On A Clearer Road I Feel, Oh You Could Say She's Safe.

We (Lauren and I) live in Nyakabanda.  My address (as some people have been asking lately) is as follows: Second house behind the red gate one block north and west of the Kobil in Nyakabanda, Kigali.  There are no numbers on anything, and street names exist only for those blessed with pavement, and even then I would be extremely surprised if even the savviest Rwandese were in the know.

The road we live on is of the constantly-eroding-red-dirt variety, and is an ordeal to walk on, especially coupled with copious amounts of Primus and a lack of night vision.   I often have epic fails - being a known klutz, somewhat challenged in the general balance and grace area – that are followed by “Oh! Soly soly!” (r’s and l’s are interchangeable, didn’t you know?) by the  always attentive locals.

At the end of the dirt road, we meet the pavement.  Say hello.  Across the street is the Kobil (gas station) and matatu hang out – where they can be serviced, washed, and where the beautiful vehicles are put to sleep each night.  Matatus are sixteen seater busses that remain the cheapest method of transportation in the city, besides your feet.  They will run from the various areas of Kigali to mumugi (town) and back, costing a whopping 100-180 RwFs (Canadian equivalent: 20-40 cents) They are dedicated to Western heros like Spiderman, Young Jeezy, and Justin Bieber.   Ever elusive to photographs, Lauren and I have developed a new tactic:  Every time we come home (inebriated) in the wee hours of the night, we stop for some snappy photographical evidence with the Kanye West and Rick Ross shrined vans.  I’m sure there will be enough disorderly nights to allow us to return home with a mighty collection of shots.

Lauren and Rick Ross

Continuing up the hill from Kobil, (because down the hill will be reserved for another day, as there is a new spot that first needs to be broken in called “Obama Restaurant”) we arrive at the entrance to isoko Nyamirambo (aka Nyamirambo market).  My life revolves around markets.  This is no different.  First up on our usual stops is Peace Akon (the name stems from what is spray painted on the front grate).  This is the one-room stop that has quickly become our “spot”.  They sell chipattis, eggs, amandazi, and tea.  Need I say more? No.  But I will.  It is not only the abundance of our favorite foods that make this our spot.  There are three stunning men who work here (of course), and who have gotten used to expecting us. The guys that work here are chill, solid guys.  Yes, we speak different languages and anything besides small talk is impossible, but they just have a good vibe.  We have become regulars, no longer needing to ask for what we want, and they’ve even agreed to supply chipattis for a night if we supply the Primus and Happiness (mighty fine deal if you ask me).  Other than them, there is one other important - and sometimes most important – detail.  There is a curtain on the entrance.  This is critical.  All day long, we are stared at and it is painfully obvious most of the time that we are outsiders, as we are the only white people living in this part of town.  So, when we walk into Peace Akon (or sometimes known as Love Stella, painted on the side) suddenly we are not stared at, we are not outsiders.  No one knows we are there, and for a short time its like we don’t exist.  Rather than becoming reclusive hermits to avoid the classic stop-and-stare, we can watch Nyamirambo’s happenings from behind the curtain, while munching on our favorite 20 cent snack in the company of the most attractive men in the hood.  Word?

Peace Akon (minus three stunners)

Next up at the isoko is the actual market market.  You go inside, and are consumed.  Depending on where you come in, you immediately see vendors selling shitty Made In China nicknacks, Dollar Store greeting cards splattered with weenie white people from the 80’s, Kagame and Obama (they are comparable, surprise?) belt buckles, and Roy Bon sunglasses.  There are tables and tables of shoes and more Converse than I have ever seen in my life (will be coming home with a rainbow).  Hair pieces are a dime a dozen here, with the peer pressure of a weave never escaping me.  Around the corner are semi-structured shops selling clothing, with designated curtained off areas to try things on and white mannequins and shelves.  Then circling around you get to the men with white aprons hacking at goats (goat head soup is pretty good I’m told), all of the meat covered in flies and lacking any method of preservation (have stopped eating meat by the way).  Then, when you get to the heart of the market, meaning inside of this circle we just drew, it’s all there.  Women selling fabric, seamstresses, tables and wooden-beam-type-walls supporting clothes that were rejected from Frenchy’s sixteen years ago (including lingerie…tempting?) with more gems than I could ever hope to list.  There are rows of women selling piles of fruits and vegetables, sugar and flour, peanuts and lentils, fish and chickens.  Bartering is the required form of communication here, especially when you’ve got white skin – as that small detail tends to double and even triple the asking price.  I could and do spend hours in this market.

