Dispatches: Africa

Fail.

2011-05-13T23:50:00.000-07:00

Activity at the Kenya-Uganda border, at Busia.

Entebbe, Uganda – I must have seemed illiterate as I presented my immigration documents to officials at the Kenya-Uganda border town of Busia this afternoon.

As I had attempted to fill out the various pieces of paper on the bus, the wavy scrawl of ink had risen and fallen with each pothole etched into the road that carried me from Kisumu. Road crews had mounded entirely insufficient cones of dirt along the road to fill the gaps, but they were of little use just sitting there.

The border featured a slouching metal fence painted in the chipping colours of Kenya’s flag. Buses and trucks alike bunched up as we cleared customs, walked across no-man’s land and into Uganda’s immigration office. Once cleared, we wove between jaggedly parked vehicles to find our bus, navigating through salespeople carrying boxes of beverages and snacks on their heads. Impoverished children slapped at the side of the bus and called up through the open window, making hand gestures that mimicked eating.

Pulling into Uganda, the sky became a watercolour of mottled greys and my nausea increased because of the bus's 1.5-hour late start this morning – and the tight deadline I faced for my plane home. Donning sunglasses, a boxer jogged along the road with taped hands, jabbing at the wind. Each time I checked my watch, I felt as though I had taken one of his punches to my gut.

Farther along, a woman raked the dirt out front of her house with a paint roller that had no sponge. A rural field was speckled with scarecrows whose heads were made from black garbage bags. Clever. In a larger town, a giant billboard featured a man with two women draped over him under the banner, “Be handsome, and fair.” It was for fair skin cream for men. What?

My unanticipated home in Entebbe for more than 24 hours.

It was a pleasant ride I enjoyed with my head hanging out the window at the back of the bus. As we pulled into the hills of Kampala, however, the road was stitched with a knot of traffic. The city has a reputation for slow travel on Friday nights and, true to form, we trudged five kilometres in two hours. At the same time, the hands on my watch seemed to hasten their pace as I twisted my wrist. I still needed to find a taxi to take me the additional 40 kilometres to the airport in Entebbe.

Finally arriving at the bus park, I haggled with the taxi driver out of respect, but hit the road soon thereafter, hoping to eke in under the wire. Naturally, he needed to stop for fuel now that he had a fare. Reaching the airport at Entebbe, heavily armed police pulled us from the vehicle to do a thorough search, and the ill feeling in my stomach rose into my throat.

The city is on edge given recent strikes and violence related to the re-election of President Yoweri Museveni, who was sworn in yesterday. I, too, was on edge – but I had hope.

Unfortunately, that is all I had: I missed check-in my 15 minutes.

Hashtag: Fail.

Seeing the Forest and the Trees.

2011-05-12T18:50:00.000-07:00

Looking like an Ewok, a Blue monkey snacks.

Kakamege, Kenya – The sky repeatedly cleared its throat, but the drops did not reach us as we set out through the heavy canopy of the Kakamega forest this afternoon.

Only the sun’s rays and shrill cries of birds filtered through the more than 150 species of plant in Kenya’s last remnant of the Guineo-Congolian rainforest that used to blanket the entire continent. Colobus and Blue monkeys swished through the leaves, sounding as though they were sweeping their porches, and a nearby bird whistled like ascending fireworks.

Spiders wove their looms across pathways carved between centuries-old trees – many of which are endemic here – and 40 types of snake lurked, unseen. Shy vipers, cobras and mambas remained hidden in the vibrant palette of green, which was soon washed by heavy drops.

This turn of weather has wreaked havoc on the bumpy red clay roads that are to carry us toward Kisumu – the ditch seems to be welcoming us as a respite from the slippery clay, but we have maintained traction at the last minute each time.

I love passing the nearby villages at dusk, though, as smoke from countless kitchens carries with it delicious smells before hanging in the valleys like foggy ghosts.

Kerosene lamps, meanwhile, begin to flicker like fireflies and I’m left to marvel at life here.

A New Goal.

2011-05-11T15:58:00.000-07:00

DC and Titus, plotting World Cup dominance.

Chekalini, Kenya – Although I do not understand many words of their persistent chatter, the children here sound just like those anywhere else.

Excited. Eager. Proud.

In the blazing heat of midday, this chatter wilted as DC, Titus and I first kicked around a couple of guavas, then a ball crafted from rolled-up felt wrapped in a plastic bag and bound by twine. Games transcend the differences of culture and language that so often define our uniforms.

We laughed as we beat the ball into submission – its felt unfurling like a tail – and we flailed our legs wildly, attempting to communicate through the unspoken language of sport.

Taking my hand, Lincoln guided me the long way around the property to show me his school – pointing out trees, flowers and other words he understood in English. With a kind smile, a funny face or an awkward dance, such differences in language can easily dissolve. In fact, sometimes language simply does not matter: some experiences are universal.

And no matter how one says it, I know I have been so tremendously blessed with my good fortune here.

Magic.

2011-05-10T23:22:00.000-07:00

Titus, DC and Bobo during one of the welcoming dances.

Chekalini, Kenya – A long but beautiful day on the road has carried us to the most incredible of nights.

After wending our way over the clay arteries that lie beyond Eldoret, we arrived at Eric's family's home in Chekalini this evening. We were immediately greeted by a welcoming committee that framed the front of the house.

Eric dissolved into his mother's eagerly awaiting arms as we shook hands with his brothers and sisters, and high-fived the numerous nieces and nephews. There may have been a few tears.

We entered the house and were blessed with a traditional prayer of welcome and offered a meal. All day, the children had made excuses to stay home from school in case we arrived, conveniently forgetting their pencil cases or their homework. There may have been some excitement.

Initially, the children eyed the large white man I am with a degree of suspicion. Then I showed them just how poorly I dance.

Soon, they mimicked every shake of my arms and awkward rattle of my hips as everyone laughed and clapped along. Consider the ice broken. I soon taught them the 'exploding fist bump,' several new ways to contort one's face and "I've got my eye on you," replete with hand gestures.

They gobbled it up.

The children sang us songs in Kiswahili and English, and I showed Lincoln (Bobo) how to take photographs. He insisted on using the viewfinder, rather than the giant screen on the back. Whatever works. Then he and Titus reached up and took my hands to guide me on a tour of the property. It was pitch black, though the night sky was perforated with diamonds.

"Twende," they said as we wove through the dark pasture. There may not have been much we could actually see, but their pride in their home shone through.

Tonight was magical.

Quite a Rift.

2011-05-10T19:18:00.000-07:00

A man rides his bicycle through the Rift Valley.

Chekalini, Kenya – As we coursed along its tongue, the cavernous jaw of the Rift Valley appeared to swallow us, its pebbly walls rising as we wound down serpentine switchbacks into dry pastures of scrub and stretching acacia.

Cacti lined the road, standing sentinel with spiny paddles.

