Home

I am sitting in the warmest computer lab in the basement of the Angus L. MacDonald library on the St. Francis Xavier University campus. I'm trying to arrange my pictures that are saved on 2 memory cards, 2 flash drives, and a CD. It's a disorganized mess of memories and experiences that is taking a significant amount of time to sort through, both on the screen and in my head. The other students here are working quietly, their papers neatly arranged. A camera, cords and flash drives, CDs, an ipod, water and juice, an african print bag and 2 boxes of kleenex litter my part of the table, a testimony to how jumbled this transition seems to be, and how the Canadian cold has hit me full force.

The past few weeks have been full of countless stories, journeys and airplane rides. Despite moto-karma finally getting me I still made it to my farewell dinners, milestones that once seemed so distant. I felt appreciated and accepted, honored and humbled. The missing has alreday begun. The next day I got myself to Ethiopia, where I visited with a fellow intern and dear friend. We enjoyed a week of catching up, seeing the sites, and learning from eachothers' experiences. Ethiopia is a beautiful part of the world and I loved gaining a better understanding of the rich culture, pride and history I found there. I spent one final night in Kigali celebrating my birthday and saying goodbyes that were far from easy. My birthday had me in transit, hastened through scrabble games and bagels, friends and stories. The cold here is lessened by the warmth with which I've been recieved. It feels good to be back with people I love. It feels good to tell my stories over familiar coffees in familiar places. Antigonish doesn't change much.

I have, though. And the changes are more evident now that I'm back in Canada. I don't know how to cross the street in a place where people stop for you. I'm tempted to haggle with the taxi driver for a better price. The cost of beer blows me away and I'm confused by nickles and pennies. I want to kiss people on both cheeks when I see them and shake their hand when I leave. I sometimes feel like an awkward teenager, unsure and doubting. I go from loving to resenting very quickley - Shopper's Drug Mart is either a haven of fun things or an overwhelming shopping experience. I flip through the endless channels on TV in a trance. The choice, variety and selection excites me and upsets me all at once.

Life is easy here. Familiar. Smooth. Efficient. Yet I am faced with new challenges: the challenge of taking what I have learned or come to value and applying it to a new context in an appropriate manner. The challenge of recognizing that my reality is not everyone's reality. The challenge of navigating slushy winter streets. The challenge of organizing the mess of pictures in front of me, so many memories and stories that take more than a thousand words to describe. The challenge of defining home when my heart is in so many different places.

Opinion Editorial

Here is an opinion editorial I wrote for my Canadian Organisation. It was actually really hard to write because I'm still sorting out what my opinions are. I hope it rings true.

___________
I came to Africa for me. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Throughout my six month CIDA internship with the Coady International Institute, I have found myself wondering why I am in Rwanda. As a nurse, I don't have to venture far to find people to help or ways to make an impact in my community. So often, however, that is what draws people to Africa. Volunteers of all varieties find themselves in the “Dark Continent” trying to make a difference to the extreme poverty they see on television ads. As a result, there is an exploding volunteer tourism industry that preys on human compassion, disguising self- indulgence under the cloak of altruism.

But the personal benefit that comes from these experiences must also be recognised.

There are many people who try to deliver projects in Africa. Some of these are attempted without considering their sustainability or ethical impact, made to help people feel good about helping others when, really, it is easier to achieve large sustainable impacts against problems within our own society at home. What cannot be found at home, however, is the personal growth and maturity that comes from working overseas.

The experience of living and working in another culture and bearing witness to the harsh challenges that face the developing world contributes to a crucial global perspective and cultural understanding. This is of great value to the big picture, in some ways, more than any actual development results, and it is important to explore this two-way process. A lot of personal gain comes from volunteer work; but generosity is meant to feel good, and further benefits come from the experience if this is recognised.

As globalisation dynamically connects the world it is our responsibility to become active citizens of this new global community. In the age of environmental crisis, international conflict and extreme inequity it is increasingly important to understand human connectedness. We can no longer believe that our actions have individual consequences; we must explore our world in order to see just how far our reach extends. Only from an understanding of our global community can one begin to face the development and human challenges within.

It pains me to hear praises of how I am “here helping them”. For it is this divide between “us” and “them” that we must overcome. The relationships that I have formed in Rwanda have benefited me considerably, and I've enjoyed creating friends from strangers. As cultural differences evolve into cultural norms for me, I no longer see different nations as foreign, unapproachable, or, as often treated, lesser. Embracing our underlying similarities is the first step to treating each person of every race and creed like a fellow human being. This personal, intra-personal, and global understanding has far greater significance than any development work I have strived to achieve in Rwanda.

