If Only In My Dreams

Warm apple pie, gingerbread dough, ornaments, peppermint chocolate and bite sized brownies, carols, popular Christmas songs on the radio, chilly walks in the dog park, cozy under blankets, mittens, sappy pine tree smell, lights and wreaths and bows and garland, wrapping gifts, hot tea and a good book on a comfortable couch in the evening while Nat King Cole sings along…

These are the things I miss.

I didn’t realize how dependent I am on seasons. It doesn’t feel much like Christmas without the build up of cold days, shopping stress, and especially family time. In fact, it doesn’t feel like time has passed at all. Furthermore, there are not too many decorations around and there is not the same commercial frenzy as a home. I am finding it hard to remember to say “Merry Christmas”.

This holiday season will be one for the books. I am a maid of honour in a Canadian / Rwandan wedding on Saturday and then jetting off on Sunday for new adventures. I’ll be in Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania for 5 nights, hopefully spending Christmas day with a family there. A ferry ride on Boxing Day will take me to the island of Zanzibar, a place I’ve wanted to visit since first hearing about it in June. I will spend a few nights in Stonetown and then, best of all, some time in a beach banta overlooking the Indian Ocean. Glorious.

I’m terribly excited to see more of this amazing continent and get a taste of different cultures and histories. I feel very lucky for the opportunity. I am, however, missing my family and the familiarity of Christmas past. I am thinking of you at this time of year and looking forward to our reunion more and more. Although I won’t be home for Christmas, African adventures are a bit of a dream themselves, and we will see each other before we know it. Maybe we can bake gingerbread men then.

Noheli Nziza, Joyeux Noel, and Merry Christmas! Much love to you all.

Transportation

On first impression, the minibus park is chaos. A one way street in the heart of towntown, or mumuji, the area is filled with vendors, drivers, conductors, buses, beggers, passengers, business people, children, clothes, peanuts, air-time cards and noise. Eventually, I have come to understand the patterns and flow of the system and can now navigate my way through the bustle to find my bus ride home. This involves walking through the buses until I hear the a caller, boys earning money by advertising bus routes, shout Kaciyru or Ministair-ey, my area of town. I then have to locate the bus he's talking about and wiggle my way in past the other passengers, often amused at the mzungu on the bus. I try to get a seat next to the window so that I get to control it, keeping it wide open for the "fresh" air outside. Once the bus is full, we pull away. Carefully, since the buses are wedged in along the street with incredible driving precision and an acute awareness of the vehicle dimensions. We rumble along, 19 people inside the aluminum box, sometimes elaborately painted or with tassels and other such interior decoration. At the correct stop, if it's not the end of the line, you rap the side of the van to signal your desire to disembark. You pay the "conductor" who opens and closes the door and provides you with the correct change. The best rides involve loud music and people who get off early so there's a little more space, and the worst ones involve hot days, lots of traffic, and phone number exchanges. But for 150 francs, you really can't complain.

I need to give a shout-out to the moto. My favorite mode of transportation, I'm becoming a little addicted. Sure, the minibuses are cheaper, but with that many people crowded into an oversized van I prefer the wind whipping through my hair moto ride. There is something a little exhilarating about sitting on the back of a motorcycle, darting through traffic on my way home. We dip through the valleys where the air becomes cooler and musty smelling as the trees surround us. I used to grip to the handle at the back with white knuckles, but now my hands rest lazily on my knees or balance paper grocery bags on my lap. Moto drivers are often great conversationalists, chatting about Canada, their children, or life in Rwanda on the way home in one of three languages. Prices are negotiable, but now that I use a fist to gesture 500 francs I am starting to get the Rwandan prices. Helmets are provided and drivers are regulated, so the system works really well. I will miss the cheap, fun, and convenient moto ride, especially on moonlit nights along the hills of Rwanda.

Hear me Roar

Once, gender went unnoticed. Hitting puberty at an early age, I quickly learned to ignore any reference to my womanly figure, inattentive to any male attention. I lived in a world where girls could do anything boys could do, sometimes better. Not once did I ever feel a need to keep up with the guys or shatter any glass ceilings, since the limit was always more than the sky. I choose to be a nurse not because of its traditional female role, but because it's a profession I can believe in. Which, by the way, I think says a lot for women in of itself. In my world, gender equality was so great that it had almost reached a point where the boys were being left behind. I couldn't understand the need for fervent feminism.

How naive.

A change of scenery and perspective in Nova Scotia taught me a lot, along with gender discussions throughout my education. I am a very very lucky woman and I didn't even know. I grew up surrounded by close role models who had achieved higher education and were masters of their own destiny, for the most part. I quickley learned that not everyone grew up in the same empowering environment.

Now, even moreso, I notice gender. Not only am I reminded every day by stares, calling, and attention, but the dividing line between men and women in the developing world is drawn clearly, carefully. A lot of life in Rwanda is spent waiting but it is rare to see an idle woman. Babies in tow, they are continually working to provide for their families, community, husbands, but rarely for themselves. There are many daily examples of the oppression that women live: friends who cannot join me while their father is in town; girls who have 'boyfriends' that come over in exchange for clothes, cell phones, or even food; neighbors on my street with five children to care for; the defeated faces of women who have been raped, widowed, or infected by HIV. The high number of male students in my nursing class does not reflect gender equality - it reflects how women are not even running traditional female professions. However, some people will tell you there is gender equality since more than half of the MPs in Rwandan parliament are women. I ask then, why are the women of Rwanda still so disempowered?

I think it's because an attitude shift takes a long time. Women's rights have been at the forefront in Canada for almost 50 years, and we still haven't reached gender balance. Equality is more than a representation of numbers, high salaries, or statistics. It's a society consisting of individuals that believe that women have the same value, intelligence, and potential as men. It's a society that celebrates all gender identities, their strengths and differences included.

So as the Sixteen Days of Activism ends, it's important to continue the sentiment all year. Maybe you enjoy freedom and equality, but there are so many women who do not. The fight is not over until we can all roar our pride as women.

For further reading check out http://www.aids-freeworld.org/content/view/216/153/

Muramutze, Hello, Bonjour

The students are on holiday, and KHI has been quiet, save for a few students verifying their marks or meeting with academic counsels. This week, however, gangs of young adults have been hanging off the railings outside the classrooms, talking and texting on their breaks. They have come to learn English, an educational move seen as a means of moving themselves and their country forward, gaining international ground.

Rwanda has three official languages: Kinyrwanda, English, and French. However, the government has decided that as of January, all primary schools will be taught in English. This is chiefly because the country has joined the East African Community, which only recognizes English. However, it is also because there is a significant distaste for all things French post-genocide, and because the majority of current top government officials spent part of their lives in English-speaking Uganda. The new English policy was only announced recently, leaving little time for preparations.

With the hemorrhagic brain-drain out of Africa (a tangent I could go off on for awhile) combined with the loss of many professionals during the genocide, Rwanda already struggles to meet professional labour demands. Where they are going to find enough English speaking teachers is beyond me. I understand the desire to gain strength in an international language, but the reality is that the majority of people only speak Kinyrwanda. This causes huge communication chaos both in every day life and on a national level. Trilingual conversations are not uncommon, and it is difficult to know what language to start in with a stranger. It is rare that everyone in a room can speak a common language, especially with so many people from various countries and backgrounds. While I was teaching I learned how to speak slowly and use appropriate vocabulary, as I didn't want my students' marks to reflect their language skills. It’s a huge barrier and challenge that I’m not sure forcing English will help to overcome.

As for me, well, I can’t say my Kinyrwanda is any good. I do try, though, which usually gets a laugh out of Rwandans. I am especially able to tell when people are talking about me, usually infront of me, since the sentence usually includes muzungu and Kinyrwanda. I do wish they wouldn’t. Since KHI is an English Institution (as we are reminded at the start of every meeting), the opportunity to speak French is rare. Plus I have been made to feel bad about my accent, so am a little reluctant to try. I did, however, learn how to count in Kinyrwanda, and am taking French lessons when the teacher at KHI shows up. I am getting good at gesturing, pointing, and the whole non verbal communication thing. The universality of a smile really helps.

Buj, Baby

Kigali needs a beach. Or at least a lake or decent riverside or something. I think it would help everyone relax a little. It would certainly provide a great weekend hang out place so that I wouldn't have to go all the way to Burundi to get some sand action.

12 hours on the bus there and back was worth it though. More than worth it. Not only did I get another official stamp in my passport, but I got to see another east African country. Picking up on patterns and subtle culture differences between neighboring countries has helped me better understand Rwanda as well as its surrounding area. Like Rwanda's poor brother, Burundi has seen its share of conflict, poverty, and struggle. In fact, the last rebel group signed a peace treaty on Thursday, the day before we arrived. Deemed to be unsafe, there are few tourists and thus very little tourism infrastructure.