The road at the head of the valley, which leads to former President Daniel arap Moi's home region, is well-paved, but silent. As so few vehicles pass by, locals quip it is best known as a resting place for goats and cows.

Sure enough, around the corner lay a goat, nonplussed, chewing on a long blade of grass.

Crossing the equator and descending farther, however, we rattled across pocked roads as the ground blushed with the red of clay, its lips whispering small puffs of dust. Termite hills as tall as I rose from the landscape like stovepipe hats.

Yet, even as the sun threw blazing rays earthward, motorcyclists remained bundled in down coats – the concept of heat obviously dependent on the climate to which one is accustomed. The whole way, we waved at wide-eyed children in school uniforms who double-took at the palour of our skin.

Toward the end of the day, rain set a local market into motion as tarps were drawn like curtains over stick-framed kiosks selling everything from shoes, to fruit, to suitcases. Weather had signaled the end of the show.

We had been on the road for nearly 12 hours, setting out from Lake Naivasha to see the splendour of the Great Rift Valley and to visit Eric's family in the Western Kenya village of Chekalini.

With a thud in Eldoret, though, we heard the now-familiar snake-like hissing and, for the second day in a row, were roadside – covered in ochre – changing a punctured tire.

This is becoming a habit.

An Abridged Version.

2011-05-09T23:07:00.000-07:00

Giraffes watch us as we spin out, stuck on a hill.

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – As dusk settled in like a smudge of heavy eyeshadow, a curious giraffe elongated its neck toward us at the side of the road.

It was close enough we could see its eyelashes, batting like fans.

Despite the pacifist nature of our newfound friend, this was not the best time of day to be stranded in a field of wild African animals.

No, ever-dangerous hippopotamus would soon begin stretching from a day spent staying cool in the water, and foraging with mouths studded by tusk-like teeth. Despite being herbivores, they can be indiscriminate in their violence.

And yet, there we were, tipped sideways in the car, hanging precipitously over the edge of a hill in the riparian area behind the house, the vehicle's belly grounded against a crumbling stone bridge. As we tried to lift the vehicle back onto the road, the tires spun, cloaking us in a cloud of vaporized rubber.

It would not budge.

Yup, we were pretty stuck.

We had already had to change a punctured tire on a dusty hill in Karagita earlier in the day – an event that had attracted other curious onlookers as we attempted to loosen bolts in the middle of a roughly hewn, angular road, amidst homes fabricated of mud and sticks.

With a series of guttural cries, we wedged our hands under the front bumper and tried to raise the vehicle onto the dirt path. By mistakenly spreading the fingers of my right hand onto the spinning tire, I soon learned the car was front-wheel drive.

And I wondered if my now-erased prints would qualify me for a future career in the secret service.

Standing in a bush of thorns, we repeatedly heaved the car upward while awkwardly leveraging ourselves against the side of the hill. Still, the car teetered and we remained fearful it would roll down the hill – on top of us, no less. With the help of a couple locals, though, we eventually wedged a large chunk of the bridge that had become dislodged under the tire.

Traction. At last.

Nonplussed, the giraffe continued snacking on its live salad of nettles as we pulled out through a growing number of wildebeest, zebra and waterbuck.

I'm on a Boat.

2011-05-06T18:29:00.000-07:00

Hungry, hungry hippos, looking for the marble.

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – Hippos cloaked by papyrus snorted like pigs with megaphones and leapt toward the boat with a seismic splash.

Our captain had backed into the area for this very reason.

With a quick crank of the throttle, the nose of our boat lifted from the water and pulled free of the reeds, which it spat into the air like confetti.

Nearby, three families of hippopotamus lay submerged, their eyebrows shrugging and nostrils flaring as they loudly sprayed water in disgust. Fish eagles swooped by with curved swords extended, plucking fish from the lake with a cry as piercing as their talons, before climbing back into the trees.

I was touring the lake with Western’s Ecosystem Health – Africa Initiative, where we conducted interviews to better understand the relationship between the growing community, the billion-dollar flower industry and the health of both individuals and the ecosystem.

Up one hill lays a sprawling, unplanned village without a sanitation program. Its refuse ends up in the lake. The entire slum works for one specific rose grower in the region and, in direct contrast, the owner lives in a white, castle-like home a farther up the lake. These manufactured communities provide their own schooling, healthcare, housing and daycare for employees.

The industry is big business, employing a quarter of the 450,000 residents around the lake, many of whom came to the area during the 1990s when the population was only 20,000. The environmental impact of both human migration and from the flower businesses has been tremendous on Lake Naivasha.

As one local described it: “The flower companies are the mother of Naivasha – a cruel mother.”

In the Backyard.

2011-05-05T20:26:00.000-07:00

Dark meat or white meat?

Lake Naivasha, Kenya – Pulling up to our quaint cottage nestled under a trestle of acacia trees, we agreed to stretch our legs after the drive and to take a walk into the field behind us.

Lake Naivasha sprawled below.

Birds chirped against a verdant backdrop that soon exposed dark shapes that moved in herds. Both the house and land surrounding it provided the setting for the 1966 movie, Living Free.

Throaty thunder rolled percussively in symphony with wildebeest hooves parading across the open space.

We walked through constant reminders of the very real presence of Africa’s wildlife, past thorny trees and dry soil littered with the bleached vertebrae of a giraffe, fallen like dominoes and spread as long as its neck was in life. Nearby lay a zebra with hollow eyes and an empty belly.

It was no longer hungry.

To the side, wildebeest banged heads and waterbuck eyed us cautiously. A brown-striped baby zebra galloped beside its mother as a trio of giraffe loped away like teenagers with an awkward gait. Turning to look back at us, they dwarfed the herd of tan antelope with feminine features underfoot.

This is our backyard.

Fuelling Adventure.

2011-05-05T16:13:00.000-07:00

Creative means for fuelling a car.

Nairobi, Kenya – After five hours spent waiting for our vehicle to arrive, the orange fuel light menaced us with a winking eye.

Choking on the few fumes remaining in its tank, the large van carrying us to Lake Naivasha would soon be left breathless from the standstill traffic. We looked for a modern-day Moses.

The fuel shortage is currently so serious in Nairobi that people queue on foot for hours, clutching jerry cans even as they stand in suits. Despite the lack of petrol, traffic is chaos as an increasing number of vehicles creep through belching clouds of exhaust.

It takes hours to get anywhere.

Radio chatter alerts listeners to gas stations that have received a new supply, which leads to an immediate rush to the pumps. Soon thereafter, yellow tape is pulled across the tanks like a curtain signalling the end of a show.

As the day’s heat rose, we found a barren station where we could siphon gas from the smaller car we had previously rented, and watched the attendant empty it into a large green garbage can. Using an old plastic oil jug as a scoop and a water bottle fitted with a rubber tube, he cautiously fed the precious fuel into the tank’s gaping maw.

