leave me out with the waste, this is not what i do.

Since leaving Rwanda, over the past few months, I haven’t really known how to be.  Actually, this isn’t entirely correct.  Anyone looking at me might think that my re-entry has been smooth, that I have made the transition seamlessly.  This is true, and somehow not true. 

I have successfully distracted myself from day 1.  With a variety of… pleasures, for lack of a better word.

But every so often I find myself hit with something, something I have yet to place, some sort of terrible lament.  For a feeling lost, a time passed, a self misplaced.  A yearning.  A disappointment.  A shock.  A realization.  Shame.  Anxiety.  Appalling relief.  A sense that something is being pulled out of me and I have no control in stopping.  An excuse.  Love.  The need for something more than I ever thought I could need.  Salvation.  Faith. 

How the fuck did I get here? 

Yeah Yeah Yeah!

I am on a serious high right now.

Classes started Monday, and even though I was stressed to the max borderline pulling my hair out (and cried multiple times today…for unrelated reasons – see Lauren’s most recent blog post), I am in the best mood I’ve been in for quite a while.

School.  So Monday morning I woke up at 5am with butterflies in my stomach, anxious and excited about the first day of school.  I had come into work over the weekend to prepare for my classes and to get myself into the mindset somehow.  I got to work extra early, checked my emails and facebook messages, and went pee at least three times.  I found out somewhere along the way that my Adult Health course (which was supposed to be scheduled 5 times per week) is only scheduled 3 times per week, and my Physical Assessment course (which was supposed to be booked 3 times per week) is not even on the schedule at all!  Since I am leaving in 6 weeks time, these courses need to be finished very quickly.  And anyone who went through nursing can tell you that Adult Health cannot be rushed.  There is a ton of material and it is intense at the best of times – it is all new and extremely important knowledge.  Needless to say, it was a rough start to the day.  But things were looking up when Constance came into the office she told me she would come with me to my class to introduce me and go over ground rules (she would). 

We walk into my first Adult Health class. I set up the General Nursing laptop and projector (later found out it is semi-broken and nearly impossible to get on a good day, and therefore I am now going to start the grueling and tedious process of turning two months worth of powerpoint work into word documents – fuck.), and stood by Constance as she borderline-yelled at the students for offences they had yet to commit.  No Coming In Late.  No Signing For Friends On The Attendance List.  No Cellphones In Class.  The usual, in other words.  It’s been less than a year since I was in those student’s shoes.  I was hearing the lecture from Constance as a student and yet somehow as a teacher.  It was very strange.  I rolled my eyes but also felt the unavoidable foreboding of consequences.  After her schpeel was done, I got to interact with my class for the first time.  My class.  I’ve been so excited to meet them, and this might be biased, but after day 1 I can already tell you: they kick ass.

When I was a student, I was the kid that interacted with teachers.  I was a teacher’s pet – not because I wanted to suck up and get good grades, but because I love learning, and have always found that interaction (answering a question when asked, asking questions, and just generally being involved in class time) is how I learn best.  Naturally, this is how I would want my classes to go.  And today, that’s exactly how they went.

Before talking about class, I feel that some background info should be shared on Rwanda’s education system is necessary: In Rwanda, depending on how you do on your “placement exam” in high school, you are put into whichever program that test shows you would do well in.  AKA: The Man tells you what you are doing with your life, if you will do anything at all.  So my students did not choose to go into nursing, they were put there based on the results of one examination.  This brings obvious difficulties and frustrations, namely that there are now many students trying to study for a profession they have no passion for. .  It makes for some very desolate classes sometimes.  In nursing specifically, this causes a lot of problems, since these people will be giving care to the countries population.  If they don’t give a shit about nursing, quality of care is almost non-existent.  However, for some of my students, it is clear: They wanted to be nurses all along.  But, others wanted to be doctors, some wanted to work in IT, some have passion for various arts programs, and some – like many people my age – don’t know what they want to do.  I’ve never had to inspire passion before.  Now that I am trying to start I am realizing how hard it truly is, and why it is so unbelievably important and amazing.

Nevertheless, these students are so bright.  They are attentive and interested and eager to learn.  On that first class, they blew me out of the water.  And they have continued to do so all week.  

I feel like I can relate to these students, having just been where they are now.  I know how shitty careplans are to do and how long they take, but having graduated I also know how important they are and how much they contribute to critical thinking.  I know how much material there is to cover and how difficult some of these concepts are to grasp.  I know how great this course can be, having learnt it from one of the best professors I’ve ever had.  I know how amazing it feels to understand the mechanism of heart failure after hours of lecture and reading and trying to stay awake.  I know how comforting it is to feel like you can talk to your teacher and how much dignity and confidence can be gained when they treat you as equals.  I know nothing about teaching other people.  But I know how they feel, and I am now in the odd position of seeing each side perfectly clear – student and teacher.  And now I’m starting to understand how wonderful it is to see their eyes, to almost be able to hear their brains click when they understand a new concept.   To have them laugh with me when I do a role-play exercise of a 90 year old sick patient who still wants to have sex with her husband.  To have them feel comfortable and confident to ask questions and not stop until they get the answer.  To feel support from them and to support them.  I am very grateful and very lucky to have such a remarkable class.  I am not an educator, so I feel so appreciative that they are easing me into it and helping me learn about teaching.