But the country was beautiful. At first glance, the valleys and hills seemed very similar to Rwanda's, with less cultivation. As we neared Bujumbura, the capital city, the land dramatically became very flat, the most horizon I've seen since I left the Alberta prairies. From the top of the palm tree laden hill, I could see that the land stretched out as yellow plains until it reached the blue hills to the south or shimmering lake Tangika to the west. Arriving in Buj, as it is called, is like taking a time warp back to a 1970's resort settlement, with a hint of a dusty western ghost town. It was obvious that, unlike Kigali, not much money had been invested into the city. The streets were lined with sand blown in from the lake, litter and potholes, signs faded in the hot tropical sun.

We exchanged some money and found our hotel, L'Amitie, which was safe although I'm not sure the street lived up to its name. The city was easy to navigate and we found our way to the waterfront. Unfortunately, the recommended restaurant was closed, but we managed to find another place on the lake selling cold Coca at a reasonable price. As we were sitting there, admiring the view from our table on the beige rocky sand, a truck full of soldiers pulled up. Although I'm used to men in uniforms with AK-47s, the fury with which they marched towards the edge of the property made us all a little nervous. Upon inquirey, we learned that they were merely the president's entourage, and when we left we could see that the whole street was lined with soldiers who were eager to learn our name. Happening upon a football match, we stayed to watch as the sun was fading into the hills behind the unkept feild.

Luck must have been on my side that day, since I got to see the traditional Burundian drummers as they were practicing beating their large wooden drums carried on their heads while marching down the adjacent road. Wearing matching green shirts, they kept time as the deep rhythm pounded through the valley. We followed, and were treated to an amazing show of leaps, beats, dancing, and music. Although Rwandan dancers have the best body movement, the beats of the Burundian drums is, so far, my favorite sound out of Africa. Like a familiar heartbeat, comforting, motivating, moving.

Dinners in new restaurants, navigating through the large market exploding with new fabric patterns, and wandering the city streets was all part of the weekend adventure. L noticed that Buj lacked any sort of mud housing, the main component of most Kigali streets. Perhaps because the sand doesn't provide the same readily available materials? Burundians were all very friendly, even stopping their car as we waiting for a cab to ask if we were alright (in French, of course, since Burundi doesn't have the same language confusion that Rwanda does). There was distinctly less “muzungu” calling or targeting us for begging, likely because tourists are still such a novelty.

There was, however, a beautiful lake front hotel past all the UN headquarters (a very large presence) where the tourists or expats seemed to flock. For the price of a fresh pineapple juice, we used their beach, reading under the thatched shelters and admiring the view, a misty breeze keeping us cool. It was a little piece of paradise in central Africa providing total relaxation and picturesque photo opportunities. A small forgotten country, I didn't think that Burundi would have much to offer besides a ritualistic rock where Stanely famously said “Livingstone, I presume?”. So it's to my own surprise that I'll be putting Buj on my list of places to go back to. The bottom of the bedsheets in the hotel said “I hope it was happy” (throwing me into a fit of much needed giggles) and my trip to Burundi most certainly was. Friendly people, beautiful scenery, and a kick of adrenline going into a red-flagged zone, Buj is the place to be, baby.

World AIDS Day

December 1, 2008 marks the 20th anniversary of World AIDS Day, a paradoxical milestone because it is unworthy of celebration – a reminder of a devastating disease we would rather exist without. Human Immunodeficiency Virus has claimed millions of lives since it was first discovered, and countless more continue to suffer from the disease, or the social implications of the disease, today.

As a nurse, I can rhyme off the clinical manifestations, pathophysiology, care and treatment for people living HIV positive. I learned how Antiretroviral Drugs, or ARV’s, stop the replication cycle of the virus and allow the patient’s CD4 level, or white blood cell count, rise enough to allow him or her to fight every day infections. I know that there is no cure, and that prevention is the only way to stop the cycle of transmission.

However, my education failed to include the powerful social impact that HIV/AIDS can exert on a community. Because it is usually transmitted through sexual acts, the disease carries a lot of stigma. All sexually transmitted diseases (STIs) continue to be a taboo subject not only in societies where sex is taboo, but also at home. There is still a lot of shame associated with acquiring them, but with 50% of university students receiving treatment for an STI during their schooling, you would think more discussion would surround the issue. Preventing the spread of HIV is very difficult when honesty surrounding all aspects of sex is severely lacking. The stigma is compounded by the false belief that only Africans, drug users, and prostitutes are subject to infection. I’ll have you know, however, that anyone who has ever had an STI could have just as easily acquired HIV instead of the clap.

Here, and within other vulnerable populations, AIDS’ impact ripples through the entire society. In areas where infection rates are up to 1/3 of the population, entire generations are dying, leaving behind families, orphans, and an empty labour market. That is not to discredit the personal suffering associated with a disease that destroys the immune system, a slow and tedious, inevitable death. Transmission is significantly associated with certain population dynamics, such as migration, war, poverty, low education, etc, always affecting those who are already the most vulnerable. Social justice issues increase infection rates, which subsequently increase the prevalence of social justice issues. Although most countries are seeing a decrease in their rates of HIV infection (largely due to prevention campaigns), the cycle isn’t broken yet.

I have met a lot of people who are positive, many of them my friends. Their determination to lead a “normal” life is inspiring, and often very humbling. It pains me to see them treated differently or when people shy away; after all, you can’t be infected from hugging. I have also met a lot of people who are afraid to get tested, their rational being “what’s the point, if I can’t get treatment anyways?”, an attitude I have trouble arguing with. Access to treatment is still difficult to come by. Anyone who tells you that treatment is free for children hasn’t got the whole picture. Which children? How will they come to the clinic once a month if they live in a rural village? What good are the ARVs if their family doesn’t have food to eat? How will their sick mother care for her sick children? What part of all this is, really, free? There are so many barriers left to overcome, and although prevention is important, so is treatment and holistic patient care.

On this World AIDS day, I think it is important to remember that AIDS is not the scourge of only Africa. AIDS affects us all. Not only do the social impacts make their way through global economies, or arouses sympathy for our fellow human, but HIV could also infect you, or someone you love. A recent outbreak in a mid-western American high school proves that it only takes a couple of less-than-safe sexual encounters to start a wide chain of infection. HIV exists in Canada, and is on the rise among our youth population. Like any social disease, open and honest discussion, decreasing stigma, and increasing awareness are important first steps, followed by prevention and testing. Get talking, get tested, and please, please, use a condom. Breaking the cycle starts with you.

Everyday

There is something meditative about a violent rainstorm. Like a water balloon bursting its contents over the dry red earth, the rain comes in an assault of pounding drops that bounce off the tin roofs. The thunder claps in tune to the lighting, and I resolve myself to a day of doing nothing in the warm yellow light of my apartment, listening to the barrage of noise outside.
I havn't been writing much over the last few weeks, I know. In the process of cultural adaptation, life in Rwanda became routine. Caught up in my job, dinner with friends, and going about every day life, I stopped finding things to write about. Afterall, living in a different culture is normal for many expats here, and for everyone else, Rwandan life is... just life. No more thrilling than getting up, going to work, providing for your family, and falling back in bed is in everyone else's lives. Somewhere in the month of November, being here became completly natural, and I stopped appreciating it.

Granted, there is a lot to be said for habits and routine. Habits are apparently an important part of our lives because they simplify our decision making process; the choice is easy when you follow your routine. But I found myself feeling stuck. Just over the halfway point of living here, and I felt a little jaded, removing myself from the experience in small ways. At camp, we called this the fifth-week-syndrome: the point in the summer when the initial energy has dissapeared and doesn't kick back into gear until you realize what precious little time is left. Standing in the valley, the next moutain seems very tall, and it's easy to forget the elation felt at the top.

Luckily, I got the push I needed. This week I went on a curriculum development retreat in Ruhengeri (now named Musanze), close to the volcanoes and mountain gorillas. The drive through Rwanda's rolling hills gave me another chance to marvel at this country's immense beauty. The rain has left the landscape vibrating in green, the various shades of trees and crops contrasting with the damp red earth. Colourful printed fabrics add yellows and reds to the landscape dotted with farmers heaving the land, coaxing their bananas, beans, coffee and tea to grow. I spent two nights taking baths in my own luxurious hotel room and three days getting to know my co-workers and making what felt like a valuable work contribution. Spending some time on my own excursion allowed me the freedom to live my emotions without expectations or comparisons. The retreat reaffirmed the relationships I have made here, the importance of the work I'm doing, and the every day thrill of life in Rwanda.

