Then, comes Christmas Eve. A bunch of us volunteers (and aquaintances) had travelled out west to Gisenyi, a town on lake Kivu which borders the Congo, right next to Goma (which is unfortunately in the news quite often for the unrest there). I say “travelled’, but that’s like saying “travelled” to get from Southampton to Brighton. It’s not even as far as that, though trying to reach your destination, stuffed between sweaty armpits and suckling babies on a bus sometimes makes it feel like you’re trying to find a Catholic church during Mecca. Complications, halts, problems, lateness, cancellations, wide-eyed incredulous looks that you're not flying by in an air-conditioned 4x4 like the other muzungus...

Anyhow, Christmas Eve evening I was sat with Max and Jean-Pierre, a Rwandan friend, in his uncle’s house. He’d invited us for dinner and whilst the others went out for cocktails (worth about a 20% of their weekly pay), we thought it’d be nice to spend the evening there – and/or rude to refuse. Max had mentioned Jean Pierre’s family were also pretty well renowned for being good cooks.


Which is why the intestine came as a bit of a shock.


Have you ever tried to eat something so obviously recognizeably a part of a body which is more used to digesting than to being digested? It had small suction bits on it. It was a very pale white-pink as though the blood had been sucked out. It seemed to have a fleshy rubber band wrapped around it.

I forgot to mention that these entries – especially around Christmas time, are probably not for the vegetarian. Indeed, perhaps not for those of the weak stomached. Those who this does not apply to, may now continue...

I rolled it around on the plate. Past the chunk of brown goat liver. Indeed. Not a favourite either. But if you douse it in chilli sauce you can either make the taste go away (and your eyes water), or you can start coughing and pretend you poured on the sauce completely by accident and now it’s too hot, silly you, for a mere muzungu mouth - and thus avoid having to eat it. Just make sure that the dish from whence it came is already finished, otherwise you might find a friendly fresh fat dollop on your plate in recompense for your ‘stupidity’ – and a smiling host eager to see your pleased and satisfied face as you roll it around in your mouth. I sponged it on to the fork, raised it to my lips, closed my eyes, and thought of how I could convince myself that it was beautiful garlic and lemon encrusted calamari. Nope. Squidgy intestine it was.

Now, there are some beautiful things that friends can do for one another. Friendship can be unfairly seen to be loosely based around having a natter over coffee, the lending of a couple of quid, a pat on the back when one has done something to be proud of.

Prior to Christmas Eve of 2006 I had never thought that friendship could include the spearing of one’s second portion of intestine and eating it to save you from having to do so. Thankyou Max.

I admit this was a noble thing to do. I must have been obviously struggling. Personally though, I do wonder whether its value has decreased with the number of times I have been reminded of this act of friendship...Any time I refuse or complain about shutting the door, or washing up I have the wonderful “I ate your intestine for you” thrown back at me.

And how can you refuse to soap a couple of cups after hearing that??