Many volunteers, interns and professionals alike expect to experience developing countries under the pretence of making a difference. Lots of good work is being done, but it is imperative to see the experience beyond the immediate contribution and understand the personal value. When overseas work is stripped down to its true impact it clearly becomes a personal experience rich with educational opportunities. It is important to see it as such, without guilt or regret, for only then can one fully embrace the lessons learned and the value will be truly appreciated. To be honest with myself I have to admit that I came to Africa for me. And because of the personal growth, understanding, and global perspective, there is so much right with that.

Mixed around Upside down Rightside up Parallels and Crossroad

I am feeling...

Happy.Sad.Anxious.Tired.Excited.Curious.Peaceful.Sorrowful.Longing.Fulfilled.Friendship.Lonliness.Confused.

I have one week left in Rwanda. I don't know what to think about that. The irony is that I'm finally starting to get it. I feel a little anxious about delving into another transition phase of my life when I only really accustomised to this one within the last month. I have realised that a lot of my longing for home has been a coping mechanism for dealing with the difficulties, stresses and challenges of bearing witness to the injustice of our world. The poverty, inequality, and genocide are hard to grasp, and I'm only now allowing myself to jump head first into them. I think this is because the end is in sight, and if I cannot cope I know there is a way out: I'm going home.

For a long time I have stood on the water's edge, trying to navigate the lake without getting in. Had I known how hard that is, I would have jumped in sooner. Even though the shock of the cold water might strike hard at first, adjustment happens faster when you delve right in. Now that I'm here the water is nice, and I'm reluctant to climb back out.

Then, at the same time, I cannot wait. The next stage is enticing and exciting. I am especially anxious to be back with friends and loved ones. I'm looking forward to exchanging stories and unwinding my experience. A lot of it was too much to process while I was here and I know it will take time. I am eager for the future so I can figure out the present. What I have figured out, though, is this: with so much cruelty in the world, there is only time for kindness. I will carry this lesson close to my heart that aches for this country, humanity, and our world.

Tic Tac

Last night, I shared a tic tac. Well, three, since it's impossible to tap only one out of the package. The small oval one calorie breath mint made Peter smile and earned me many blessings. A security guard that I met asking for directions one night, Peter has come to say hello to me every time I have walked by his building since our introduction in September. We always chat a little, his contagious smile making me laugh. He told me that I have a "good heart" - I don't know what proof he has, as all I have offered is greetings. And a tic tac. And maybe that is enough.

Zanzibar

Oldest Church in Africa, built where the Slave Market was

Fishing Boats

Allyways of Stonetown

On the Spice Tour

Street Food by Night

My Hammock

The fierce breeze off the ocean kept me cool in the hot equatorial sun. One leg dangles off the edge of the hammock, my big toe pushing a little so I swung back and forth to the rythm of the surf crashing in the distance. The tide goes out for hundreds of meters, leaving behind pools of turqouis water and stranded old fishing boats. Wooden pegs dot the choral patterns, and fishermen and women glide through them, their colorful kangas and dark skin a stark contrast to the blinding white sand.

I have found Paradise.

The Indian ocean is like bath water, startlingly warm in the late afternoon. Beach days spent reading, relaxing, riding bikes down the long stretch of sand, and eating food infused with exotic new flavours. It took awhile to make it to the beach, with four nights spent in Dar Es Salaam and another five in Stonetown, the capital city of Zanzibar. Christmas was special, spent with a wonderful Tanzanian family who welcomed us with uncontested hospitality. We ate traditional foods and learned how to cook them, too: a cultural exchange worth the sleepless hot sticky nights in Dar. Stonetown was absolutely magical. Winding streets filled with the influence of Portugeuse, Arabic, African and German pasts. Calls from the mosques echoed through the narrow allyways as vendors with a wide selection of treasures called out “looking is free!”. The history and blend of cultures pulsated through the city. To be honest, it was nice to have other tourists around as I got to be more annonymous again. The highlight was street food, a medly of cooking stalls and drinks in the dark night on a road filled with people and a carnival-like atmostphere. The Zanzibar pancakes alone would be worth going back for.

But the best was the beach. We stayed at Paradise Beach Bungalows on the southeast coast – a quieter stretch of beach than the north where I spent New Years at an all night beach party (after some fun daladala rides to get up there). At one point I lay in the sand completely alone in my own patch of tranquility. Masaii played Bow with me and I enjoyed the hammocks strung between rustling tall palm trees. Long walks down the seashell filled beach in the light of the cresent moon were peaceful and beautiful. Zanzibar was all the magic I heard it would be.

It was lonely, though. Christmas just wasn't the same without my family. I am trying to get better at enjoying experiences for and with myself, but so far it just hasn't been as wonderful as sharing it with loved ones. Many times throughout the trip I caught myself thinking “so and so would love this!” or “I wish ___ was here”. Now I know I'm capable of doing it on my own, and in the future I'll choose together. It's just more fun that way. Until then, I'll keep sharing my experiences through words and pictures and soaking them up while I can.

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.