It seems that routine is a dangerous trap; it catches us up in a churning river of monotonous existance, forcing us along with such speed that we cannot grasp the joy that is just beyond our reach. Every now and again, it's worth clamboring up the bankside to take a look around, even if it is to simply appreciate the river you have been floating in. Living here has allowed me to take a step back from my own life and see just how lucky I am, even moreso for the opportunity I have to be here. And I intend to make the most of it in the next two months, appreciating life, as it is, everyday.

What are we doing, really?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7740652.stm

What's your take on that?

I'm not entirely sure yet.

Football

Granted, I am not the world’s number one fan of the sport. I got winded when I was nine and stopped playing soccer, and although I’ve watched a lot of my sibling’s games since, I can’t say I’ve ever really loved the game.

Enter Amahoro Stadium: 20 000 chanting fans, the most animated I have ever seen Rwandans. The under 17 team was playing Burkina Fasso to qualify for the African Cup. They didn’t win, but the atmosphere alone was enough to make me a football regular. It was exhilarating! Busses full of singing fans streamed towards Rumera, and we sat behind the section with the loud horns, giant drums, masks and Rwandan flags. The colorful dots of people across the field swayed back and forth and leaped up with each scoring possibility, cheering on the blue, green and yellow team. I think I may have watched the fans more than the game, actually. Being part of that atmosphere was the highlight of my weekend. Needless to say, I think I’m a fan.

Goin' on a Lion Hunt

Safari Time!!! Six months in Rwanda would not be complete without at least a couple of big game sightings. With our Canadian supervisor here for a visit, a 2 night trip to Akagera park here in Rwanda needed to be in the plan. It was absolutely fantastic! Although it isn't a great park (no elephants, lions, cats, or rhinos spotted... frivulous lion hunt singing) I saw so many animals in their natural habitat, got to camp overnight on the plains of Africa, watch the sun rise over the lakes, see horizons and breathe fresh air.

The highlight of the weekend would be an up-close-and-personal encounter with a damn baboon. Turns out those creatures are not the wise primate of the jungle. I knew he wasn't to be trusted, and was just shutting my window when the little thief leaped onto the roof of the SUV and CLIMBED INSIDE. Needless to say, the girl closest to the door didn't think to exit it, so we were trapped in the back with this primate ravaging through our food. My, what teeth it had! It couldn't bite through our bottles of banana liqueur and I was pretty glad when it found our bread so that it wouldn't start to go for human flesh. I had visions of it clawing my eyes out. Thankfully our trusty guide smacked it with a sleeping bag enough to make it jump back out, and then threw rocks at it until it scurried away. And then we all burst out laughing.

We also paid extra for a boat tour out to an island with crocodiles and hippos! It was just like the disney ride along the river, only we didn't almost get eaten. A giant croc sauntered into the water from the land and glided towards us, and we turned around only to have hippos right next to us. It was amazing!

The giraffs will remain my favourite animal though. They seem so... mythical. Even seeing them in their natural habitat seemed strange, as though they were planted there or we were going through a fake animal adventure park. We saw a group of 12 up close and personal, as well as a couple on a distant hill. The scenary was also pretty incredible, with rolling red hills, grassy plains, swamps and lakes. Watching the sun rise was an unforgettable moment, as the croaking of the frogs was replaced by songs from holographic like birds. It was a pretty magical weekend.

Perspective

I joined a writer's club here in Kigali... random, i know. Here is a poem I shared there this week, inspired by what I see here everyday.

Perspective
I see a young woman,
A mother of three,
Tender, earnest, loving,
A life of responsibility.

You see a young girl,
A victim of idiocy,
Cold, incapable, ragged,
A life void of what could be.

I am in awe of her grace,
Her refusal to give up,
Her strength, faith, and courage,
Yet they are still not enough.

You are in complete disgust,
Appalled that she would even,
Dare to make her eldest beg,
A street brat, a heathen.

You can't see her scars,
I know her agony is far more than skin deep,
She toils each day, not respected,
Just to make ends meet.

You preach kindness to all,
Peace, love, acceptance should fall free,
Yet you can't even see,
She's just a woman like me.

History

"Wake up. He won"

My phone beeped at 6:21 this morning, a text from L letting me know I can start to restore my faith in the American people, and begin to believe that change is possible.

Last night on my way to an 'election party' at a restaurant, I walked past a group of children who were fighing over who got to be Obama. A king of the hill type game with a political twist. The energy buzzed and the talk is constant A black man is president of America. As much as I think that's a label given to him and not personally embraced, there is still a lot to be said for it. A source of inspiration, a great moment in history. Where were you when Obama was elected? Why, I was in Africa, a world apart but not so far away.

As I listened to his speech this morning I couldn't help but think that Yes We Can! will be my generation's I have a Dream. I was moved a little more than I would like to admit. A day for the books, a moment to remember, a glass ceiling shattered and a reminder of the potential that determination and leadership hold. A fine day, indeed!

Be Humankind

As I sit here at my comfortable desk, checking emails, sending messages, and browsing the news, I feel slightly ashamed. Less than 200 km away from me a major humanitarian crisis is underway. If I was at home, close to such catastrophe, the workplace would be a mess. News updates would be blaring, aid convoys would be organized, and suffering would not go un-noticed. Here, I sit. No one is even talking about it.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About how conflict like that can start, and how it possibly ever ends. The DRC has been in turmoil forever, and I think it’s fair to say that most of it can be traced back to colonialism, followed by a lack of leadership. I won’t go into details about my political opinions here, as really, they’re irrelevant anyways. The fact of the matter is that people think that happiness can only come if “enemies” are erased from their land and their lives; a dangerous, threatening, terrible thing to believe. It is a belief that has lead to hatred, fuelling destruction and turmoil, murders and rape, and the uprooting of 250 000 people, now refugees in the eastern part of the DRC, along the boarder of Rwanda.

All day, I have been trying to understand what it could possibly be like, to live as a refugee. Gathering what you can carry, multiple children in tow, running away from your home, family, and life. Many of the refugees are living in the jungle, too afraid to seek assistance. If I had been born there, I could be the mother of four, terrified, hungry, with nothing to give my children, at the mercy of aid agencies who are slow to respond, caught up in their own beauraucracy and political undertones. I don’t think I can even properly imagine that. Nor can I properly imagine the stem of such upheaval. My friend, E, who was a soldier before his 15 birthday, told me that he is proud of me for at least asking the questions. Apparently, no one really has the answers.

I think part of the reason is fear. Part of it is survival. Some of it is ingrained, indoctrinated, a tradition of hatred passed through the generations. Greed plays a role; with so little resources, there is not enough to go around. Who will receive them – you, or them? It is difficult to think about. It makes me sad.

Worst still is that I cannot picture the violence, specifically in the DRC, ever properly settling down. How can it end? How will it end? Everyone is not going to miraculously get along. How much will outside influence help, or will it just mess everything up? Attention must be paid. "Never again" must be upheld. I cannot sit back and watch this world fall apart.

We need to start with understanding. All over the world, piece by piece, slow by slow. It starts with me, and it starts with you. Each and every one of us is priceless; our rational, human lives hold too much value to be given a number. We are all someone’s child, a sibling, a parent, a friend, a person. Kindness, I believe, is the answer. Every day kindness, that is. It is not easy, but it is easier if we start to see one another for who we are: the same. If the world really is going to change, that is the fundamental starting block: to be humankind. I have the audacity to hope for that, at least.


*** The situation in the DRC has not spilled over into Rwanda. My supervisor from Canada is coming to visit (in a pre-planned trip) on Friday and will check out the situation. Currently I feel very safe and there is no need to worry.***

Work

My job has provided me with a lot of great experience and some pretty significant professional growth. It is true that when you teach something it is the best way to learn. I really enjoyed having a course to teach, students to help, and course preparations to do. I became comfortable in the teaching role, and gained a deep appreciation for the value of education.

Now I am gaining a deep appreciation for hands-on work. I have spent the last few weeks in an office, working on curriculum development. In order to comply with a new policy, the lab department has had to reformat their entire curriculum. To me this seems like a reinvention of the wheel, all because some lady from Scotland thought modules were a better idea than courses. With all this paper pushing I discovered something: I really love nursing. I miss it. I miss interacting with patients, making decisions, hands-on care, and working in a team. Word documents and my computer screen just aren’t providing the same stimulation.

Although work is slow now, I’m glad I had this revelation, as it reaffirms my entire career choice. For now I’ll try to keep busy and be helpful where I can, one word document at a time.