Back outside of what is technically the market, we come back into open dirt road, where more women are selling more fruits and vegetables, and men walk around with stacks of jeans and t-shirts flung over their shoulders, unfolding them and holding them up to you as you walk by with what you can only assume are approving words.  Shops litter the sides of the streets selling “fresh milk” and random household items.  Then, coming around a corner towards the paved road again, we arrive at Monique.  Monique sells veggies alongside about 6 other women on the side of the road.  They are there everyday without fail.  We cut a deal with Monique when we first got here:  We will buy from her for six months if she agrees to give us the right price.  Getting the “right price” isn’t that big a deal in terms of monetary savings – it’s the difference of 300 RwF compared to 200, the difference between 60 cents and 40 – but rather it’s avoiding the feeling you get when you know you are being charged more because of the colour of your skin.  Monique happily agreed, and we have been friends ever since.   It sounds insignificant, but Monique’s kindness in her willingness to give me a fair price in return for loyalty made a huge difference in how I feel about food.  If I had to constantly barter for the price that everyone else gets with no questions asked, I’m sure it would have worn on me after a while.  I would probably even start to dislike buying food.  And, well, that is just blasphemous.  Thankfully, Monique has made all the difference.

Coming off the dirt road and back to pavement again, there is a moto hang out spot, and across the street there is the glorious “Splendid Mini Market”.  Here you can buy juice, blueband, samboussas, amandazi, and chocolate.   In other words, everything you need to survive.  Again, we are regulars.

These are the scenes of my life these days, my hood, my spots.  I always think of how fictional this all must seem to the people reading (aka my mom and sister).  Even going home, I know this will all start to feel imaginary.  But, until then, I’m going to keep munchin on the ollll chipattis at Peace Akon and just enjoy the dream. 

Will You Take Me As I Am, Strung Out On Another Man?

Today is the first day I have felt homesick since I got here.

Today my main thought is Canada.

Right now at home, the weather is turning cold, and it is the epitome of Canada in my mind. 

The leaves are turning, and people are starting to see their breath in the mornings.

The mornings.

The mornings. 125A College. Waking up early.  Way earlier than class starts. Walking downstairs in slippers, wearing sweatpants, a baggy t-shirt, and a sweatshirt.  Opening the back door, stepping out onto the deck, taking a deep breath, and feeling so happy to be a witness to another great day.  CBC, tea outside with morning reading material, and a bowl of frozen blueberries while the tip of my nose gets cold.   Smokes and coffee. 

The mornings.  115 Heritage Ave.  This time of year always feels so quiet.  Hastily stepping out of the turquoise front door in the morning - bare feet - to see how cold it is so that you can choose appropriate clothes for the day.  Then realizing that its kind of nice, to be outside that early, to be apart of that moment.  There is a hush.  The country feels like it is getting ready for the sleep ahead, and you can almost hear the place breathe. 

People on our street are starting to wake up, moms and dads are getting their kids ready for school.  They are starting to wear vests and coats.  You can hear the rumble of the school bus at the top of the street.  Frost starts to replace dew on the grass, and for the first time in a long time you put the heavy blanket on your bed. 

The mornings.  Coming into the kitchen with the tiles cold on my feet, scowling at the human alarm clock that insists on waking me, Dad pausing from dishes or ironing to give me the perfect hug when I walk up to him to sleepily warm up in his chest. 

These days Dad is barbecuing, listening to tracks like Neil Young – Philadelphia, Joni Mitchell – River, and Tom Waits - Waltzing Matilda.  Drinking red wine with the dim light on over supper, dishes forgotten for more important things like friends, family, and freecell. 

Coming home on a Saturday, the smell of pickling throughout the house is perfectly complimented by the worn wood.

People are starting to decide their Halloween costumes, and the Co-op just smells different this time of year.  Something about the pumpkins and crispness to everyone’s clothes.

Its midterm season.  