With its thirst quenched, the engine sparked to life and the fuel gauge slowly tilted east, even as we headed northwest through the Rift Valley, looking over Longonot Crater and onto Lake Naivasha, which is ringed by the shiny tarps of flower production.

Hamna shida: after yet another hour, we were back on track.

Marketing.

2011-05-04T08:40:00.000-07:00

Vendors hawk their wares at the Maasai market.

Nairobi, Kenya – A muted brown field hosts the weekly open air Maasai market in Nairobi, and it seemed to be transformed into a tulip farm by all the brightly coloured goods for sale yesterday.

If only it smelled as good.

Sitting on grey tarps covered with wood and stone carvings, beaded jewellery and toys, blankets and paintings that repeated themselves from shop to shop, women constantly implored us to check out their wares. Maasai sat draped in traditional beads, their stretched ear lobes grazing their narrow shoulders. Gnarled fingers became artfully entwined in wires-full of beads, dancing as they crafted ornate neck pieces.

If the vibrant colours were not enough to make you think your brain had been inserted into a kaleidoscope, the sheer hustle and bustle may have.

And hustle they did.

Before so much as entering the market, we had already made many new ‘friends’ who promised to guide us around and help us make a deal. I soon had three, who placed items in which I had expressed a mild interest into a shopping bag. “These are ‘the maybes,’ we call them,” one said.

They were very friendly, but tenacious. Shopkeepers called over: “promote something of mine – buy something, even small.” Word of our presence spread quickly and everyone always seemed to be aware of where we were, what we had looked at and what we might be interested in. This, despite the size and commotion of the market. One salesperson even came up to me and said I worked in communications.

I had not told anyone.

Colourful fabrics hang in the Maasai market.

Having finished stepping through the labyrinthine path that divided the tarps, my new friends spread my wares onto the grass and began to negotiate, writing the numbers 1-4 on a piece of paper. This was where we were to respond to each other’s pricing salvos. The larger of the men placed 16,000 KSH beside number one.

For a half hour, we shared back pats, laughs, jokes and conversations about our families. Numbers and conversion rates turned to slurry in my mind.

I negotiated down to 14,500 KSH before giving him 2,000 KSH and asking for change. I had not converted correctly in my head and I soon realized the extra zero I had overlooked made for a ridiculous price. I walked away anew, saying we were not even close enough to begin a negotiation.

“Name your price, my friend,” he said. “You’ll be insulted,” I replied. “Insult me,” he added with a big smile. The game was back on.

I felt no pressure because I did not need any of the gifts I was purchasing and I have plenty of time to pick something up – outside the city where prices are generally lower, no less.

Sensing a deal slip away as I inched closer to people I knew who had finished their shopping, one of the salesmen left, frustrated. His two colleagues did not give up so easily. They kept at it, taking turns, and eventually offering 3,500 KSH – even trying to play to my emotions. “I have five children and two wives, and I haven’t eaten today,” one said.

I decided I would not budge from 2,400 KSH and held strong until we finally agreed for 100 shillings more – minus a necklace of trade beads they said they wouldn’t even take less than $50 for on its own.

While I may have still paid mzungu prices, I was comfortable both with my purchases and with supporting the local economy. It was exhausting, and while I do not tend to enjoy haggling, it remains a central aspect of the culture here. This time I even had fun with it.

“You are a hard bargainer,” one said before shaking my hand goodbye, his eye already tilted toward his next mark.

Stage Fright.

2011-05-03T17:36:00.000-07:00

Some materials distributed at the Africa Institute launch.

Nairobi, Kenya – Gazing out from Taifa Hall's stage at the University of Nairobi, I was a little surprised to see the room half-filled with students.

It was 7:30 a.m.

Both Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton have spoken from the spot on which I stood, and I was mildly encouraged to see two young men begin untangling snakes of wires to set up a PA system. Then they indicated it was for the class they were holding in a half hour.

Our event was to begin at 9:30.

It was a rather inauspicious beginning to the launch of The Africa Institute at The University of Western Ontario, which is the whole reason I am here in the first place. Though we had reconfirmed the location the day before, we quickly began the mad scramble for a new space.

Moving to a room thick with brewing humidity, we hastily began moving chairs, placing materials, building the dais, removing a giant Chinese bust and summoning water for guests. Several key people were nowhere to be found and, even after getting the room set in time, the waiting game began for various officials. Sometimes, one must simply roll with the cultural differences that can exist related to time and organization. Hamna shida, as they say here.

The elevator had broken, too, and a couple of us set out to carry a handicapped alumnus who could not climb the three flights of stairs to the event. Sundry duties as assigned. Unfortunately, we did not make it in time and he had already left.

A banner announces the institute at University of Nairobi.

At this point, I have managed enough events to know they generally work out, despite the often-harried preparations that go into them. I liken such announce- ments to weddings: sometimes specific details do not fall exactly into place, but at the end of the day, meeting the objective of professing your love or meeting with partners and launching an institute is what is really of importance.

An hour later, the Institute was officially announced. The initiative brings together more than 150 researchers, graduate students and postdoctoral fellows at Western who are working with partners across the continent to advance research efforts with, by and for Africans. It seeks to become a world-class institute advancing scholarship and policy development related to African society, politics, economy, culture and health through research.

After hearing from a series of dignitaries and researchers, we broke bread on the lawn at the centre of the university and had an opportunity to speak more informally with guests and enjoy a Kenyan lunch of ugali, chicken, beef, vegetables and assorted other tasty morsels.

By all accounts, the event was a success, and the Institute has been formally announced to the world.

Even after two hours of madness, that’s what really matters.

Coffee and TV.

2011-05-02T16:45:00.000-07:00

Facing of one of the buildings at University of Nairobi.

Nairobi, Kenya – As we sat down to breakfast this morning, several Kenyan military vehicles sped past, with one stopping to unload in front of the hotel.

There’s nothing like an AK-47 with your morning coffee.

Osama bin Laden’s death has brought heightened security throughout the city, particularly for potential Al Quaeda targets. It makes sense given that bombings at embassies here and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania in 1998 first brought bin Laden into the American consciousness.

Despite the commotion, today was spent preparing for tomorrow’s launch of The Africa Institute at The University of Western Ontario, being held at the University of Nairobi. In the morning, we visited the campus – conveniently located a zebra crosswalk away, directly across the street – to scout locations and to take photographs. At one point, we were questioned to see if we had permission to do so, and were escorted by an older man with a cane to the security office we had just visited. Confident there were would be no issues, we dropped the Vice-Chancellor’s name during the walk back and awaited his verdict.

Of course, by this point, we had already amassed all the photos we needed, but we were given the okay to continue.

The afternoon was spent preparing marketing materials for the event, and my floor was quickly littered with empty plastic bags from the lapel pins I speared into business cards. I looked like a drug dealer with an abundance of dime bags. As time progressed, my fingers numbed from repetitively opening and closing the clasps, but the pins look good, and will be a nice token of appreciation for our guests.