Teamwork

This weekend I had the hit of inspiration I was looking for. I got to meet the people in my community, spend productive time leaving behind tangible results, and have some fun. I got to plant trees.

As part of an initiative with fellow interns, we decided that each person should endeavor to plant enough trees to offset the pollution from our flights. In the age of global warming, which as a profound impact on developing countries as well, it would be foolish and rude to discount the environmental impact of travel during our internships. At first I wasn’t sure exactly how we would get to find saplings, land, and resources to plant the trees. However, the solution presented itself through a partnership with a youth organization in our community, as well as the community itself. Rwanda is concerned about soil erosion, so the solution to both our problems allowed us to come together.

On Sunday morning about 50 people, a truck full of 500 little trees, and some community leaders gathered on the street above ours to plant. Many of the holes had already been dug on Saturday, so we got to work filling them. Many eager children joined us, and as we planted we got to talk about how important trees are for our planet. When the 500 trees were planted, 100 more were picked up so that we could start a little forest at the edge of the Nyabugogo valley.

It felt absolutely wonderful to connect with members of my own community. Since five white girls with mud all over them was probably somewhat of a rarity, I did feel a sense of appreciation for our eagerness to pitch-in and beautify the community. I was astounded at how helpful everyone was, and how quickly we managed to accomplish something with a visible output. I hope the little trees survive, but I will be checking on them and I know the community has a sense of ownership over them. It was a great way to spend my Sunday morning, and the follow-up ice cream made it a perfect day in Kigali.

Food, Glorious Food

BUFFET VOLCANO

They say when you return from a big trip, other people want to know three main things: did you get sick, what was the weather like, and how the food was. To satisfy your curiosity and explain a little more about Rwandan culture, I thought I would describe for you my diet here. The Rwandan mentality towards food, for the most part, seems to be a eat to live, rather than my preferred live to eat. Variety is not high on the priority list, and my stomach is starting to settle into the routine. Here is my typical daily menu:

Breakfast: You can count on Quaker oats. I have them pretty much every day, varying my toppings depending on what is available. Our kitchen doesn't have a running fridge, so if I remember to buy yogurt the night before I might put that on top or maybe some bran flakes or bananas. If I've splurged, then dried fruit muscli really makes my morning. Peanut butter and bread are dangerous things to buy because we tend to go through those at break neck speed.

Lunch: BUFFET. Apparently to save time in the '80s when everyone needed to rush through lunch, the buffet was invented to allow for quick service, and the idea, like neon colors, scrunchies, and other silly ideas out of that era, has never died. For 800 frw ($1.50) I can pile my plate high with rice, beans, cassava, one piece of meat, stewed bananas, potatoes, fries, and sauce. I'll admit the amount of starch is a little overwhelming at times, and I've had to give up on the stewed bananas because they require too many follow-up tums. If I want to spend more and go to the Karibu buffet, the selection of vegetables is far more substantial and quite delicious. However, it never changes. The trick with buffet, I've discovered, is to not take a little of everything, but rather rotate through the dishes to keep the variety going. Rwandans pile their plates very high, and it is often referred to as the Volcano. Some days I just go to the shop for an apple and a cookie. Probably just as nutritious.

Tea: Around 10:30 at work I can go into a large tent and get a cup of African Tea. It is made with boiled milk, tea, and ginger. It is quite tasty, especially if you add sugar. It is also very filling, and if I drink it too often I feel the effects of too much milk. I like to have it with a chapatti, though - essentially a piece of fried four and water. Mmmm.

Dinner: If I cook dinner at home, I'm limited to dishes made on our hotplate. Thus, couscous is a favourite, along with stir fries and steam veggies. Last night I made a delicious home made pasta sauce, which I will defiantly be doing again. I was getting sick of zucchini.

Food cooked for traditional meals and celebrations varies according to religion and region. A lot of Rwandans use small outside stoves to save on power, fuelled by Eucalyptus wood, so the smell of the smoke often fills the air (but beats the burning garbage smell). At the end of Ramadan we went to a Pilau feast and got to learn how to eat rice with our hands (the trick is to squeeze it together and use your thumb to push the ball into your mouth).

For the most part, high end restaurants cater nicely to the business and ex-pat crowd, and then the typical Rwandan restaurants seem to serve a lot of the same things. Brochettes of goat, tilapia fish, or beef are very reasonably priced, and go well with grilled or boiled bananas, fries, rice, peas or roasted potatoes if you're lucky. My favourite order at the restaurant down our street is a “Mutzig grand (620ml beer) avec brochette de chevre et des bananes grille”. And then the waiter usually replies in Kinyrwanda and I say “Yego” (yes) and hope that whatever he brings me is tasty. As long as he gets the beer right, it usually is.

World Poverty Day

Last friday, October 17, was world poverty day. A day of reflection on the 3 billion people that live in poverty. 3 billion people. That is just about half the world's population. One out of every two people. If the world shared it's problems equally, you could look at the person next to you and know that one of you lives a life where struggling for survival is the entity of your existance. Where daily decisions are not over wardrobes or meals, events or careers, but rather whether to spend the little money available on school fees or food, shelter or clean water, health insurance or firewood. Here in Rwanda, poverty smacks me in the face every day, from the begging children asking for "cent franc manger" to the mothers at the hospital who cannot afford treatment for their children. But you don't even need to picture someone in the "third world" (I hate that term) to understand poverty; you only need to take a stroll in the centre of any major city to see it. In fact, conditions on Native reserves in Canada have been compared to those in rural developing countries. Poverty is everywhere, if you look for it.

3 billion people - I can't get over that number.

Obviously there is something terribly wrong with our world, with us, if we keep letting that number grow, and allow the gap between the rich and poor to become a vaste valley, a great divide. Work is being made to bridge the gap, it's true, but it is still there. I think it will remain there until the stem of the problems is addressed, namely global trade policies. For example, Rwanda is ripe for cultivation, but farmers are not being paid fairly for their goods. And why? So we can my more cheap crap at Walmart? So we can save money on commercial goods in order to afford our five star vacation? Wouldn't it make sense to do what is just in the first place?

Imagining a world without poverty is difficult. However, I think we have to remember we are all human beings, all together in mankind, and that we all, each and every one of us, deserve a good life, a whole life. The right to health, the right to education, the right to the basic necessities of life - these rights should be upheld. I know it will take time, but I am impatient. I want to see some justice, and I want to see it soon. The solution, though, still evades me. Is it a simpler life? Acts of charity? Shifts in thinking? It is hard to grasp commercialism, to understand all the dynamics of give and take, trade and charity, rich and poor. I'm working on it though, and if I ever figure it out, I'll be sure to let you know.

The Turkey

About three weeks ago, L sent me a text saying she had seen a turkey near her workplace poking around in the garbage. From that moment, our hopes for a Canadian Thanksgiving FEAST were born. L and C went to retrieve said turkey from the owners on Saturday, but the Muslim family that had it either didn't get the order right or didn't believe we really wanted a turkey that was dead, defeathered, and gutted. Either way, upon arrival it was still alive and well, so a couple of Canadian girls had the fortunate opportunity to witness the demise of their thanksgiving main piece. Unfortunately in the process it was cut into pieces, but this turned out to be for the best since the oven was too small for the bird in its entirety anyways. Stacked in a pot with some garnish and butter, the turkey went from a family pet to our dinner in a matter of 24 hours. It was delicious poultry, a rare treat; although you could tell it was a turkey of the streets. Accompanied by mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potato bake, peas and carrots, broccoli, wine, squash pie (a delicious substitute for pumpkin), and apple crumble, it was a thanksgiving dinner true to form.

No one else wanted to go around the table and say what they were thankful for, but I've been thinking about what I am giving thanks for this holiday. If Rwanda has given me any gift, the greatest one so far is an intense appreciation for the blessings in my life. Running water, light to read by, a ride to work, decent shoes, clean smelling clothes, a good cup of coffee, these are the basic things I am grateful for. I am increasingly thankful for opportunities I was born into, like my education and country. I am thankful to be here in Rwanda, safe, healthy, and given the chance to experience life lessons and grand adventures I will never forget. What I reflected on the most though was how thankful I am for the people in my life. Missing them shows me just how much they mean to me and how important my relationships are. Friends here, friends abroad, and friends at home have been, and continue to be, an immense support to me. I have a family that loves me and wants me to be happy. I have emails in my inbox, letters on their way, and I know love, friendship, laughs, and a shoulder are only a phone call away. So on this holiday of giving thanks, thank you all for being part of my life.

