During one of my most memorable trips to Karongi, I set my sights on Nyamunini Island—commonly known as Napoleon’s Hat. Rising steeply from Lake Kivu, this cone-shaped hill offers a rewarding hike and unobstructed 360-degree views of the surrounding waters.
This time around, I used a kayak to sail to the island. A motorboat would have been faster, but I needed time to bond with the lake—and burn a few calories along the way. As I paddled toward the French emperor’s chapeau, I slipped past several small islands, including Amahoro, Mukondwe, Shegesha, and Mpangara. Each of these picturesque islets, I later learned, carries its own story.
Nyamunini’s greener pastures are irresistible to livestock, and cows often swim across from lakeside farms to graze there. When I docked, I found a few cows feasting and several boys cutting grass. Judging by their nervous glances and hurried movements, I suspected their presence—and activities—might not have been entirely lawful. Guilt, it seemed, had announced itself before I did.
As mentioned earlier, my time on the island came with a few questionable encounters. I also unintentionally disrupted a colony of bats before scrambling up to the rocky summit, where I took a few selfies from the highest point in the area. From the apex, Karongi’s jagged shoreline unfolded beautifully, with nearby islands scattered across the water like dots on the brink of being swept away by the tide. In the distance, I even caught a hazy glimpse of the Virunga Massif along the northwestern horizon.
The boys eventually left before I did, paddling away in their dugout canoe. I won’t lie—I felt relieved. The thought of someone making off with my kayak was unsettling.
The return journey was far more challenging. The lake had grown restless, and the waves were noticeably rougher. When strong winds threatened to push me toward the DRC, I resisted the urge to fight them head-on. Instead, I relied on technique and patience. Nature, after all, is not an opponent you overpower—it’s one you learn to work with.
By the time I reached the mainland, dusk was approaching, and the lake was coming alive. Fishermen were heading out, steering their boats toward their workstations. I had spent the day chasing leisure and perspective; they were reporting for duty. The contrast was striking—and humbling.