our heads. But really, the chances of the security situation clearing any time soon in this area where war has raged since 1994 is pretty slim.
It’s not Gisenyi’s fault. It’s a cute town with lots of nice hotels where one can sit by the pool and look over the lake for the price of breakfast or a pot of coffee. Later we walked the 6 km (3.7 miles?) through the steep country semi-paved roads to the Primus Beer factory. Sadly it was closed to visitors so we continued on to lunch at another resort-hotel. After lunch we set out in search of the hot springs, rumored to be in the vicinity. We waved down a motor taxi and were looking for a second when a woman said “Don’t take them! They will charge you money, and you can walk!” A little boy offered to take us there and so we set off. Chattering away in English, French and Kinyarwanda he led us off the main road, down the dirt road, around the peninsula, down a cobblestone path back around to the lake, past an old man (‘He collects money”) and the children struggling with water jugs to a few shallow mossy pools where a man was hunched over washing.
“This is it? Are they hot?” “Yes!” said the little boy, quite pleased with himself “you can cook potatoes in that middle pool within 30 minutes!” Betsy and I padded through the ponds, trying to get our ankles wet without being scalded. The old man came down for his money, and upon receiving 500 francs ($1) smiled and told us we were good girls. From Heaven. Did we want to go visit his house? (Translation courtesy of the little boy) As we were leaving a HUGE tour bus pulled up on the cobblestone path. Out poured 35 Americans touring the area and excited for the hot springs. As we smiled and exchanged pleasantries we didn’t disclose that the hot springs were somewhat less than a Tourist Destination.
The little boy led us back to the main road (the American’s didn’t pick us up as their bus roared past), and we motorcycled back to town where we found another nice place to eat.
The next morning our friends came back with tales of the volcano, the armed porters, and the UN Peacekeepers they found at the top. “Next year…or next weekend” Betsy and I planned in our heads. But really, the chances of the security situation clearing any time soon in this area where war has raged since 1994 is pretty slim.
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