I feel connected to them.

I am so excited to teach this course. 

Gimme Ten Bucks And A Head Start

I am having one of those days (or one of those slew of days) where you just feel, off.  Where I just want to be left alone.  Where every minor thing somehow is wrong.  Where I don’t feel right in my own skin.  Where I somehow manage to be pissed off by my own damn self, thinking ‘god I wish she would fuck off right now’.  My head doesn’t shut up and my body doesn’t feel right.  Always thinking thinking thinking.  Whining.  Complaining.  Fidgeting.  Uncomfortable.  Irritated and anxious.  Jesus Christ.  This blog is pissing me off.  How is this possible?

Seriously.  What. The. Fuck.

This isn’t actually that unusual.  Well, ok it is, but when I get glimpses of this feeling it can generally be solved by a long run and lack of human interaction.   Which I fully intend to use as treatment tomorrow morning.  But this time it’s a bit more than a bad mood.  My usual PMS bullshit combined with my existing weird mood of late has seemingly formed some sort of turbo-freak of a state of mind.  So what’s the difference?  Hm.  Shall we?  Sure.

Lately (more specifically ever since the clock struck 2011), it’s been lurking.  I suppose the easy thing to say is to admit that I’m freaked out that we are now coming up to the middle of month 5 of a 6 month program.  That I am scared shitless of leaving.  That I’m scared I’ll be going home to a life that I don’t know or care to understand.  That every time I think about the possibility that I might never see the boys again I feel like I could cry and never stop.   I find myself between two worlds.  Two times. The start of this experience – and not just this internship, but the entire experience that encompasses it – and the possibility of the end.  The further I move from the beginning the closer I get to the end.  And I guess I just don’t know what that means. 

I think the other, more difficult reason to admit for my recent peculiar state of mind is that I’ve realized I have absolutely no fucking clue what I want to be when I grow up.  For four years it was “nurse”.  My passions were high and my goals clear.  Even six months ago I knew.  Even one month ago.  And now I feel like I don’t have a clue in the world.  I can do anything.  Anything in the entire world.  And I know it, 100%.  And while most of the time I find this to be a huge rush and one of the most exciting things imaginable, as of late (again, alter ego Caroline emerges) it has felt more daunting than anything.  Because there are so many wonderful things to feel passionate about I find myself without for any of them.  It used to be that there was an end-vision I saw for myself; there were a million and one ways to make it happen, and I was happy to just stumble around and do things as they came – always with faith that it would get me there.  Now the vision is blurry, and I find myself unsure of which path to take to get to where I used to want to be.

Ok. So, I just stopped writing after that paragraph (because I heard how god damn depressing it was) and went and sat for about 30 minutes by myself in the dark (I know, strange girl.) and then came back and re-read what I just wrote.  And you know, I think I had the same freak out before I went away to university.  Haha! So much for growing up! Wow.  Not sure what just happened but I literally just started laughing as I read that and now I don’t really give so much of a fuck.  I can’t believe I’ve been so freaked out.  And I can’t believe I’m still having these brutal anxieties about not knowing where I’m going.  Because that always ends up being the best part.  I mean god damn, imagine if I travelled like this! I would want to absolutely kill myself! 

On a more positive note and hugely less emo note, as painful as it will be to leave, I am getting excited to go home (never thought I would say that).  I Skyped with Billy the other day… he was showing me him and Jensen’s new house (amazing, by the way - I wish I could live there).  When he showed me the deck I saw all the snow on the ground, and to Billy’s serious discomfort (sucker) I started crying – in the middle of the day, at work, by myself, in front of my computer.  I had certainly thought about the snow, at Christmas I thought about my family and all the traditions, on NYE I thought about all my friends and what they’d be doing.  Not once did any of those things get me the slightest bit emotional or sentimental.  But a glimpse of real life (albeit via webcam) Canadian snow got to me.  God damn snow.  Always causing shit.   Getting off this tangent:  Even though I am going to be severely drunk (or hungover, depending on how this master travel-plan goes), it is going to feel so good to step off of that Air Canada flight into the Halifax airport, where the accents are thick and the staff are Nova-Scotia-tartan clad. 