With all of our team members in town, we held a team dinner at the hotel restaurant, Tatu (no longer just a Russian pop group). As my stomach rumbled, my plate arrived with tandoori spiny lobster and truffled Parmesan French fries.

Need I say more?

Snakes on the Plains.

2011-05-01T18:41:00.000-07:00

How many politicians do you spot?

Nairobi, Kenya – As clouds recoiled into the sky, trees of snakes waved hypnotically like Medusa’s uncoiffed mane.

We decided to visit the Snake Park at Nairobi National Museum, which consists of a few glass cases containing a cobra, some rather large pythons and a number of mambas, as well as a treed, open-air setting with dozens of snakes. In turn, they rose and fell like the LED lights of an equalizer.

Some green, some red, others silver, the thin reptiles slithered out of the foliage like living branches. Others attempted to climb the wall that divided us, but could not sustain the strength before they fell back to the grass.

All the while, two tortoises moseyed along, ambivalent.

At the end of the visit, I even had an opportunity to wrap a ball python around my neck like a fine patterned, scaly foulard.

Meat being roasted at The Carnivore.

If I had worn it to dinner, the snake would likely have wound up on the losing end of a traditional Maasai sword, and thrust into a charcoal pit.

I have long looked forward to having a meal at The Carnivore, which has twice been named one of the world’s top-50 restaurants and boasts (and bastes) an assortment of roasted meats. While exotic game is, obviously, no longer available (no need to decide between the dark and light meat of a zebra), we still had waiters making rounds between our tables with swords of meat they would cut off onto our plates: camel, crocodile, ostrich, ox testicle, lamb and even a full turkey.

Appropriately, to signify the end of the meal, you don’t just raise a white flag, you try to summon the energy to lower one at the centre of the table.

There’s a reason The Carnivore is referred to as “Africa’s best eating experience” – it was a tasty show.

Make No Bones About It.

2011-05-01T17:35:00.000-07:00

A skeleton at Nairobi National Museum.

Nairobi, Kenya – The full-bodied smell of a brewing storm blends like spices with the city’s other pungent aromas: flowering jacaranda trees, acrid charcoal fires, bus diesel and human sweat.

To avoid an afternoon spent dancing with raindrops, we have opted instead to roam the vast halls of Nairobi National Museum, which has left me astounded at the history set out before me.

All around, children scramble to pose for photos in front of murals depicting pastoral scenes, or beside artifacts that testify to the nation’s history. Tying the past to the future, a vendor has painted their faces with tribal markings, and their excited cries echo through monuments of their – and our – history.

I am not the only one giddy.

Standing here, it is abundantly obvious: there’s Canadian and European history, which remain significant, but pale at their ability to trace the roots of civilization, which began just up the road. The past in front of us may be local, but its impact is much farther reaching in terms of our understandings of human evolution.

In room after room, this history becomes tangible as ancient skulls rest, poised and unstaring in their hollowness. Bone fragments are epoxied together like jagged human jigsaw puzzles – as is history itself. It is completely humbling to consider the insignificance of this passing moment in the context of millions of years.

It resonates particularly strongly with me that many of these artifacts are in fact original, rather than plaster cast reproductions of some of the earliest origins of species.

And then, in one moment, my eyes widened in excitement – my mouth, similarly agape. I was staring at the skeleton of the famous, 3.2-million-year-old ‘Lucy,’ an early hominid I had read about as a child in National Geographic, and subsequently studied in school. Nondescript in a plain case with other artifacts, she seemed to shrug at her placement: "That's just how much history there is here."

I was rendered speechless, so I simply basked in wonder and in my love for this continent.

Fin.

2009-02-26T20:40:00.000-08:00

London, Ontario, Canada – Mounds of snow rest on the side of the road, blackened like smokers’ teeth. The listless wet grass mopes in faded browns as the swollen river climbs the banks.

Where is all the green? The statuesque trees cloaked in bright leaves? The rolling fields of tea, shimmering in the sunlight? The lizards, scampering under rocks, covered in moss? Where is the mashaza?

Alas, this is not Rwanda. Back in Canada, spring is yawning, but not yet awake.

I returned yesterday afternoon and spent my first day home at the Ivey Eye Clinic. Examining the results of Sunday’s crash outside Kigali, the doctors shook their heads, marvelling in amazement at just how lucky I had been. “Unbelievable.” It turns out I have a 4.2 mm laceration on my cornea that went so deep it came within a micron (a thousandth of a millimetre) of penetrating my eye, leaving me blind on the right side forever. Lucky indeed.

The current prognosis is yet unknown, but there’s hope I’ll regain at least some of my vision while the eye heals over the next six months.

It may not be green, but at least I can see something. And I still have the cold rain to remind me of Kitabi.

Day 44: Lasting Memories.

2009-02-24T01:35:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – Kigali, Nairobi, Amsterdam, Detroit, London. As I sit in Kigali International Airport with my departure nearing, I am struck by what I am leaving behind.

I have munched on my last succulent brochette skewered on a fresh stick of green bamboo in Nyanza. I’m done driving through the towering hills of Nyungwe in darkness (while standing in the back of a flatbed truck as the cold air makes my knuckles chatter). I’ve said goodbye to Richard, Daniel and Jethro – and to great staff at KCCEM. For now.

I’ve seen my last tropical rainstorm that sends people scurrying for cover, like ants. I’ve cupped my way through my last shower from a basin and breathed my last waft of a field of eucalyptus. As we passed, it shimmered in the sun as though it were winking. I’ve felt my way through my last blackout and spied the last of the swaddled babies poking their heads out of the backs of their mothers’ kitenge.

The ‘tea girl’ has brought me my last morning tea in my office and the women at the canteen will no longer ‘forget’ to return my change. I’ve quaffed my last Primus. And Mutzig. I’m down to my last remaining bills of ‘mafaranga’ and will no longer feel the buzz of the clippers at the ‘saloon’. And certainly not at foreigner prices.

The last wide-eyed child has stared at me, pointing tentatively while calling me ‘muzungu’. Followed by ‘good morning madame’ or ‘agachupa!’ or ‘give me money’. I’ve watched my last banal programme on Africa Magic television and finished joking about ‘mashaza’ and ‘My Sandra’. At least until the emails begin.

No more will I be stuck behind petrol trucks that struggle to inch up each and every one of Rwanda’s thousand hills. No more Impala minibuses. The sharp cut of horns to alert children and bicycles weaving onto the road will no longer fill my ears. I’ve driven the road to Kigali one last time.

I’ve seen the last of the low-lying cloud hanging over the hills and taken the last picture from ‘the spot’ in Kitabi. I've seen promise for great things from KCCEM. I’ve witnessed the final Rwandan vista whose beauty surpasses the last. Last day, last look at homes perched seemingly impossibly on the edge of hills, last pair of clean boxers.

But this is just the beginning.

Day 43: Ode to Kitabi.

