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.