I’m starting to miss my family – especially my big brother.  It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to spend much time with him.  Growing up we always sort of teamed up on Jensen, we were around the same age, and even though we fought a lot we were always connected.  This is a really strange memory to look back on fondly, but I think about it often when I think about Chris:  A few Christmases ago I came home in the morning super hungover and passed out on the couch.  I was in seriously rough shape.  Chris made me a grilled cheese sandwich and put ketchup on the side, and brought it to me with a glass of water.  I ate a bite, took a sip, and passed back out (to make sure I could stomach it).  Bite, sip, sleep.  Bite, sip, sleep.  This continued for the rest of the day.  He hung out with me in the living room, laughing at my slow progress, but keeping me company and entertaining me nonetheless.  It took me the entire day to eat that grilled cheese.  Really not sure why but that is one of my all time favorite memories of him.  This holiday season he went on an adventure to Australia and New Zealand.  Before he left I talked to him on the phone and he just sounded so different.  He didn’t sound like my brother.  He sounded like a man.  I guess I sometimes worry that we’re growing apart.  We are so different and lead such separate lives.  Neither of us checks in that much with each other or with our parents; we both keep to ourselves and do our own thing.  But I still need him.  And I still feel him. 

I’m also really excited to see Jensen.  We didn’t get along in the conventional sense for most of my life (it started with the ice down the diaper), except those times when we would all cover for each other for a broken window (or kitchen lamp post – god I wish we still had that), but last year I lived in Edmonton and I had never been more thankful to have her around.  She is getting married this April in Cuba and I am jacked for the wedding.  Her and Billy are perfect.  They understand each other and work hard at their relationship because they know it’s worth it.  Call me crazy, but I think that’s actually quite rare and very special.  I’m glad I get to be around for a while before we go our separate ways again.  I want to see her in this time of her life.  Jensen has always been two people – sophisticated city and hometown silly.  I think she will always be both.  But I want to be around to see her grow into the woman she’s been becoming for so long.  I’ve always kind of looked up to her.  Not for her outstanding morals or dedication to society, but Jensen has just always known who she is.  She makes it easy to love her.  She is positive, passionate, and deep down she is extremely kind and empathetic, and she would do anything for her family.  Even when she’s in your face with an irrational mood swing, it doesn’t even phase me (or Billy, he understands her too) because that’s just Jensen.  She has always been upfront about who she is and so even her worst qualities aren’t bad, because it’s her.  And she is letting you see that.  Another admirable quality.  Billy is lucky to marry her.  And she is lucky to marry Billy.  Hence why I’m so jacked for this wedding – two of the people I love most in the world are getting married and celebrating.  Wouldn’t miss it for anything.  

And Billy.  Well.  I’m not even going to say anything about Billy because A) it would make him uncomfortable to be talked about on a blog and B) I just don’t need to, he knows what’s up.  Boom.

So yes.  I am excited to get home next month (and dreading the two week re-entry program).  I start teaching quite intensively this Monday and am getting nervous about it.  But it feels good to be working again.  I will be teaching pretty much all day every day, Monday to Friday, 7am-5pm (except Friday afternoons, like hell I was doing that eesh).  Since Lau and I splurged and flew back from Tanzania instead of another 36 hour bus ride, we’ve decided to make some cuts to ease the financial blow.  Until the last week (when we plan to go ape shit in Kigali) we aren’t going to any of our favorite restaurants (this is pretty much the only cut…but also pretty much our only expense).  We have a final trip to Kampala to plan to white water raft the Nile and bungee jump, and I promised a final visit to Eric and Moha.  The next month and a half are going to fly by.  I can remember when I said those words in November (‘before you know it it’s going to be 2011 and we’ll be on our way out’).   I’m trying to remember to take this experience for what it is.  The ups and the downs (especially the downs, she reminds herself) are all a part of it.  I am learning from all of it.  This is the experience. This is exactly it.  

Mom’s Rwanda Wrap-Up

Home in Fredericton, after my Tour de Rwanda with Caroline. I am cold, and lonely. Wonder if I will ever wear all the great jewelry I got, as it will seem out of place here. Like an orchid in a cow barn.

I miss the moto’s, African tea, sunshine and heat. Do not miss walking uphill and really dirty feet. I miss Caroline, and her roommate Lauren. Wonderful hosts. They have an impressive lust for food. Surpassed only by their exuberance for life.

Have met some people I will remember for a long time. Peter, Egide, Hilaire, Eric, Mo, and Jonas. They might not have a Visa Gold card, but they have the ability to make you feel welcome, and special. Black is the new gold.

Caroline had her Jurassic Park moments. And I was there to share it with her. That’s what I liked the most – being able to fly half-way around the world to spend time with Cano. The child who took care of me in her adopted country. I got to stand back and watch her. I was humbled.

The sights of Rwanda will stay with me for a long time. I want them to. Their memories will rescue me, when life just gets a bit too foolish here.

Mom's First Blog, written Dec 6th

TIA.

This is Africa.

Last night went to pick up luggage, which did not come with me.  It was open, and yes, the electronics I brought for “the people” were missing.  Yes, that happens in Canada too, however, the paperwork here is a little more challenging. I pretty much had a breakdown.

