What A Mug.

Friday evening, Linda and I decided we were very much in the mood for a night out, and salsa at the Sun and Moon sounded like just the ticket. We arrived fashionably late at 9pm, to discover an empty dancefloor. We ordered a couple of beers and waited for our friends to arrive. Before too long we had a full table, and were comparing Rwanda's choice of beers - Primus (cheap and cheerful), Mutzig (masquerading as a European, therefore more expensive), and finally Amstel (not half bad!). Finally a few die-hards made it to the dancefloor, and one by one we followed. At one point Linda wandered back from the toilets munching on a piece of pizza - she'd smelt something tasty and made friends with the owner of a Hawaiian. Nice work!

At midnight, feeling merry, some bright spark suggested we make our way to Papyrus - sort of what the Wedge is for Bristol students (for those of you who know it). It's the place you end up in when you're tipsy and in need of a dance past midnight. You'll regret it in the morning. The place was rammed, but somehow we found a table. Linda then convinced a waiter that it was my birthday, so we shared a free dessert. Word spread. Before long the owner was sauntering up to me, wishing me happy birthday and offering me a free bottle of wine. Yes please!

Several hours later, bouncing around in the back of a taxi negotiating Kigali's many dirt roads, we felt content with our Friday night. Linda's dirt road is considerably longer than mine, so, feeling chivalrous I offered to be dropped off at the corner and walk the rest of the way - about 200m to my house. As soon as I turned the corner, I heard heavy footsteps behind me, and before I could do anything I was pushed onto the road. Two men shoved me this way and that, whilst I (perhaps foolishly) struggled. If I'd known they only wanted my bag I may have just given it up straight away. With the bag around my neck I finally gave in. I ran most of the way home, hysterical. My sobbing awoke my housemates before I had even reached the door. Unfortunately my keys were also stolen so I spent the night in the living room, and the morning feeling sorry for myself whilst our locks were changed (for a cool $100). Camera. Phone. Keys. Purse (most of its contents had been spent on beer and taxis). Saddest of all was the bag itself - a Mulberry satchel worth around £400, unearthed in a ramshackle charity shop in Woodford Green for £5. I'm feeling its loss.

Three visits to the police station later, I'm no closer to obtaining a police report for my insurance claim. The first time, (what looked like) a prisoner interpreted for me, with limited success. The second time, the 'man that writes the reports' was away watching a football match, and the third time, the 'man that signs the report' was nowhere to be seen. Curious system.