Nyamirambo

South of my workplace, if you follow along the ridge of the hill towards the large mosque, lies Nyamirambo. It's the heart of the legitimate Kigali. A mixture of slums and small compounds, stores and barbarshops, restaurants and side bars, it has a vibe. The main street is colorful, with brightly painted storefronts advertising their products and the store name, usually something like “The Feelings Shop” or “Faty Store”. Matatus, the minibuses, are named after rappers or painted in team colors, and run up and down the street, compeating with the Moto drives, trucks, old cars, children, bicycles, animals and shoppers. We went to explore this “authentically African” part of town; the busy streets and feeling seems to be hard to find in Kigali, but it's obviously not impossible.

You could spend money on virtually anything in Nyamirambo. I bought a short wave radio (since which BBC has changed my life), and C bought a shirt. We also found watermelon, for the first time and much to my excitement. If you wanted to buy a phone, electronics, stereo systems, food, sodas, beer, livestock, used clothing, new clothing, sewn clothing, material, hygiene products, cooking products, old products, new products, music, movies, a new weave, or hopefully a turkey this week, Nyamirambo is the where you need to be.

We ate lunch at the “New Happy Restaurant” (which did make me pretty happy) and dinner at the “Green Corner” with some friends, consisting of bananas, goat brocettes, fries with mayonaise, and Mutzig beer, of course. Apparently Nyamirambo is actually alive after dark. Alive. Kigali is so quiet, so serene. It's as though the genocide stamped the fun out of the city, and was kept that way through all the new laws, regulations, street clean-ups, and rules. It was fun to find life, to find a place with some sort of character. Nyamirambo's got it, and I finally found it there.

Holla Bolla Kampala

Lake Victoria
Traditional Dancers
Hustle and Bustle

Infamous for a busier party scene, and rumoured to be where “anyone can make it” and have “tall buildings” and “many many people”, Kampala seemed like the place to be. The bus ride to Uganda's capital city is 8 hours from Kigali, plus an additional hour at the boarder to go through customs. C, my room mate, L, a fellow Canadian intern, and I decided it was worth the journey to verify the buzz about the big city. We were allowed to take Friday off work for this “visa renewal journey”, as it is easier to cross the boarder and come back into Rwanda with a new 90 day visa than go through the paperwork at the immigration office.

We set off early Friday morning and with the help of some gravol I slept most of the windy way through Rwanda. The boarder crossing was interesting and a very busy place. We clamoured off the bus and amongst the pushing people made it to the exit office where we were officially stamped out of Rwanda. We then had to cross “no man's land”, a riverbed between the two countries. I couldn't help but imagine times in history where more than a million people in one day fled across the Rwandan boarder, or my colleague at work, who had lived in that very riverbed for two weeks when no country wanted him, his family, or his people. He told me that as he lived there, soldiers told him that not even God loved him or wanted his people. He soon joined the RPF [Rwandan Patriotic Front -a rebel army] after that, at only 14 years old. Thinking about it in the cold morning mountain air made me shiver.

We were welcomed to Uganda by people offering to change our money and boys selling all sorts of tasty looking things. The next 6 hours on the bus passed faster than I thought it would, as I watched the landscape change from Rwanda's thousands of hills to Uganda's somewhat smoother landscape. The highways in Uganda felt like actual highways, as there were actually moments that passed without seeing a single person on the road and the surrounding areas didn't seem to be packed with people and cultivation. Driving on the left hand side took some getting used to, as did the loud funny sounding horn the driver would blare when passing any vehicle.

On first glace, Kampala is already remarkably different than Kigali. There is a visible downtown centre, with new(er) buildings consisting of a fair number of tall towers, shopping centres, a giant mall, at least 2 casinos, hindu temples, mosques, and parliment buildings. We were dropped off at the bus terminal and immediatly made our way to the main street, where the hustle and bustle shook off any sleepiness and made me terribly excited to be there. Since street selling is legal in Uganda (it is illegal in Kigali, as is begging, prostitution, livestock, etc etc) the roads were packed with people, merchandise, animals, street kids, and shops that had overflowed onto the sidewalk. You could have bought anything there it seemed. The pineapple slice I bought from a man with a knife and a cart full of pineapples was the most delicious bite I have ever had (the rest was given to a kid and I've been dreaming about it since). We exchanged some money and got ripped off by a cab driver (shillings are confusing!) who took us to the Imperial Royal Hotel, where a fellow Canadian intern, M, was holding a conference. We were facebook friends and thus couch surfing at his place. God bless F-book.

M was the perfect host. His apartment was on the outskirts of town, close to Lake Victoria (the second largest body of freshwater after lake Superior, I'll have you know). Much like our complex, he had a small 2 bedroom place. Only it was newer, cleaner, next to other muzungus, and the kitchen was inside. It was perfect! Since he only had one mattress, we had to borrow some extra ones from fellow intern ex-pats in his community. I think it was actually the highlight of the weekend, finding these matresses. We walked through his community down the dirt roads, greeting the children he knew along the way. The stars were bright overhead, and the sound of singing from the nearest church could be heard across the feilds. The cool evening air was refreshing. We retrieved the foam mattresses and carried them back to his house on our head, much to the amusement of everyone we saw on the way. But, as they say, when in Rome...

Friday night we ate Ethiopian food. The curries are served in little dishes and each person recieves a large piece of Injera, a spongy sort of sour bread made from Teff (if it can be found). The food is spooned onto the bread, and eaten with only the right hand by using the bread to scoop it up. Not only was it delicious, but fun to eat, too. The coffee we had after the meal was incredible, and I will probably be dreaming about it for awhile. As if I didn't have enough reasons to want to visit Addis (the capital of Ethiopia), now I want to go to experience this coffee ceremony they speak of. Imagine! A whole ceremony dedicated to one of my favorite consumables! I'm tempted to go...

Anyways, after dinner we went to Bubbles O'Leary, an irish (yes, irish) pub where we met some more interns. There seemed to be a larger expat crowd in Kampala, or at least one our age. It was fun to discuss development over some Nile beers (made from the source of the Nile, of course) and meet people with common interests. We followed up with some dancing at the Latin club next door, and climbed into bed to the sound of the evangelist church screaming praises to the good Lord in the early hours of the morning.

First we made our way to the lake for the tolken photo op, and the rest of Saturday was spent wandering the city. I am so glad that I got to experience another capital city in Africa. Kigali is nice, but it is just so... cleaned up, I guess. Tamed. Quiet. Subdude. All the things that you picture to make an African city exciting, such as street vendors, are illegal in Rwanda. It's as if Kigali is trying to hold onto a facade that everything is OK, and that development is happening. But the truth is that extreme poverty has not gone away. In fact, in an attempt to sweep it under the rug, it has forced people from their homes and made livihoods, such as trading, more expensive and difficult. Kampala was alive. It was real. It was in my face and I liked it. However, the giant walmart-like stores did overwhelm me a little; I hadn't seen so many things in one place in awhile! There was a great book shop in Garden City, a mall built by the president for his wife, so I bought a new book there which was a nice treat. No luck finding any cheap clothes though (that looked good on me, that is). We had some delicous Indian food for dinner with some people from M's conference, and called it an early night.

The national museaum was first on the agenda Sunday morning, which had a good collection but probably could have used some TLC. I liked learning about another African country in some detail, and the exibits were interesting enough. We rode the boro-boros (motorcycles) doubled up (which is legal and fun in Uganda – best seat is the bologne) to a concert held for M's conference to raise awareness about cluster bombs and get signatures for the People's Treaty against them. I scored some sweet pins and stickers and got to see some famous Ugandan artists, including Bobi Wine and Sweet Kid. Best of all were the traditional dancers, as I got to compare styles with Rwandan dancing. It was a hot afternoon perfectly spent, followed up by some tasty Mexican food (our stomachs made it around the world in one weekend).

Unfortunatly, the midnight bus home turned out to be the slow bus, afterall. Around 0400h it stopped on the side of the road, in the rain, in the dark. The engine was still running, and I'm still not sure what the problem was, but we didn't move for four hours. As L pointed out, it could have been worse, because they could have made us get off the bus and stand in the rain. At least I was dry and warm. But there was of course no explanation nor compensation. No one seemed bothered or surprised, and most quietly slept. I couldn't help but wonder whether a lack of critisism and complaints from Africans (or at least the ones I have met) is a contributing factor to the tedious pace of development. I'm not sure. I just wonder how anything improves if problems are never pointed out. At any rate, the popcorn we bought in Kampala held us over and my bladder didn't suffer any irreversible damage, although my butt is still sore.

We arrived back in Kigali all in one peice, and the Karmic reward was an unexpected public holiday on Tuesday. I feel like a slacker since I havn't been to work in almost a week, but my colleague reminded me that this is it. This is not just a work term, it's a grand African adventure! So I'm thankful I got to get out there and see more of this dynamic continent, and I look forward to more roadtrips soon. Next up? Burundi!