Rwanda really is the Land of a Thousand Hills. Makes running hills in Fredericton seem rather pointless. Jesus, fill two large jugs with water, and walk up a half-dozen hills to get home, and there’s your workout. 

Cano lives at the end of a very sketchy dirt road. I have to hold hands with her at night walking home. The same situation would be unheard of in Canada. It would be too dangerous.

She has no running water. Well, there was water Saturday morning for a couple of hours. That means the toilet does not flush. Got that? I have been scolded for using three cups of water from the boiled supply per day. Yes, I washed my face, and brushed my teeth three times a day. I have since cutback.

My lungs are sick. Air pollution in Kigali is remarkable.

TIA.

This is Africa.

Peter has his tuition. He is registering for school this week. He is grateful, gentle, and so appreciative of the opportunity to get a degree. Sustainable kindness.

The roads impress me, cleanliness (exception – dreadful air quality), developing infrastructure (exception – water supply), skilled matatu drivers.

As we drive through the countryside on the small, very packed bus; the

children are thrilled to see my white face, and wave and shout. Maybe they think I’m Angelina Jolie.

Tonight is Trivia Night at some Italian Restaurant. I am due for some competition.

Long Is Afternoon Shadows

Mom and I had the pleasure of a three hour bus ride to Kibuye today, and that is not at all intended to be sarcastic.  These hills never fail to move me.  Never fail to bring me back to center, back to what I need.  Because sometimes I forget.  I don’t know why, maybe it’s my task-oriented western culture or maybe it’s my own freakish mind, but I get so wrapped up in things that are or aren’t happening thousands of miles and minutes away from me.  I am unintentionally escaping this experience.  I drift into the future – what will happen, what will I do, where will I be, what is the next thing – and I forget what is going on right in fucking front of me. 

These hills remind me.

It’s so easy to slip into it, so easy to focus on what is to come instead of what is here.   Because yes, I am going to have to find some sort of employment, an apartment, feed myself, and support myself (not to mention repay my debt to my father and the ever-looming government of Canada).  And yes, there are relationships with people that I have back home that I want to keep, or even develop.  And there are things about home that I don’t want to lose or forget about or put on a backburner.  But how can I accomplish all of this without sacrificing the uniqueness and wonder of this opportunity I am living?  

What I really need is balance. 

Libra seeking balance.  What else is new.  Christ.

Slow down. Breathe. Be here. Open your eyes.  

Giver. 

Goodnight, Moon.

I saw Patrick today.

I saw him.

He saw me.

He ran to me.

I saw him.

I felt him.

He was there.

We were there.

His smile.

His heart.

His heart.

His heart has gotten so much worse. 

He is twice the size he was in April.

His liver is twice as big.

His kidneys are twice as fucked.

His organs will fail soon.

He is so much further, closer.

His smile.

I found out today that Patrick’s mother had 8 children.  Four of them died the same way Patrick is going.  And he knows.  He knows.  He watched them die before him. His regional hospital used to sing with him a song about heaven – about meeting your family and friends, of a better life.  One day he asked why.  Why were they singing this with him?  Was he going to die?  Singing about his own end.  He knows. 

He will die.

The world will never see his smile again. 

He will die.

Leaving the hospital, I have never felt more helpless and useless and ashamed and unskilled and unworthy.  I asked Egide what I should do.  What should I do.  Please.  What should I do.  And he told me this:  We can only do what we can.  You can't pay for what he needs.  But you can come and see him, take care of him, make him laugh, bring him joy.  That is what is going to change the world.

Thank you for getting me out of my own head, and helping me realize what I already knew.  I love you.

Patrick, my man, if you’re going out, you’re going out laughing, going out smiling.  You are taking care of me, making me laugh, bringing me joy.  You are changing the world.

 

In A Perfect World, Ja Rule Would Be Putting Out New Hits.

Thanks to a glorious (and sometimes not so glorious) 9 and 6 hour time difference - depending on which area of Canada I’m wanting to talk to – I find myself in a unique position.   When I get to work in the morning, people are doing one of two things – heading to bed (the non-insomniac ones anyway), or drinking profusely.  Subsequently, when I am indulging in a Primus (or two or three), people back home are usually enjoying a nice quiet afternoon.  Although, I must say, the drunken-incoming-Skype-call-while-I'm-at-work remains a personal favorite.  Keep it up, Canada.

Where is this blog coming from?  Well, its Friday morning.  This means that the Thursday crowd is at the bar or stumbling home.  It’s odd to feel bar-ready first thing in the morning when you get to work.  But, I’m enjoying it. 