2009-02-23T04:20:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – With the amount of rain Kitabi gets, it was appropriate my eyes misted over at having to say goodbye to its rolling tea fields and looming backdrop of Nyungwe National Park yesterday morning. It has begun to feel like a second home, and I am remarkably at peace there.
Look closely and you’ll see that each of Rwanda’s ‘thousand hills’ is covered by slightly different vegetation, the result of human impact, different altitudes, mineral deposits, water absorbance, etc. From vast fields of banana palms swaying in the breeze to forests of coniferous trees, the country is painted with chlorophyll.

Unlike much of Rwanda, however, Kitabi is located in a poor region for agriculture. Its drier soil is fine for producing tea, peas and tubers like sweet potatoes, but tropical fruits are hard to locate. When we did not travel, food variety waned.

It makes me appreciate how hard it is for the predominantly poor residents of the area, most of whom are unable to travel to markets an hour or two away. Moreso, it makes me realize how lucky were are at home to simply go to any number of grocery stores and select anything we feel like having from around the world.

Kitabi: you are more to me
than rolling carpets of tea,
than a silent
forest of green.

You are somewhere I have grown
and grown to love,
somewhere that gave me breath
and took it away.

I am changed by your change,
and changed by your same,
and believe I came to love
my home away from home.

Day 42: Blood Diamonds.

2009-02-22T10:47:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – Like diamond pixie dust, shattered glass flew into the cab of the truck and I was left pulling a shard out of my right eye as blood began trickling down my face. I flattened myself against the front seats as a dump truck loaded with sand hurtled past with a baritone rumble. Its brakes had failed.

Previously, a raging storm had felled a large tree across the road, forcing us to stop and thus beginning a long procession of vehicles behind us. We were first on the scene.

As young men hacked at the tree with machetes and an axe, a growing cry rose from vehicles behind us. Jethro and our driver Leonard managed to scramble out of the vehicle as I wondered what was happening. Climbing out of the back seat, I opened the door in time to take a face full of glass.

The tree laying across the road splintered into a billion toothpicks as it was hit by the truck, which flipped onto its side. If it hadn’t hit the tree, the cars on the other side would likely have been decimated. Amid cries and people rushing about, a number of locals came over to see that I was alright. The truck driver did not wear so much as a scratch.

Though I cannot currently see out of my right eye, the prognosis from Dr. Bategeximana at King Faisal Hospital in Kigali was that trauma from the impact will subside and that there was no damage to the cornea itself. Thankfully, glass did not cut the eyeball. Already, I see (literally) a bit of improvement.

Given that tomorrow marks 12 years since I was involved in this on my first night in New York City, I've decided I should no longer travel during the last week of February.

It could have been a lot worse. Ironically – and mercifully – I was the only one injured in the accident. Could it be because I'm a muzungu? Or are forces conspiring to keep me from leaving?

Day 41: An All-White Affair.

2009-02-21T00:36:00.000-08:00

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Between the preacher’s rapid-fire Kinyarwanda and the deafening din of driving rain against the church’s tin roof, I had little hope of understanding. But when the entire church turned in my direction with probing eyes, I knew something was up.

The bride was not the only one in white.

The preacher had said something to the effect of “We have a very well-attended wedding today – we even have a muzungu.” Having driven up a narrow hill being repaired by the community, it became obvious this village had not hosted many foreign visitors. It was said I was likely the first in Gihundwe Parish church.

Sitting to my left, Claude reached out and shook my hand, saying “Welcome to God’s church.” I learned then I was to acknowledge the congregation with a two-handed wave. To my right, children literally sat on top of each other on the edge of the pew opposite, trying to sit closer to the muzungu attending the wedding. The rest of the bench was empty.

I was honoured to join several colleagues from KCCEM for our colleague Laurent’s wedding today in Cyangugu. The new family had had their traditional wedding a couple weeks ago and now joined another couple being married in the church. I had never before seen two marriages conducted simultaneously.

In contrast with the overt joyousness of weddings in Canada, bride and groom were predominantly stoic during the ceremony. The young woman of the other couple even appeared frightened. Veils were lifted, but there was no kissing the bride. People clapped and said prayers, and hymns were sung. Vows and rings were exchanged and handycameramen manoeuvred around guests with a handheld spotlight. The same, yet different, and incredible.

Likewise, I found the reception fascinating and attempted to interpret the meanings of various ceremonial acts, which included a first meal and cutting of the cake (incongruously, as artificial snow was sprayed from a can). Again, the emcee made a point of sprinkling references to the muzungu in his monologue and looking in my direction with a big grin. A young child crawled off his mother’s lap and under the chairs, apparently disinterested with the occasion.

For me personally, it was an amazing cultural experience and I was deeply grateful for the invitation. I wish Laurent and his new bride the very best for their future together.

Day 40: Hello, Moto.

2009-02-20T23:52:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – I tried not to think of how many heads had been where mine was headed (pun intended) as I pulled the heavy green helmet over it. The flimsy plastic clasp on the nylon strap refused to grip tightly.

Pulling through Kigali on a moto-taxi for the first time, the visor threatened to catch in the wind and pull the helmet right off. Then we’d start uphill and the small motorcycle would sputter to summon the strength to pull us toward our destination. Too many sweet potatoes.

In the end, I made it halfway across town for 1,000 FRw (about two dollars), an uncommon slickness in my hair and a brief period of travelling like a local.

Saying Goodbye.

2009-02-19T14:24:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – This evening, I was unexpectedly struck by a startling reminder of how little time I have left in Rwanda. For the first time, I had to say goodbye to someone with whom I’ve developed a strong friendship in Kitabi.

Though I had not realized I would not be seeing him again before I left, I am very thankful for having come to know my new friend Richard. Our paths will diverge over my remaining days and he came to say goodbye tonight in Kigali. Apart from Jethro and Daniel, I have spent more time here with him than anyone, laughing about mashaza, the Cheetah Girls and the world’s many Sandras. I will always remember the morning I wandered off into Nyungwe National Park for something to do, only to find him walking in my direction to make sure I was alright as I popped out of the forest.

We had planned to travel together to Uganda, but the clock operated against us. We talked of visiting his parents’ village on our return from Kampala and that we did not have the chance to do so is the one regret I have from this trip. “Next time,” he says.

Finding out this was it really sucked. I’ll miss him.

Day 39: A Red Mark.

2009-02-19T13:59:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – Crouched on reddish-black volcanic rock, a long, jagged row of homes and businesses that line the road from Gisenyi bear a red ‘X’ like a modern-day scarlet letter. The mark indicates the structures will be destroyed for being too close to the road. Though owners receive compensation from the government, they are still often forced to relocate.

I have seen this throughout the country and it reflects Rwanda’s infrastructure development, particularly roads, in the face of little formalized land ownership.

Passing through the northern province, even more letters are stencilled on signs and onto the facings of most buildings. The words they form, however, reflect a slogan introduced by the region’s popular governor. Like scars beginning to heal, they remind passersby of the genocide, but speak of hope for the future.