My poor mother is starting to bundle up and be in a constant state of cold.  With the change in season comes a change in her cooking.  She starts to cook amazing dishes with squash, pumpkin, and turnip.  And for some reason she always becomes more adventurous with cooking and baking in the colder seasons.  She changes.  Summer is over, and so is the lightness of her ability to walk outside in bare feet.  With the need to get warm, she becomes so warm.  She says summer is her favorite season, but I don’t believe that.  There is just something about the way that she is in these months that is just, right.  And natural.  And her.

She is starting to turn the fire on in her apartment.  Wool socks are in high supply. This time of year reminds me of my mom so much.  Things like Ovaltine.  And lunches.  And the smell of coffee and burnt toast with jam.  And her long off-white cotton nightie with the flowers at the top.  Days getting out of a warm bed to put your feet on a cold floor, sit on the kitchen stool and have her make breakfast and run her fingers in your hair.  To try and braid your hair.  To both read at the counter with breakfast.  She is so soft spoken in the mornings.

Sometimes I feel like my whole life happens in late September, October, and early November.   I always feel a certain way.  I feel like waking up early, like the sound of coffee brewing, like the feel of a newspaper under your fingertips, like the smell of apples, and like the sound of a maple tree.  I feel like Tracy Chapman, Alanis Morrisette, Jewel, and Neil Young.  I feel like David Grey, Rob Lutes, and the more melancholy varieties of Counting Crows and Coldplay.  I feel like Forever, Halfway Home, and Spoon.

This is the first year in my life that I haven’t been in Canada this time of the year.  But I can feel it when I close my eyes.  I can see it.  Smell it.  Hear it.  It’s so real I feel like I could be there.  And I’m so relieved to be happy that it is happening even though I’m not there.

You Cannot Run From Demons, They Know Just Where You Are.

I was going to write this post about clinical, but it’s just been too much, so I will try another time when I am less, everything.  Now that I am sitting here in blog mode, I want to write about something else.   Prisoners.

I’ve been told that 99% of the people in prison in this country are genocidières, and would not question that statistic for one second.  I first saw prisoners in March in my earliest days at the hospital in Butare.  They filled the tuberculosis ward, as is so often the case around the world.  Prisoners here can be identified by matching shirt and short of pink or orange.  The difference in colour has meaning, with those in pink currently serving their time, and those in orange boasting beginning privileges, soon (that is relative, by the way) to be reintegrated into society.  I recently found out that those convicted are forced to enter the prison not of their hometown, but of the region where they committed the crime.  Interesting. 

Post genocide, the new government was overloaded with rightful cries demanding justice for killers.  Accused and accusers were everywhere, filling the tiny country as well as those bordering.  I can’t even imagine the magnitude of the problem facing the justice system.  So, the resourceful country that it is, Rwanda implemented Gacaca (pronounced Ga-ka-cha) courts.  They were originally used prior to independence, and these courts allow locals to be the judge and jury of the accused.  A person would be outed as a killer, and given the opportunity to stand trial before their community.  Community members were voted into jury-like positions, and cases were made.  Those who confessed their murders were often given a lesser sentence, and sometimes even forgiven by the people they wronged, whereas those who made excuses or denied the claims were sent to jail if proven guilty.   This amazes me.  Mostly because I can’t fathom a people strong enough to be able to look their family’s, friend’s, and lover’s killers in the eyes, hear him or her detail their horrific deed, and then forgive them, or even consider giving them a lesser sentence.  Every time I think about it I get a swell of something like pride and awe.  The people of Rwanda could have damned them all to a life of lockdown and misery, but they chose to allow them to return and live in the villages and cities where they destroyed so much. This system is exactly what the country needed, allowing the genocidières to have to answer to the people they terrorized.  And what’s more, is that the grace of forgiveness given to those who admitted their crimes is more powerful than any prison sentence.  For those that were given the freedom to return to their villages, they are now forced to look into the eyes of the people they haunt, and live with that everyday.  Which of course is the point of sending prisoners to the places where they were involved in massacre, along with the satisfaction of families being able to see that their nightmare is in jail.  I am stunned by the brilliance of the Gacaca system.

There is great debate about what I am going to say next.  In my heart, I have no hate for the men and women of Rwanda that killed during the genocide.  I don’t believe that the genocide was their fault.  I believe that any other people in the same circumstances would have acted in much the same way.  And I believe that upon asking forgiveness, they deserve it.