Anyway – the club scene in Kigali has been treating me well.  There is always the old option of Cadillac, where I first experienced “real” dancing, where gin and juices glow bright blue, and where finding a dance partner is as easy as looking in the mirror.  Then there are the other, less flamboyant clubs such as One Love, KBC/Planete, Top Tower, Sundowner, Papyrus, tons of other small local spots, and finally, the legendary strip bar (Sky Hotel) for which I doubt I’ll be able to muster up adequate numbness to enter.

Going out in Kigali is a bit of a game.  The night starts off Western enough: You’re at a restaurant or a house of one of your friends, drinking, card games, music, shinanigans.  Then you step outside.  You find a moto (at night its not uncommon to squeeze on two passengers + driver – the one sitting on the back gets to wear the helmet as they tend to fall off – since motos are not as abundant in the wee hours).  This is where you start to notice you are not in Kansas.  Moto drivers can generally weasel higher prices since we are buzzing, giddy, and have pockets full of money intended for drinks. 

For Cadillac, the drive through town is like a calling.  I say this because Cadillac sports a fine flood light that moves across the city beckoning the antsy to its depths.  Either way, you get to the bar and get in line (if there is one).  Here is where you can hear the beats of familiar songs like Letting Go – Sean Kingston ft Nicki Minaj, Baby By Me – 50 Cent, Loose Control – Timbaland ft Jojo, and Say Ahh – Trey Songz and you find yourself almost frustrated to get in there. 

Once you’re at the front, you pay your cover (again, if there is one) and get frisked at your own risk.  Head on in.  Welcome.  Karibu. 

I remember my first time stepping into Cadillac – I was like a kid in a god damn candy store.   The beats. The dancing.  Holy fuck, the dancing.

There is no such thing as lack of rhythm, and less than no such thing as shyness.  Dancing as god intended, as it were.   Often times as a white woman letting loose, there is an overabundance of African-Male-Attention.  It’s usually not a problem, we’re big girls and can take care of ourselves, but it often gets annoying.  However, I would say it’s always been worth the hassle because they just don’t give a shit.  You can dance with whoever, whenever, wherever, however.  Talk about luxury. 

With this whole visa thing I’ve been in need of some serious stress relief. 

So, pretty much wrote this to torture myself – I am just itching to go out tonight – but there is another 12 hours to go in this damn day and I’ve already started the playlist designed for these nights. 

That’s it for me.   For those of you who are lucky enough to be on the receiving end of my drunk dials, well, you’re welcome for tonight’s conversation.

I Really Don't Know Clouds, At All.

I’ve been meaning to write about clinical for a long time.

I’ve been waiting until I didn’t feel so much about it to post. 

Clinical is fucked.  At the very least it is a huge shit mix of emotions.  Because it’s so hard to describe how I actually feel about it, I’ve taken three separate posts and put them into one. 

In my heart, clinical here is so many things.  It is terrible, it is beautiful, and it is real.

The terrible.

Sometimes things here hit you. 

Some days, you just really see it.

Some moments, you are so aware.  So aware of where you find yourself.  The reality of this place.  The reality of this life.  The reality of their lives.

Some days, Rwanda breaks me. 

And I see you standing there, wanting more from me, and all I can do is try. 

And I see you standing there, I’m all I’ll ever be, but all I can do is try.

Looking around the room.  Every single patient.  Every single one.

You deserve better.   You deserve the life I had.  Have.  You are deserving.  You are deserving.  You are beautiful.  You are better than this.  You are better than me.  I know what you think about me.  I think it too.  I don’t know what to do.  One step towards you, one step away from them.  There are so many.  You deserve. 

Sometimes it just feels like you are falling.  Some days, you are just waiting to hit the ground. 

The beautiful.

I remember the first day I met Patrick.

I remember my first day in the hospital. 

I remember the first time I cried here.

I remember the first person whose hand I held.

I remember the first time I really saw this place.

I remember feeling like I needed to run and never stop.

I remember looking again.

I remember seeing it again.

I remember the beauty of Rwanda.

I remember the way it makes me feel.

I remember the most painful kind of wonder.

I remember laughing.

I remember when she gave her last.

I remember the mystery she held in her smile.  

I remember the indescribable feeling of my patients.

Their eyes. Their hands.

I remember sitting on his bed.

I remember looking at each other.

I remember feeling so privileged to be allowed into their lives.  To be invited.  To be there.  To be only there. 

I remember knowing that this was it.

I remember feeling love.

I remember feeling my heart beat.

I remember feeling the walls come down.

Rwanda saved me.

My patients saved me.

They let me out.

The real. 

(I wrote this article for New Brunswick Nurses Association)

In April 2010, I completed a one month consolidation in Butare, Rwanda, working in various sectors of the regional hospital.  When I got home in May, the reality of what I had seen and the things that I had done truly sunk in.  Despite the emotional stress caused by practicing my chosen profession in a ‘developing’ country, I fell in love with Rwanda, ‘pays des milles collines’.