Loosely paraphrased, the phrase asks people for peace, forgiveness and to fight genocide from the roots up. That this message has been branded throughout this region is particularly significant given that it was home to former President Habyarimana and many of the genocide’s organizers. It is also where the war continued the longest.

In most instances, the word ‘Jenocide’ is singled out in red.

Day 38: Going Grey.

2009-02-18T05:59:00.000-08:00

Goma, DR Congo – Driving through Goma at dusk, as we did last night, can be likened to being an extra in an old black-and-white film. It’s moderately surreal and volcanic ash from an eruption three years ago has tinted everything in hues of grey. Even the colourful African fabrics women wear are muted.

People paid us no mind and, despite constant reminders of the conflict that has plagued the region for more than a decade, it is obvious life goes on here. Fancy leather shoes hung from boards on the main street, men rode large, handmade wooden scooters and people continued to carry-out their tasks in the market.

Goma is very dirty, though, and fires of lit cardboard burned on the sides of the main road. The smell cuts at your nostrils. Gutters overflowed with refuse of all varieties and goats rooted through it. I temporarily lost my appetite for brochettes. Black volcanic rock has been salvaged and used for fences, but the buildings carry a sooty reminder reminiscent of parts of London, England.

Though we passed a house where each room was made from old shipping containers, Goma, much like Kigali, is witnessing a construction boom. Enormous mansions are being built right in the city, proving there's still money in the region. And presumably, some degree of safety in the city.

The UN maintains a large camp at the airport and the vast white sea of its shelters, trucks and armed vehicles contrasts dramatically with the black tarmac. Its peacekeeping force in DR Congo is the largest in the world. While I’ve become moderately accustomed to the presence of automatic weapons in Rwanda, a couple Congolese soldiers we passed carried handheld grenade launchers. Serious stuff.

I can imagine the conflict here has gone on so long that, for many, theatrics in the region simply play in the background, like white noise. I'm sure they'd still like them to come to an end.

Day 37: Conservation of Leadership.

2009-02-17T12:09:00.000-08:00

Goma, DR Congo – Six stacked tables over which a large white tablecloth had been draped served as the backdrop for our presentations in the grand meeting hall at the Ihusi Hotel today.

As the tropics seeped through the windows, words in English and French hung in the humid air. Translation flowed like a discordant echo. Air conditioners, meanwhile, lined the room, sitting silent, as fluorescent lights winked awkwardly. The crushing roar of UN planes taking off and landing nearby shook the walls, often drowning-out the microphones.

Jethro and I were co-facilitating sessions about leadership and management for 30 senior conservation officials from DR Congo, Uganda and Rwanda on behalf of KCCEM. The trans-boundary meeting is being led by the International Gorilla Conservation Programme to provide updates and to discuss conservation efforts, environmental sustainability and community development. As the United Nations has declared 2009 to be the Year of the Gorilla, it also served as an opportunity to discuss events for the coming year.

As seems to be inevitable, we were required to reorganize on the fly to manage time. One key presenter arrived five hours late and had not yet even begun drafting his slides. Needless to say, the schedule went into the blender. Our sessions were fairly well received and provided me with an occasion to present and discuss theories of leadership in both English and French. It was a great opportunity, with one more day to go.

On an interesting cultural note, people are often given a cash per diem and certificates of attendance for coming to such conferences and meetings. Otherwise, many don’t come.

Day 36: Going, Going, Goma.

2009-02-16T11:21:00.000-08:00

Goma, DR Congo - It's a byline that scares many from the western world. "Goma." "DRC." But the guns aren't sounding nearby and, in fact, I'm in one of the nicest hotels I've been to in Africa (the Ihusi).

Travelling from Kitabi this afternoon, the roads were lined with banana palms, which are erected along roadsides in Rwanda for weddings and for government officials. Given the sheer number that pointed our way to Gisenyi, we gathered they indicated a significant event. It certainly wasn't for us. In fact, all of the Rwandan government (more than 200 people from the Director level up) are meeting for a retreat in the lakeside town this week. Needless to say, security is high.

Though the process was a little lengthy as officials scrutinized our passports and examined a letter of invitation that had been prepared to ease our transit, we made it through the Congolese border without any difficulty. The sheer number of UN trucks (and UN planes that flew overhead) and Voluntary Repatriation Manifests that had been casually stacked onto the counter in the immigration office was a little sobering, however. I have never before been in a country engaged in a civil war.

Not that you can tell, where we are. It is humid, tropical and the mountains loom over the shimmering blues of Lake Kivu. People laugh, share beers and welcome you to what may be an oasis in the midst of madness. The sounds of birds merge with the waves, lapping against the shore. A man dangles his pole for small fish to add to his ugali. And a gunboat patrols the lake.

It's hard to believe that within a couple hundred kilometres down the road, six million people have died in this conflict over the past 11 years.

Day 35: The Road to Kigali.

2009-02-15T04:11:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Like the spokes on a (very curved, and very hilly) wheel, all of Rwanda’s roads lead to the capital city. As I alluded to yesterday, this is a very Kigali-centric country and it is hard not to pass through it, regardless of your destination.

It is Rwanda’s power base and home to much of the country’s wealth. Most professionals work in Kigali and many of those employed elsewhere maintain homes there. Even though the trip from Kitabi takes more than three hours, for example, most of the staff here at KCCEM begin their pilgrimage home each Friday, as do many who work at the National University of Rwanda, in Butare. For more than a million people, it is home.

It's hard for me to believe, but this is my last full day in Kitabi, though I have a bit more than a week left before I depart for home. Tomorrow, we head to Goma, DR Congo, where I will be co-facilitating a two-day session on leadership and management for the International Gorilla Conservation Programme.

And yes, we’ll have to go through Kigali first (though if a straight road existed to Gisenyi, which is opposite Goma, the six-hour trip would be reduced to one).

Day 34: Rural Rwanda.

2009-02-14T04:03:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – An endless line of rural citizens had begun the long walk through the dark with bags of charcoal or vegetables balanced on their heads. Most were barefoot and shielded their eyes as our headlights pierced the darkness, hands shooting up to steady their loads. It was six a.m. and many had likely already walked great distances.

Men, women and children alike coughed as a hundred trucks carrying sweet potatoes to the capital from outlying areas belched acrid clouds of diesel exhaust. The farther one goes from Kigali, the more evident the extreme nature of poverty in Rwanda – ‘Capital P’ Poverty. For most, the sole means of subsistence is whatever crop they are able to produce and sell. In areas around the capital, this means making long daily treks into the city to sell what is not needed at home.

Houses are commonly made from hand-made clay bricks hewn from nearby hills. Some are covered in a mixture that includes chalk to make the surface smooth, and occasionally painted. Others are made from mud stacked on a framework of sticks, often listing to one side. Some of the poorest homes are simply mud cubes. Roofs are often comprised of steel sheeting, or clay tiles. Unlike Tanzania, few are thatched, in part because of a government mandate against them.