There have been countless studies done related to the Rwandan genocide and the psychology related to the frenzied killing that took place and the mass-murder mindset.  The people who committed genocide spent their entire lives in a country filled with propaganda, constantly told to hate, constantly divided.  There is so much more at play than we understand when discussing the genocide than just Rwandan people becoming savages overnight. And yet, it’s hard to know where to draw the line.  I asked my friend about what he thought – having lived through the experience – and this is what he said: “People high up pushed ideologies for their own interests, and they are to blame.  But, there has to be a limit, where people’s own conscious comes. That’s why we are human, we know something is good, or something is bad. So they are also to blame."

If I am being honest, after having read many of these studies and books, and talking to prisoners, I feel bad for those who committed genocide.  There is the voice in my head that tells me that I can’t sympathize with the killers too much, or I risk losing sympathy for the killed.  But I guess I see both sides. Yes, these men and women did evil things, acts that the most terrible corner of my mind can’t even understand, and I probably wouldn’t be saying this had I been there.  But from where I am standing, the everyday men and women of Rwanda that participated in the genocide were also victims, and they will suffer the memory of their sins until their dying day.  Their lives were not taken, but their hearts, spirits, and souls are forever guilty, and that might just be worse.

Long story short, I have nothing but love for the prisoners that we treat in the hospital, and look at them with respect – like every other person, rather than the hostility and hate they are so accustomed to.

This week in clinical, I was at the Rwamagana hospital, which is home to one of the largest prisons in the country. Consequently, the hospital had a unit (tent form, they do not warrant their own building) devoted to male prisoner patients.  I spent most of my time here, much to the dismay of my touring clinical instructor.  The students went around the 20-or-so-bed room and presented each patient, their name, age, and medical diagnosis.  Following that I was expected to either ask the students questions about their care, or leave promptly.  Clearly, I did neither.

I chose the bed of the sickest man in the room, dying of advanced COPD (respiratory disease), sat down with him and held his hand.  I asked him if it was okay if I assess him and look at his charts.  He said yes.  I began to ask him questions – how is he feeling, how he finds the treatment approach is working, what he thinks we might be able to do to make him more comfortable.  He answered, and we listened (we being myself and the student who translated).  The student informed me that he was given what can only be described as completely irrelevant IV drugs, and when he was in acute and severe respiratory distress, he was taken to emergency.  All of this rather than treating him properly to begin with.  This grew into a lengthily conversation with the entire room about the conditions of the prison.  I wanted to know how many men were there, how many men in one room, where they slept, ate, and bathed, what food and water they received, what health care treatment they were entitled to, as well as what prison life is like – what they do on a day to day basis, how they buy things, what privileges they have, and whether or not they get to see their families.  All of the men in the room had something to say. 

I asked them how long they have been in prison, how long they will be in prison, and if they still have family to go home to.  I asked them if they feel their sentences are fair, and if they feel they are being treated fairly now that they are here.  I asked them how it feels to be living in the villages where they were apart of the slaughter.  I asked them how they feel, wearing those isolating colours.  I asked them every question that they probably have never been asked before.  The only question I didn’t raise was the one that they have been asked.

As I left the tent, I held my right forearm as I shook each of their hands.  When you do this in Rwanda, it means that you respect the person whose hand you are shaking.  The tent went totally silent.  Most people would say that I should not respect these men, and they might be right.  But I couldn’t help but feel so privileged to have been able to talk to them, to be accepted among these men as a complete outsider, one who admittedly had no idea what their life was like, how they got there or where they were going.  They talked to me.  We both knew what we were talking about – genocide – and we both knew they were guilty. And they still talked to me.  A young, white, privileged female foreigner who doesn’t know shit from shinola. For them to allow me into the parts of their lives where they are the most vulnerable, most ashamed, and most hated for, well, I just, I am so thankful.  Letting someone in like that – what they did – that deserves respect.

Picture Book

I wanted to post some of the pictures that have been taken so far that give an idea as to what life is like here. 

This is the most important picture that will be taken in Rwanda.  Say NO to sugar daddies.  "I am NOT for sale!"

This is where I work. These computers are next to useless, I bring my own.

All my brothers

Egide

And this one made the cut, because, well look at it. (Hilaire and Anthony)

At Inauguration.  Only muzungus there? Most likely.

Had to.

Outside the dentistry office - gets me everytime.

This gem is a secret.  You will find out soon enough.

This is at the hotel where I lived in April.  Nostalgia at its finest.