As a result, I am now back in-country on a six month internship with the Coady International Institute, as funded by the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA).  I have been given the daunting task of teaching nursing students, supervising clinical placements, and participating in community outreach programs.  On paper, this sounds simply peachy.  In reality, it is quite the opposite – neither simple nor peachy.

Teaching students here is, challenging.  Everything from preparing a two week course (that should be taught in three months) with hit-or-miss power and internet accessibility to trying to explain the mechanism of heart failure to students in what is their third (and sometimes fourth) language is taxing.  But this is the least of my stress.

My great strain and my great love: Clinical.  I am realizing and appreciating more and more everyday how wonderful our education system is in Canada.  Over four years, our professors manage to instil in us an unfailing sense of responsibility and accountability, coach us through endless skills and the theory necessary to perform them, and finally by some miracle they teach us how to think critically.  These values are seemingly non existent in the majority of nurses here, and consequently my students are on the same bleak path.  This is the foundation of my stress, and of my efforts. 

Apart from the abysmal conditions, lack of basic resources, and intense diseases for which patients resist seeking medical attention until absolutely necessary, the health care system is in distress. The medical model is highly engrained into their practice, and most nurses would never think to perform any task that was not outlined by a physician, and are flabbergasted when I question an order.  Furthermore, there seems to be no connection made between nursing interventions and the disease process.  For example, it would be rare to find an upperclassman able to link the diagnosis of ‘diabetes’ to peripheral vascular disease, amputations, confusion, coma, neuropathy, or any of the associated assessments and interventions. Wounds on the foot of a diabetic are not attributable to diabetes, that patient simply has wounds for no other reason than they are just there.  It is more frustrating than I can say. The discrepancy between their standard of care and that of Canada is monumental.  To have the lives of patients under their locus of responsibility makes me extremely uncomfortable.  So, I am working to try and ease this discomfort. 

In Rwanda, progress seems slow. And that’s probably because it is.  Change takes time, and real change takes a long time.  It took Canada half a century just to move away from the medical model.  Let us not dismiss what has been done here. Yes, Rwanda has problems, big ones.  They can not be conquered easily, quickly, or simply.   But it is worthwhile to recognize the reality of where these changes had to come from. Following the devastation of 1994, the country – which was ‘third world’ to begin with – had to be rebuilt from scratch.  It means starting some semblance of an economy from scratch when your country is millions in debt and all productive land and infrastructure has been destroyed, dealing with the ongoing struggle of refugees and rebel groups, gaining the trust of a population who just witnessed one of the most gruesome genocides in history, trying those responsible in a fair way, and reintegrating killers with family of the killed, in a country so small that it is inevitable they will have to see each other and work together.  To build peace in a country of war, to build love in a country torn apart by hate, and to build trust in a place where it is long gone.

While these tasks may not seem directly linked to the delivery of health care, we must realize that each and every item destroyed – whether it be a building, a piece of land, or a life – it all relates to the social determinants of health of the population, and the ability of the country to provide optimal care and education.  Every aspect of health care had to restart in 1994, so this entire system is only 16 years old.  Furthermore, the sheer weight of demand is more than any country could cope with. In a country roughly half the size of PEI, they have managed to fit over ten million people.  Ten million. In half the size of PEI, they have squeezed almost one third of the entire population of Canada, the second largest country in the world.  The thought alone is unfathomable.  Unsurprisingly, Rwanda has the highest population density in sub-Saharan Africa.  Furthermore, over 75% of the population lives under a dollar a day, and 90% of the population lives under two dollars a day (Human Development Report, 2009). The same report has ranked Rwanda 167^th out of 203 countries on the development scale. 

As a nurse, and generally as a human being, I know that a high population density coupled with high poverty rates present a seemingly insurmountable struggle.   Health suffers, happiness suffers. The apparentness of this struggle is not lost on the people of Rwanda, but you will never see them stop fighting the uphill battle.  There are wonderful things happening in this country everyday.  I have so often seen families with nothing give what they have to other families who have nothing.  That is rare in this world, and that is something of greatness.  That is something that shows the power of this place.

Rwanda has made incomprehensible progress as a people.  I feel confident that most other nations could not have done what Rwanda has done given the same circumstances.  There is something here.  There is a spirit and a strength here that I have never experienced before.  You can feel it in the hills, and you can see it in the people.  There is much to be done, but the catalyst for change is already in place – it is in the hearts of the Rwandese people.  The change is possible, and they are able. 

Rwanda is so many things.  And I have not even scraped the surface.  Rwanda is not simply my emotional experience.  This is a real place doing real things.  It isn’t a figment of my imagination.  It is not here solely for me to experience.  This place is actually happening.  These people actually live here.  They actually live here.  This is real.  I have to remind myself of this so often. 

