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.