Democratic Rights

I can remember the first time my dad took me to the polling station with him. It was at Sacred Heart School, down the street from our house. It was a warm day, so maybe it was spring, and I remember thinking it was a very special occasion. I got to watch him fill in the black X on his ballot and he let me put it in the box. I thought it was a really cool thing that grown-ups got to do. Now that I get to vote, it's something I still look forward to.

Yesterday I recieved my ballot in the mail so that I can vote in the upcoming Canadian election. I think it's pretty amazing that my right to vote is recognized to the extreme that I can vote from Rwanda. I was really glad I got to, because I think that the upcoming election is going to be critical to whether Canada continues to be a country that cares about its people. Not only that, but if any Rwandan were to find out I didn't vote they would be very dissapointed in me.

You see, Rwandans understand the power of voting. They have fought long and hard for the right to have a say in how their country is run. During the parlimentary election that took place 3 weeks ago, 98% of elegible voters cast their ballots (and in Canada there are free concerts to get people out...). Although there is a lot of subtle propaganda here regarding the party in power, the fact that there remains a democracy in a state that suffered extremely during a civil war merely 14 years ago is not only a feat, but slightly miraculous. No one here takes their right to vote for granted.

Neither should you. If you want to be able to complain about the government, make your voice heard, and see positive changes in your country, then make sure you get out and vote. Exercise your democratic right and duty. If anything, do it for all those who cannot.

Heaven

Friday night I was in Heaven. Litterally, and metaphorically. The cheesy name of an American run restaurant lived up to its name during the one year celebration of a local contemporary arts studio. Ivuka arts was holding their celebration at Heaven, and we went to check it out.

Not only were the paintings beautiful, but there was also a group of traditional dancers. The Inhore dancing of Rwanda will never cease to amaze me – the rythm of the drums, their bodies, and the movement all stirs my soul. Especially because all the children dancing were formally street kids or beggers, and through the community of their dance troupe have earned money for school as well as a sense of belonging.

As I sat in garden full of paintings and music in the warm night air, I felt some much needed inspiration. Sometimes I find it easy to forget why I'm here, or catch myself frustrated or discouraged. This last week I was especially struggling with the idea of development, and wondering if making a better world was even possible anymore. These dancing children, however, reminded me of what I know is true. Although changing the world is a great challenge that will take time and patience, changing someone's world is far more achievable. And it is no less valuable. By showing simple acts of kindness, being a friend, or teaching a street kid how to dance, you make a person's life easier, their world better. And I figure if we do that enough times, eventually, some day, we can all live in a better world.

STAGE

Yesterday I had the opportunity to go to Rwamagana hospital in the Eastern Province, about an hour bus ride outside of town. I went with Yvonne, a clinical instructor, to supervise our students and make sure that there were nurses available to help them develop their skills and work with patients. I have not been in a hospital interacting with patients since my rotation in Butare in April, which was a really challenging experience for me. I was excited to go back with a new perspective, and to get out of the office for the day.

I climbed into a minibus at 6:45am, and as we sat in the fifteen (or eighteen, whatever) passenger van I had flashbacks to my own clinical rotations in Nursing School. The road east from Kigali is much straighter with far less hills, which was good for how crowded the bus was. The hospital was set up a lot like the hospital where I was in Butare, although here the wards are smaller, closer together, and had received some renovations. The wards are each a separate building, consisting of one large room with maybe some “office space” or nursing quarters near the back. The buildings are made from cement, but in Rwamagana they were at least painted a cheerful yellow. As you come into the ward two parallel lines of iron cots stretch down the room, and patients’ white eyes follow you silently from their beds draped in brightly printed fabrics, as there are no sheets supplied by the hospital. Each patient is responsible for purchasing whatever supplies and medications are prescribed for their care from the hospital pharmacy, and these supplies are stacked neatly on the small tables beside each bed, with buckets for washing and pots for cooking under each bed. Family members mill around, taking care of their loved ones, while nurses distribute medications and care for wounds. It is quiet, much quieter than any Canadian ward. There are no alarms ringing, no call bells dinging, no pagers beeping, no phones calling, and certainly no patients complaining.

My duties as a supervisor were not extensive. We conducted “rounds” and visited each ward. I was introduced to the nurses there, who were doing a really good job of pushing our students’ abilities, showing them new techniques, and testing their knowledge. In the Emergency Room, there were few patients, and I was able to have an interesting discussion with my student there. I was reminding him about the importance of assessment in the ER, as it is the point of entry to the hospital. He agreed, and was able to rhyme off the necessary assessments, but told me he was discouraged. He remarked that although it was good practice for him to assess the patients, there was really no point. There is nowhere for nursing assessments to be documented, and even if there was, no one would read it. Furthermore, if he did find something completely abnormal, it’s not as though he could actually tell the doctor about it, as his opinion has absolutely no credit. Not only is he a nurse, but a student. I said he could try to inform the head nurse, but he said even then, nothing is ever done with the information.

A prime example is that of pain assessment: in class, we had discussed a lot about the use of a pain scale and the importance of addressing patients’ pain because it has so many physiological and psychological consequences. But this student said he would not ever ask about pain, because it was an insult to the patient – with no medication to address the pain, he’d rather not bring it up to the patient in the first place. I couldn’t argue with that.

It was discouraging. Here is a student who has the theoretical knowledge behind him; he knows what must be done and has the empirical evidence to justify his nursing interventions. But he has no support, and no hard resources. He knows he should wash his hands between each patient, but has no running water to do it. He knows he should assess his patients, but no one will listen to his findings. He knows his patients need medication, but he has none. The education that KHI is providing these students is a great thing for the advancement of health care in the country, but the reality is that the resources are needed to back it up in a sustainable and equitable way. Donated medications and needles only go so far. True changes to the health care in Rwanda need government funding, and when that will come… who is to say. There are so many systemic players like political will, debt relief, and fundamental leadership that are abstract, but their consequences are visible in front of me every day.

Even more frustrating is the attitude of people (in general, including the public, doctors, patients, and other nurses) towards nursing. I can see the parallel between the challenges nurses face here to build a profession with the challenges faced in the past by Canadian nurses. It took many years for people to see nursing as a profession, with truly valuable skills, knowledge, and perspectives, and that nurses are not simply a “step down from doctors”*. My student voiced his concern that people do not understand that he will obtain a degree, and he actually knows what he is talking about. I told him that the challenges he faces will not be for nothing, and that his leadership will do great things for his profession and the health care in his country. I hope I am right.

[*side rant: my biggest frustration is when people think that nurses are people who couldn’t be doctors or are below doctors. I’m not a nurse because I couldn’t be a doctor. It is called a healthcare TEAM. We have a completely different skill set, and they are completely different professions. Like a firefighter and policeman – both emergency services, but different. Needed to get that out there]

Thankfully, I was encouraged in the next unit. Two of my students were working on an adult medicine ward, but were not finding much to do as there were not too many patients and most of them were walkie-talkies (nursing speak for not terribly ill). They had therefore taken the initiative to provide ‘public lectures’ on health topics, inviting the patients, their family members, and anyone else around to learn about disease prevention and self care. I was so proud of them! Although I couldn’t understand what they were teaching (it was of course in Kinyrwanda) I could see that they were engaging their listeners, asking good questions, and allowing for an open discussion. After, they were going from bed to bed teaching individual patients about their disease. I guess my own passion for patient-education rubbed off a little, and it was rewarding to see the direct results so eloquently delivered.

So, at the end of the day, I chose to take away a feeling of hope. There are so many frustrating challenges, especially when problems (like healthcare) must be addressed wholistically but there is a lack of collaboration. But I can see that the direction is positive. My students are thinking about these challenges, and they are learning. Patients are receiving care. Rwanda is moving forward. Positive change is positive change, no matter how slow or small.

A picture is worth 1000 words

Demonstrating the ECG machineDinner under the thatched roof on Lake Kivu
Fishing Boats

Lake Kivu

Rain

The rainy season has started. I'm about to tell you something that will dispell all your current thoughts about Africa (as most of the time we tend to generalize the entire continent). I am wearing jeans and a light sweater in my office, and I am freezing cold. I would kill for a cozy sweater. Seriously.

Summary Article

Here is a copy of an article I wrote for the Xtending Hope newsletter. I hope it does a nice job of summarizing my experience thus far.