I’m always looking at this country and these people through my own eyes.  Everything is affected by my life’s experiences and by what I’ve known and done and thought and not thought.  Rwanda is not mine.  It is not anyone’s.  The longer I spend here the more I realize that I am not here, not really.  So, please take my stupid blog posts for what they are – some random 22 year olds half-assed impressions and lack of impressions about a place she completely misunderstands.

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.

Another Day

The 25th of September.  My birthday.  Ugh.

I was happy to have a chill night, Indian cuisine and good friends.  It turned out to be much more than I expected, and much more than I thought I wanted.  First, my best friend Egide told me numerous times that he couldn't make it - and I was resolved to that fact, since he had made the trip down the last weekend already.  As it turns out, my friends were plotting all week right under my oblivious nose on how to surprise me with him.  I cried.  They also surprised me with cake and too many gifts - all was planned and bought without me noticing anything.  Verr sneaky.  We ended up going home after supper, having some Primus, and going yet again to Cadillac.  It was bliss dancing with my brothers.  I could never get sick of it.  Bed around 4.  So appropriate.  As much as I don't like the fuss of birthdays, I am thankful for what my friends did for me - they really made it so special.

So. Turning 22 in Rwanda.  How does it feel?
It feels, fictional.
I guess I mean that its just so, weird, that time is passing.  That when I go home it won't be exactly as I left it.  That I will go home a different age.  That time doesn't stand perfectly still. 

"And you think, what the hell - life goes on.  Maybe there won't be marriage, maybe there won't be sex.  But by God, there will be dancing."

This Is Of Vital Importance.

When I wake up in the morning, I think about one thing.
When I get to work, I think about one thing.
Before going to bed every night, I think about one thing.

Tea Time.

At 9:30 everyday at KHI, Lau and I saunter down to tea. This is the subject of my affection, and consequently the subject of my blog.

By 9:30 I am always hungry (having not eaten yet in the day), and ready for the usual arrangement of food.
At tea, there is the following:
*Tea (bagged or africa)
*Hard boiled eggs
*Chipattis
*Samboussas (samosas)
*Meat balls
*Amandazi (deep fried bread/cake thing)

I generally go for the samboussas, and Lau has recently introduced me to the egg & chipatti combo, which I think will work itself into the rotation. And of course, African Tea every time.

Getting food is an art in and of itself, and can be an ordeal if you are not in the know. Food goes fast, and politeness is not a virtue honored at tea. You get to the front, you start telling Eric what you want to eat whether he is listening to you or not, whether you are next or not, and hold your money out to show you mean business.

Once this is accomplished, the day is automatically a great one. We sit, we sip, we munch, we chat. It's a place where your stresses are left at the door (by that I mean tent flap). Tea is a place where no matter how much work I have to do, when I go to tea, I am on Africa Time (meaning everything slows). Tea is the place to meet different people, learn Kinyarwanda, catch up, and talk about how great Tea is. Because, man is it.

You Light Up A Room, When You Walk In.

The boys.

Elsa’s boys.

My boys.

My brothers.

Just had dinner with Egide, Eric, and Hilaire.  Tomorrow Egide will go back to Butare, and Eric will make the grueling 10 hour bus ride back to Kampala.  And as for Hilaire, well, he will still be around – thank god.  I told Egide and Eric to quit school and move back home so I can see them all the time.  I am most selfish when I get to spend time with them, I never want them to leave.  There was a moment tonight at supper when I really realized that these boys are home.   Not that they make me feel at home, but that I truly am home when I am with them.

The boys (I really should say men, but I just can’t bring myself to do it) are so special.  Each one has so many amazing qualities.  I could go on forever about them.  But, I’ve heard that forever is a pretty long time, so I will give the extremely condensed version. (Heads up: There are some inside jokes in this blog, and I’m very sorry for the exclusiveness, but for the people who know what I’m talking about it is gold.)

Egide is the kindest person you will ever meet, has amazing mannerisms (for those of you who know me well, you know what that means), and always smells what I imagine perfection to smell like (a contender to Johnny Atwin if that gives any indication to some of you).  He has dreams that you just can not doubt he will achieve.  I can’t wait to see what his life will be like – the house with the view.  He is sincere and passionate, two qualities that are – for me – two of the most important.  Egide has a spirit in him that inspires me every day.  I am so proud to hold his hand and call him my best friend.  I think I was spoiled in April, having Egide around all the time.  Now that we are living in different places, I am realizing how much Egide was a huge part of my experience here, how much he affected my time here.  How he – and all the boys – were a big part of why I fell in love with Rwanda.

Eric.  Eric, Eric, Eric.  What can’t I say about Eric.  Eric is a great man.  I always think about how great of a father Eric is going to be.  How great a husband he will be.  Eric has such an amazing character, as Dad would say he is “a solid guy”.  He says what he thinks and means it every time.  I appreciate that so much.  Eric is an innocent, through and through, a romantic to the core – but a realist at the same time. I’ve never seen that kind of mix before.  He is gentle and considerate and insightful.  At the very least Eric is way too wise for his age.  He has everything going for him and more. I envy all the people that get to see him every day.