Experiences like this still affect me deeply, despite having been to other developing nations, and to Africa twice. It pains me to see children in these communities gathering water from puddles that pool at the end of muddy driveways during rainstorms. And to know it is often cleaner than the alternative. The extent of poverty can be staggering.

It hurts, and is a constant reminder of the excesses of home.

Day 33: Feeling Like a Local.

2009-02-13T00:06:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Having been here 33 days, I’ve begun to feel like a bit more of a local. I have my hotel in the city. They know me by (last) name (well, close to it). I don’t rush to the manager when I find women’s underwear hanging in the closet and used soap in the bathroom.

I have my go-to restaurants, my favourite meals and my local friends. I have a spot at the table and a mobile phone. I have a barber, though I wear my hair short. I can sing along to the chorus of some songs in Kinyarwanda. And not know what they mean. I drift unconsciously between languages when greeting people.

I have a job and need to wash my clothes by hand. I’ve given up hope for a warm shower with water pressure. And for not having to flush using a basin. I have eaten brochette after brochette and have quit resisting all the fresh tropical fruit. I have places to go to feel peace and I have a routine.

I know the prices of things, have ridden a minibus halfway across the country and have grown to love the taste of mashaza. I no longer take a picture of every single thread of low-lying cloud hanging over the mountains. I don’t flinch when the power goes off for the seventh time of the day. And it rains for the tenth. I have watched hours of Africa Magic television and have begun to dream with a Nigerian accent. Children smiling remind me of my own.

I know to order my drinks akonje and my sides without mayonnaise. I know the bends in the road and the smells. I respect the opportunities I have in life, and appreciate that others don’t. Time spent waiting has meant more time for thinking, observing and listening. If it weren’t for Paul, I wouldn’t know how North American sports teams were doing. But I've developed a better appreciation for futbol.

I've likely seen more of the country than most Rwandans. In some places, I’m less of a novelty because of the colour of my skin.

But I don’t have my family and friends in Canada. I miss you (but I’m still not ready to come home).

Day 32: Riding the Impala.

2009-02-12T06:38:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – As we arrived in Nyanza, the minibus jerked to the side of the road and was instantly surrounded by a horde of entrepreneurs hoping to sell food and beverages to the 33 passengers. Fermented milk, juice, doughnuts, roasted corn and brochettes on fresh bamboo spears were hawked through the windows. Stooped women with faces lined like the fields and handicapped children approached the door with pleading eyes and hands out.

The seats in the Impala minibus were comfortable enough as I returned to Kitabi this morning on a route that continues to Cyangugu. A ticket for the nearly seven-hour trip costs 4,000 FRw, about eight dollars, though I disembarked at the midway point.

Passengers carried goods from the city they hoped to sell at the other end. Fabric, electronics and a stack of Master P jeans (well, I guess they had to go somewhere) wrapped in clear plastic rested at my feet. Seats folded out to accommodate more passengers and we listened to R&B music in Kinyarwanda and English. I played peek-a-boo with a baby seated in front of me. She didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Next to me, a woman unwrapped the largest Hubba Bubba lollipop I’ve ever seen and proceeded to suck on it for the next hour. Then she played with the (obnoxious) ringtones on her mobile phone. At long last, she contented herself by singing softly under her breath. While the confines were not as tight as in the dalla dallas in Tanzania, if we had been any closer on some of the turns, she may have conceived.

I was amazed the tires managed to stay on the rims as the minibus accelerated around the hills’ many corners. Even still, the ride took me three-and-a-half hours, the horn sounding constantly, mostly at the streams of children who were just getting out of school for the morning. Many looked back indignantly, covered their ears or pretended to throw things in front of us.

My legs were still sore from gorilla tracking the other day, so I was not sad to have to give a sharp whistle to finally get the driver’s attention. Kitabi – home away from home. It was my stop.

Day 31: Interloper Anteloper.

2009-02-11T10:12:00.000-08:00

Akagara National Park, Rwanda – Dry red clay crackled under our tires as we made our way into the bush. The noise was enough to send a family of impala sprinting across the field, hind quarters bucking like a donkey’s.

Given that impala are able to jump 11 metres at a go, or three feet into the air, the style obviously works for them. But it still made me laugh. Nearby, a trio of males with sharp, curled horns butted heads, aspiring to be the only one allowed to join a family of females. Naturally, they played for keeps.

When Akagera National Park was founded in 1934, it occupied 2,500 square kilometres in the north-east corner of the country, on the border of Tanzania. Following the war in 1994, it was reduced to 1,085 square kilometres in order to provide additional space for farming. While drier than other areas, the park is still lush and filled with Rwanda’s characteristic rolling hills. Large lakes teeming with hippopotamus and crocodile rest at its centre. Akagera is also the only area in the country you can find animals typical of the African savannah.

It is also home to more than 520 different kinds of bird and a colourful assortment of butterflies.

The long horns of a resting topi poked out of the tall yellow grasses, the only objects not swaying gently in the breeze. Large antelope, topi are able to run at speeds of 70 kilometres an hour and are the fastest member of the family in this park.

Driving slowly along barely-there paths, we startled a bushbuck, which leapt in front of us, and into the foliage. A baboon followed, squinting menacingly. Seeing us approach the watering hole, a fish eagle swept into the sky with majestic wings, coming to rest in a nearby tree. With wingspans of up to seven feet, these impressive birds have the strength to carry a baby impala.

At the lake, hippos stayed submerged, keeping cool in the face of the hot midday sun. With a large snort, they’d come to the surface long enough to cherish another breath. Overturned and shattered thorn trees pointed to the presence of elephants, but we did not cross paths with any today. Though one of my favourite animals, I was spoiled by the number of them I saw on the Serengeti last year.

The highlight, however, was driving off-road through the tall grasses and being confronted by a gorgeous Massai giraffe, which bent over in curiosity. These animals just seem so dignified – it must be that they always hold their heads high.

And so ends my foray to Rwanda’s three national parks in three days.

Day 30: Gorillas in the Midst.

2009-02-10T14:16:00.000-08:00

Parc National des Volcans, Rwanda – The sun didn’t so much rise as it lightened the sky over the majestic, mist-covered peaks of the Virunga volcanoes in the north-west corner of the country this morning. Having left at 3:45 a.m., it was yet another early start.

By seven, I gathered with 50 foreigners who would be split into teams and taken to track families of mountain gorillas on different peaks. Of the 320 such gorillas remaining in the world, 250 can be found in Rwanda, the others in nearby DR Congo and Uganda.