(NOTE: It has not been edited by Xtending Hope yet... so still all my own ideas and non of theirs)

Rwanda’s nickname, the ‘Land of a Thousand Hills’ is justified by the hills and valleys of Kigali that stretch far into the haze from cooking fires. Unfortunately, it is also known for the 1994 genocide, which, as a result of failures of humanity as a whole, led to the destruction of families, homes, and an entire country. Since then, the country has overcome incredible challenges to rebuild, forgive, and remember, but always move forward towards a future of peace and growth. Through my Coady Youth In Partnership / Xtending Hope placement I am very fortunate to have the opportunity to witness the astounding efforts and determination of this country, and see first-hand the power of forgiveness.

Following the genocide, the health needs of the population were compounded by increasing rates of HIV/AIDS. Reliable statistics are difficult to find, but it is evident that the disease has a profound impact on not only the health care system but the social capacity of the country. Many children have been orphaned by HIV, and child-headed households are not uncommon. Although preventative programs are increasing and ARV medications are more readily available, the truth is that HIV/AIDS causes suffering: suffering to patients, suffering to families, and suffering to the growth and well being of a country desperate to seek a new future. HIV is social disease that still spreads because of the stigma that remains attached to it.

In response to these health care needs, the Kigali Health Institute (KHI) was established in 1996 to increase the number of health care professionals in the country, and conduct scholarly based health research in Rwanda. A large educational institute, KHI is continually developing curriculum so that the health-care available in Rwanda meets international standards. As a new Registered Nurse, I feel very privileged to be in a position to learn about the process of educating health care professionals. My first task was to provide lectures for a nursing course in adult health, one that gave me valuable teaching experience and that I enjoyed thoroughly. I was able to lead a frank and honest discussion about the social stigma surrounding HIV, and provide information to nursing students on how to teach youth safer sex techniques.

The commitment and perseverance of my students with their desire to succeed was inspiring. Each and every one of them wanted to be a nurse to help others, care for others, or contribute to the well being of their country. These admirable goals, I know, will stay with me throughout my own nursing career. As my passion for and interest in education grows, I am increasingly convinced in its ability to enhance capacity, empower people, and ultimately lead to personal development. The sharing of knowledge and ideas has the power to achieve sustainable growth, and, as one student pointed out to me, is of utmost value because it can never be taken away. The education that I am giving, though, barely balances everything that I am learning about Rwanda, culture, others, and myself. It is a thrilling process that I am very grateful to be part of.

The Real Deal

The longer I am here the more I realize that it is entirely possible to come to Rwanda and never get a true picture of what the country is really like. There is a fair sized ex-pat crowd, north American coffee shops, a large new (and totally overwhelming, but with cheap wine) super-duper market, and plenty of hotels and restaurants just like ones you would find anywhere else in the world. Over the last couple of years the government has done a good job of “cleaning up the streets” so that beggers are few and open stalls no longer line the roads downtown. One boy who sells postcards told me he could go to jail for 6 months during a “street clean up”. I often see tourists in their safari vests (which, by the way, you don’t really need to wear on a safari) touting around town, and I wonder how much they are really learning about Rwanda, whether they really get to know the beauty in the people here, and the every day struggles that they face, let alone a true understanding of the culture and history.

Which is why I moved houses. The KHI guesthouse was lovely and all, but in the same neighborhood as the presidential residence and traditional colonial homes. The road was paved, the electricity worked, and there were plenty of other foreigners around. But I didn’t travel all the way to Rwanda to live like I do at home, and besides, another intern needed a room mate and found a good price for a place in Kicyru.

Our new digs are quite nice, after some challenges with moving in. It’s an apartment that is part of a larger complex which is secure and run by a senator, who is an excellent and responsive landlady. We have running water and electricity, but we pay extra for them so we are being very stingy (cooking by a solar powered lamp and unplugging the fridge make our electricity credit move down a lot slower). I could use a firmer mattress, but it’s nice to have my own space, cook in my PJs, and not have to drag my shampoo in and out of the bathroom. Best of all though, is that it feels more real. As I walk up the dirt road the dust comes up in little clouds that coat my legs as I dodge around the chickens and pot holes. MUZUNGUUUUUUUU choruses follow me wherever I go, and I wonder whether the novelty of 2 white girls in the neighborhood will ever wear off. There are little shops and internet cafes and many saloons (a commonly mis-spelled word for barber shop) just up the street, and people are everywhere. I get to take the bus more often, which is a true adventure best done with elbows up. Music from the church, the voices on the radio, and children’s shouts mix with the smells of cooked food and dust to fill the streets. It feels more authentic, it feels like “Africa”, and I really am way out of my comfort zone. It’s certainly not anything like home. Perfect.

Hands On Learning

Friday afternoon was my last lesson. It's hard to believe that the course is already over – the students were not given enough time to digest the material or study as they went. But they were off to clinical practice this week, so there was really no choice. There is a large focus on what the nurse DOES here. In my program, the focus was on theory, assuming that skills could be picked up during employment. One of my professors even said “monkeys can learn how to put in a catheter”. However, here, the students want to practice each element of theory; they want to practice how to take care of a patient with increased intracranial pressure, practice how to assess someone using the Glasgow Coma Scale, and yes, even practice how to teach people to use condoms.

This gave me a lot of anxiety. I was told that it was my responsibility to incorporate the practical part of the course, and that I could book the skills lab upstairs. The procedures here are very intracit, and I read about how finicky they can be while I was editing the english skills guide (over 300 pages of changing jewls into jewelery and intimacy into privacy). I've never even irrigated a real ear myself, let alone used a whole sterile trolley to do it! I thought there was no way I could pull this stunt off. Teaching proper nursing technique, which would be tested later by different instructors, was not something I could fake. The skills lab itself is well equipped with the most random things, including an ECG machine (that they want me to figure out how to use) and all sorts of manequins, but is lacking in basic supplies for the students to use in practice.

Thankfully Yvonne, a clinical instructor here, volunteered to help me out. On Friday afternoon we assembled in the skills lab for the demonstrations, and I was equipped with the “do's and don'ts” articles from my own nursing courses. Yvonne was going to demonstrate assisting with lumbar punctures (complete with the whole sterile tray, none of which was familiar to the disposible ones I'm used to) along with ear irrigation. That left me eye drops, ear drops, and how to teach youth how to use condoms, as part of our case study on HIV/AIDS, specially requested by the students.

And, after all that stress, it went great! I did it! I remembered how to do the skills properly (just like riding a bike?) and included the theory in with the demonstration. The best part of my entire week was putting a condom on a wooden black (of course) penis, much to the amusment of my students. I wasn't showing them how to do it, really, because a lot of them have had a lot of education themselves in school. It was more so about how to be a good teacher when it comes to public education on safer sex, and how you have to be comfortable with sexuality to talk about it. We talked about myths that they have heard (such as two condoms is better than one) and how to answer awkward, culturally or religiously sensitve questions that might come up. It was a frank and honest discussion, followed by sympathy for the penis when it was dropped on the floor.

The course evaluations came in that day, too. Today I entered the responses into a flow sheet for recommendations to the department, mainly about the need for adequate resources and time for the students. I felt fantastic when I read that “the lecturer was kind, intelligent, and a very good teacher. I hope she comes back again”. Knowing that I actually did make a contribution felt wonderful, and such a relief. Best of all, is that I felt like a real teacher. Haha, fooled them!

Scrubbing

I came home today to find the water had returned after a five day hiatus. All the guests here (there are 5 of us now) were pleased and I filled a bucket and started doing my laundry. I didn't have much, but I figured it was better to get it done while the water was flowing.

(turns out that was bad prioritizing. no more water and my hair is still greasy)

Doing laundry by hand takes skill. I'm starting to get the hang of it and find a little routine. Fill the tub, add some "suds anywhere!" camping soap, let fill. Shout anything visibly dirty. Add clothes. Let sit. Swish around. Take sunlight bar and scrub areas that are particularily smelly, like the armpits of shirts. Do this with each item of clothing. Swish around. Let sit. Wring out each item. Pour out water and fill bucket again. Add clothes, swish around to rinse them out. Wring out each item pretty well. [The first week I went a little balistic on the wringing, to the extent that I took a chunk out of my thumb and tore a shirt. I have realized that the extra 2 hours of drying is OK in order to save an already minimal wardrobe]. Then you have to hang the clothes. There are little flies that like to lay their eggs in the damp material, so you have two choices: hang outside on the line and then iron to kill the bugs, or hang inside. I opt for inside, and I give a good whip to each shirt before hanging to get out as many wrinkles as I can without adding on the whole ironing process. For a week's worth of laundry this takes me about an hour, although I'm sure veterans are a little faster.

And that is how the majority of the world cleans their clothes.

