Monday, March 29, 2010

Dancing My Bleep Off

Now I know I went to Rwanda in fantastic shape, had to leave that running group of mine behind – you know that one that runs, in that place, by the thing-, but whoa. Ouch. I went out with my students this weekend, and holy crow I’m tired. We went to Cadillac, a Rwandan club, and tore up the dance floor. I feel old. Wonk.

I really wish I brought a bottle of water, because I was so dehydrated. We didn’t have time to actually drink alcohol, because I think I stayed on the dance floor for ohhh 2-3 hours straight (it’s also really expensive like NYC prices). It seemed like there was always someone with enough energy to whip me across the floor, and I just panted trying to keep up. The great thing for me is we went with a bunch of male students (don’t forget they’re all older than me; I’m not bringing teenagers out), so I was never without a dance partner. This was not the case for Tim, my fellow volunteer, who was attacked by Rwandan women, all pining away to dance with the kiwi. I left absolutely soaked in sweat, drenched as was everyone else.

The music was a mix of American rap and Rwandan music. Never slowing down. And neither did I! I’ve spent the entire Sunday in bed, only dragging myself out to hit up Bourbon with a fantastic travel writer! In sum: what is this? Am I getting old? It’s not even a hangover, it’s a danceover. And I don’t like it.

I’m seriously resting until next weekend (my last weekend in Kigali) because the boys are throwing me a going away dance party. I also came down with a cold because my frail body can’t take the temperature drop that happened in Kigali. I’m sitting in my bed with a huge blanket, in sweatpants and sweatshirt (obvi), scarf, and I just drank some hot tea. Aaaand it’s about 65. Pathetic.


  1. I cant believe you come home next week!! I cant wait to see you!!

    In the DR this summer it was the same thing with the dancing... they danced ALL THE TIME! They would blast merengue, bachata, and would just grab your hand and expect you to know the moves (like someone in the US taking your hand for a waltz that you're supposed to know b/c your ancestors knew it...). Anyways. LOTS of sweaty nights. LOTS of old and young Dominicans teaching the white girl how to move her hips (but dont worry, I gave us a good name... they told me my hips were Dominican... but my skin was not. -- At least thats what I thought they said (I dont speak Spanish!) )

    PLEASE have a safe trip back!

  2. Now that you're a fitness crazed dancing machine....

    1. Maybe we can jog Race for the Cure this year with Joe rather than sauntering with the stragglers?

    2. Perhaps we should return to Fur some weekend night. I hear it's a classy establishment.