Hilaire.  Oh. My. God.  I don’t even know what to write about Hilaire.  I’ve tried to explain what Hilaire is like to people before and I never do him justice.  Hilaire is one of the top 5 funniest people I have ever met (and probably in the world), and there is not one cell in his body that tries to be funny.  The things he says and the way he says them are just, ridiculous.  I am laughing just writing this.  In fact, I am going to text him right now (if you’ll please hold on a sec).  Ahh, I can’t wait to see what he texts back.  This is what I do all day – I bug Hilaire just to see what he is going to say.  What would I do without him?  I love having him around and even though he lives in the neighborhood next to me I still miss him every day.  (PS: His text back was even funnier than I expected). [side note:  coincidence that the word “hilarious” seems to have the root word “hilaire”?? Waka waka?]

I know people want to know about what life here in Rwanda is like, and that is why I wrote about the boys.  They are a huge part of my life here.  Whether I see them every day or not, they are always with me.  I know none of my descriptions do any of the boys justice; you could write a book about each of them, but they are so much more than what I can put into words.  I’ve heard so many people say that when you leave Rwanda you leave a part of your heart here.  Having left, I know that it is true.  Having come back, I’m starting to appreciate where I left it.  I left it with the people that I love. 

Rwanda mon pays, nous sommes ensembles. Rwanda mon paradis.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard music so beautiful.


Sitting in the living room this morning, Jewel is trumped immediately by a Spanish guitar and a voice that holds such wisdom, and such a painful love. I cannot stop listening. I am mesmerized. The world slows, and comes to a halt, to listen to a man’s love song about his country.

My landlord Pascal is an artist. I knew he was a painter, but I never knew this was under the surface. I am sitting outside on our porch - half in sun, half in shade - feeling the wind ripple lazily through the trees, background noises of nearby work being done, and his songs continue. He is singing to the entire neighborhood with his amp. I am willing to bet my life that this is the favorite time of day for a lot of people, when Pascal plays. It has immediately become mine.

There is so much to learn. So much that I am missing. So much that I want to discover. There is also a completeness in not knowing. Like this is how it is supposed to be. I am supposed to sit here and listen to Pascal play his guitar and not know. This is not a world that is mine to understand. The love he shares in his songs are his, and it is enough for me to be apart of that. More than enough.

The thunder is going to start, and the songs will end. Pascal will go inside, and so will I. We will have our separate lives and do our different tasks. But when he plays again, I will listen. And I will be thankful to be able to share these moments with him. I will be thankful to have these moments in life. Because they change you.

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

Work has started.

This week has been a lot of meetings to finalize exams for November (exam period), lots of discussion about wording and content. My lower back hurts from all of the sitting. Other than exams, Lauren is starting a huge project that just got funding approved to get the BLS (lab) students to do rapid HIV testing in 36 high schools around the country, and I am going to be helping in any way that I can.  Then, I have research proposals to mark for tomorrow, and to prepare a course on Dermatology to teach for the next two weeks.  After that the students will be doing skills exams (I will be evaluating), and I will be supervising students in clinical around the country. It feels good.

I’ve been learning so much participating in these exam meetings. Decisions have been made by the collective - everyone is consulted in the process, every decision is a group decision mutually agreed upon. This presents obvious challenges, but somehow it seems to work okay, and it’s totally different from my western background. It surprised me to have my opinion valued and effecting change in this process. It also surprised me to be pseudo-bonding with my boss, Constance (from Kenya). Constance is a powerhouse of a woman, is always at work first and always leaves last. She’s strong willed, overworked, and realistic. I am rarely any of these things. Hah.

I walked up the dirt path today from where the moto dropped me off on the main road, and it hit me (like it does so often) that I am in Africa. That I am in Rwanda. That I am a part of this community. This is the life that I have dreamed about for so long. Actually, it is better than the dream. In my dreams, the work I’m doing is never tangible, there is no sweat on my brow, there is no stress. Life here is not like that. Work is stressful, as is life, and I walk around all day with sweat on my brow. It doesn’t even get washed off most nights because we frequently lack water. So there.

What I am trying to say is that there is a different happiness in this stress, in this sweat. No, its not the happiness that I am used to – the barbeque-and-country-music-with-a-beer, but it is a pure type of happiness. It’s the type of happiness where you feel exhausted most of the time, and are constantly fighting an uphill and sometimes losing battle. A happiness where you forget about pleasures like personal space, simple tasks, and whole wheat bread, and instead indulge in the happiness of almost getting hit by cars and not even flinching, embracing squatting more than you ever have before, or having that awkward moment where you go to shake someone’s hand and they are going for the hug so you compromise with a half hug followed by the handhold.


I am exhausted, broke, smelly, and completely content with my place in the world.