Love your washing machine yet?

amazi (water)

My guesthouse's pool has been skimmed of algae and it appears they are trying to clean it enough for use, which would have actually been nice on this hot day. As I watched the pool filling up with clean, potable water, and thought about World Water Week, I couldn't help but think about the children I saw earlier in the day who were begging me for my empty water bottle, which are used to carry drinking water for the school day. Everywhere you go you can see women and children with the yellow containers distributed for exclusive use of drinking water. Rwanda actually has quite a good system, with wells and pumps supposidly set up every kilometer, from which clean water is accessible. Although it is the dry season, the rivers and lakes still exist here, and in that sense Rwanda, I guess, is lucky.

But there are still millions of people all over the world for whom water is an unobtainable life source, or their greatest death threat. Cholera, E. coli, and many other disease causing bacteria thrive in still water and cause severe diarrhea, for which rehydration is the basic treatment. But how can rehydration occur without clean water? A major cause of infant mortality has been the use of formula (supplied for free by companies at first, and advertised as the 'modern way' to feed infants) reconstituted with contaminated water. Health issues aside, the effort of retrieving water from a well, hauling it home, and waiting 30 minutes for it to boil adds up to a large part of families work-loads. And here I was today, bummed because the pressure in the shower has been at a very minimal drizzle for two weeks. At least it still comes out of the tap, and is potable (although I do still boil it). At home it is not uncommon for 20 minute showers, filling up a large tub, and even here swimming pools exist. Water is just one more thing that I used to take for granted. Rwanda has given me a new appreciation for how fortunate I am to flip on a tap and have endless access to all the amazi I need. Hopefully I'll realize that I really don't need so much.

Politics...

Dissapointing news out of Canada today. We knew that the funding was on shaky ground, but now this article http://www.embassymag.ca/html/index.php?display=story&full_path=/2008/august/20/cida/ confirms that the Canadian government is thinking of axing the CIDA/YES (Canadian International Development Agency in partnership with the Youth Employment Strategy) international internship program, who is funding my placement here.



Its obvious that on a personal level, this internship is priceless to me, my professional growth, my personal quest for knowledge, ability to be an engaged global youth, and countless ways that this will impact future decisions I make. I do not understand why the government doesn't see these benefits for every youth participating. Furthermore, there are so many ways the program boosts the entire nation, both in the international scene and within the country. While I am here, I am a proud ambassator of my country. It is a chance to exchange cultures and promote Canada while abroad. People are pleased to hear that "Canada is sharing it's nurses", and other international youth I have met think the internship program is a wonderful idea, as it engages citizens at a younger age to become aware of the issues outside their own country. Although I am not worried about finding myself a job when I get home, these internships are vital for youth who need experience to get into the development feild. As youth, we may not come to "countries in need" with lots of experience behind us, but we come with an openness, a willingness to learn, and a passion to make a difference. I'm sorry, but I don't think that retired professionals (as mentioned in the article) would be as receptive to living in a different culture, as eager to connect with people, or as willing to take home the lessons they have learned and share it with everyone they know. Nor are they as in need of government assistance to get them overseas.



Canada is already on shaky ground in the development and aid sector, failing to keep her promises for global aid funding. My second week here I read an article in the Rwandan english newspaper about how Canada needs to step it up. I couldn't agree more. But I'm even worried about the future of CIDA itself. We have so much, SO MUCH in our country. We are so blessed. And don't get me wrong, we have our own social problems like a growing number of children living in poverty, our own poor relations with First Nations people, our own health issues and nursing shortage. I'm a big believer in addressing our own needs as well. However, I'm not really sure the government is even doing that....



I want to be proud to have a Canadian flag on my backpack, a Canadian pin on my purse. But as we start to act more like our southern neighbors, I am more ashamed of our policies, our greediness, and our lust for wealth and power. I like to picture my country as this little peaceful mutlicultural mosaic, welcoming, friendly, helpful, with citizens who want to work for a better world. I don't know how long I can keep that delusion alive. I'm saddened that these prestigious, world reknown internships might fall through the cracks. Much like many programs in Canada that were putting people first.



(P.S. As youth associates we're already on the ball, starting to get together a letter writing campaign. If you are interested in this issue please, please, write to your MP, CIDA, editors, whomever! Let them know how much you value your globally engaged youth!)

Lessons from the Jungle

CONGE was written on the class schedule last week. It means holiday; a full day off in honour of Mary's assumption to heaven. Sounded good to me! To make the most of the long weekend, we managed to organize a trip to Nungwe National Park in the Southwest province of Rwanda. On a side note, planning such a trip basing your information on a 5 year old guide book and coordinating with three other people via text messaging can be a little frustrating, so in the future I am most definately asking some local people, or experienced expats, first. However, by noon on Friday we were in Butare, the town where I spent three weeks last time I was in Rwanda, with a place to stay and omelets in our bellies.

The hospital was a 15 minute walk along a familiar road. I wanted to visit and see if any of the nurses I worked with were still there, and the other girls were keen to see what Rwanda's healthcare system is like. I don't know why I was expecting to see my old patients, but I was glad my little friends were no longer living in the damp cement building. I am picturing them recovered at home, back to being healthy children. Unfortunately I know that is probably not necessarily the case, but I'm going to stick with that idea for now. Claudine, one of the peds nurses was there working in the NICU, and was happy to see me. I was so glad to be embraced by her – so I DID make some friends last time! It was actually a bit of a relief. The reaction of the other girls to the suffering and situation in the hospital also reassured me that it is acceptable to still feel some inner turmoil over my experience working there. The daily suffering, apathy, and terrible conditions would wear anyone down. I think I still haven't fully digested it.

The road to the National Park on Saturday morning took us through more feilds, crops, communities, and some tea feilds. I was dissapointed we were not able to track the Chimpanzees (turns out you DO have to make a reservation, contrary to what we were told) but found a compromise in walking a trail that would take us to Columbus monkeys. And did it ever. Monkeys everywhere!! At first, I was entraced by the jungle itself. Nungwe is a natural rainforest situated in the hills of Rwanda. The buzz of the insects, the canopy high above, and the incredible growth of the plant life was mesmorizing. As we rounded one corner I could hear the rustle of the leaves as the monkeys were jumping from branch to branch, then there they were, at least sixty individuals that were part of a troupe of more than 400. Although they were silent, they were very active: shimmining down trees, leaping across gaps in the canopy, clamboring up to the branches with food, and always interacting with eachother. Seeing them in their natural environment was the best part by far.

That night we stayed at Peace Guesthouse in Cyangugu, near the boarder of the DRC, which you could see across the lake. I recommend the guesthouse to anyone – the sunset over the lake was beautiful and the area was very peaceful (no pun intended). My favorite part of the evening was the conversation we had with our driver, Bernard, who only speaks french. I got to practice my french, even though it is grammatically terrible, and hear about his struggle to rebuild his life after the war. I've found that most people will tell you their story, if you give them a chance to tell it.

The waterfall trail sounded enticing, so Sunday we were back in the rainforest first thing in the morning. Although the cascading water was the initial appeal, it turns out the most amazing part of the whole weekend was walking through the tea feilds that are situated at the edge of the forest. Tea grows in short, very brightly colored, green bushes, which stretch for miles over the hills, resembling a bed of spongy, enticing moss. I kept wanting to roll in it, it looked so soft and welcoming (even though it is actually a bush with sharp branches). As we climbed over hills towards the jungle, we could hear churchgoers singing in the distance. The sound of their voices soaring high, the morning light, the rolling hills, the contrast of the red dirt road against the green bushes, and the fresh mountain air can only be described as awe-inspiring, romantic, and stunning. I couldn't help but think “here I am. Here I AM! HERE I AM!!!!”. I felt like you do when you gaze at galaxies of stars in the night sky: small, but so lucky to be part of something so beautiful. That feeling continued all day, as I learned about the delicate balance of the species in the forest, the length of time it takes for a forest to rebuild, and found a waterfall deep in the African jungle. I felt complete.

There were so many lessons gleaned from the beauty of the balance, harmony and interdependence of all the species in the jungle. For example, there is a vine that has taken over the jungle floor because there are no longer elephants to eat it; there is a species of plant which uses existing root systems, so that a tree can have different types of leaves growing on the sames roots. The fact that there is such a delicate balance involved with this extreme level of cooperation is really interesting; nothing can take more than it's share, and all must co exist to survive. There are a million ways that these lessons can be applied to balance in my own life, and balance through the entire world. We all play a vital role, and if we share, and allow others to flourish, we can grow even more. At least, that's what the jungle taught me. I wish I could have shared the magic of the rainforest with you all.

(sorry, pictures not uploading! maybe next time)