When asked if I was feeling energetic before being assigned a climbing team, I should have known it was going to be a long morning – but a challenge not to pass up. The answer, of course, could only be yes. I joined seven other climbers from Australia, the United States and Germany for our assignment: to track the Susa (“River”) family made famous by researcher Dianne Fossey. At 40 members, this is the largest group in the Virunga Massif and contains both the first set of surviving twins and long-time Fossey friend, “Poppy”. What an amazing opportunity and, in some ways, honour.

After driving another hour, we set off on foot across volcanic rock and through farmer’s fields for six kilometres. In the driving rain, we couldn’t even see that there was a mountain in front of us. Upon reaching the base, we began the long ascent into a steep bamboo forest laid out like a tight giant slalom course that arced over us. A guide hacked a path with his machete and we all hoped to avoid falling down the hill, taking out everyone behind us.

The bamboo seemed impenetrable and we cursed its existence. More than once. After six kilometres – straight up – it finally ended, but we were still left with another eight kilometres through thistles and nettles that stung our hands and stabbed us through our clothes. We began hoping for bamboo again, but at least the sun had begun to shine.

Over several hours, we had covered 20 kilometres, two-thirds of which were vertical. This would, of course, have to be repeated on our descent – a journey that would end six hours after it began.

But the tall greenery swayed behind an enormous black hand that took a sticky plant and fashioned it into a ball of salad before popping it into a large black mouth. A touch of grey shone from its shoulder and a youngster in front of him similarly directed the tasty treat into its mouth. There was now no question the journey was worth it, and that much more delicious because of the investment we had made in it.

A male, who becomes a silverback after 12 years, can grow up to 200 kilograms in size. This was just one of three in this group, which we found seated nearby, having neatly trampled the surroundings into a tidy meadow. Though it was hard to count exactly how many there were, the guide counted at least 25 gorillas, including a week-old baby and several youngsters who wrestled, climbed branches and cartwheeled and spun their way down the hill. A mother with a baby on her back walked right past me and parked herself in a tree just above my head.

For the record, there is nothing cuter than a baby gorilla.

Day 29: Holding Pattern.

2009-02-09T11:54:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – I’m sitting alone on a patio overlooking the capital city and the heavy rains have ceased, leaving a perfect rainbow arched over the homes that line Kigali’s hills.

It reminds me of the holding pattern you find on television, which is appropriate given that updates to this blog will be on hiatus until I return to Kitabi, hopefully on Friday. Tomorrow, we leave at 4 a.m. for Parc National des Volcans, where we will make an early-morning ascent into the volcanoes to track mountain gorillas.

Stay lower than the silverback, I’ve been told.

From there, we’ll return to Kigali, then proceed to Akagera National Park to commune with the giraffes, baboons and hippos on Thursday.

But looking out as the sun sets over Kigali – not rosy, but white illuminating the rounded clouds that stand high across the whole sky – I can’t help but marvel at how cool this is.

Updates to follow.

Day 28: Time to Bolt.

2009-02-08T03:31:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – We were enveloped in a sudden flash of white and the instantaneous roar of deep, rumbling thunder shook the ground beneath us.

Having dodged raindrops the size of grapes while running from the computer lab to a waiting truck yesterday, either the vehicle itself, or the ground beside us, was struck by a large bolt of lightning. For a moment, the air was bleached; I had never been so close to one of Zeus’s arrows.

This followed a lightning strike a few minutes before that had hit the lab, sending a long spark out of the server and over our heads, alerting us that it might be wise to leave. Lightning arrestors would be a prudent investment.

The weather can change very quickly here. Given that Kitabi is located on the edge of a rainforest, it’s not surprising that sunny days can suddenly dissipate into skies of looming cloud and rains that make the hills disappear. The area accumulates approximately 2,000 millimetres of rain annually, which feeds the lush vegetation that springs from every inch of soil. I have never seen so much green.

And yet, when it is sunny, the skies seem to be painted on over rolling hills, making this one of the most beautiful areas I’ve seen in the world.

Day 27: A Word on Language.

2009-02-07T05:06:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – At any one time here, the lyrical tones of a variety of languages are carried on the breeze. With everyone talking on a mobile phone, it can be a real symphony.

Many educated Rwandans are at least bilingual and often speak three or four languages, at least passably. Persistent chatter on the street is generally in Kinyarwanda, but the government implemented a policy this past year that made English the working language. Meetings, however, often dissolve into the national tongue.

I imagine the transition will be interesting – and likely challenging – in the short term, given that the policy is not being phased in. It’s already in place. Imagine waking up one morning and suddenly finding out that all of your work had to be done in a different language – one you understood little of. All of a sudden, school curricula are in English. Signs, advertisements, newspapers, overhauled.

Though it may handicap the nation in the near future, the President believes the change will help Rwanda better position itself on the global stage in the long run. English is also central to the country’s desire to join the Commonwealth.

Kiswahili – the language of much of East and Central Africa – has now also been made mandatory in schools.

Given France’s extensive historical involvement in the country, many Rwandans also speak French (though there are areas in which you may be thought less of if you do because of disgust with the former colonial power). Rwanda was once part of ‘La Francophonie’, the association of French-speaking nations, but diplomatic relations have chilled with France because of its colonial past and its role in the genocide.

On an interesting note, Kinyarwanda is blessed with a couple idiosyncrasies that can be somewhat confusing if you’re not prepared for them. For reasons I do not understand, the ‘k’ sound is often pronounced as “ch” and an ‘l’ can be pronounced as ‘r’. As an example, Kigali (where I’m headed back to tomorrow) is often pronounced “Chigari”. To add another wrinkle, ‘b’ can be pronounced as ‘v’, leaving the oral form of Kitabi as “Chitavi”.

Confused yet?

Day 26: Chimpan-A to Chimpanzee.

2009-02-06T07:37:00.000-08:00

Nyungwe National Park, Rwanda – The alarm was shrill in the way anything is if it’s trying to wake you up at 2:30 a.m. The sun was nowhere near shattering the blackness.

Instead, we had a relatively clear skyline for our journey into Nyungwe National Park, where we were to track chimpanzees this morning. The blanket of stars reminded me of the sleep I could still be having. As we wove over the Park’s bumpy roads, tail lights bobbed like sinkers on fishing lines and remainders of the other day’s landslides jutted out like ribs.

After two hours of driving, we picked up our guide and two German tourists at 4:30 and made our way 12 more kilometres back into the rainforest. The wet, rutted roads were the worst I had ever encountered, so bad our journey took another 90 minutes.

As the sky lightened, we stood waiting for the trackers to locate the chimpanzee hoots that would set our direction. We knew the primates were nearby, but were keeping silent as their day was just breaking, too. Chimps are known to travel large distances and to not remain in one place long if food is not plentiful. A tracker fooled us with his call.

And suddenly, at 7:15, four large females thundered down the hill and across the road behind us. We stood, mouths agape, at how close we had been. We barrelled into the bush behind them (well, after giving them a bit of a lead), leaving no question of stealth with our heavy footfalls. The terrain was unforgiving and I cannot say I was always able to remain on my feet. Crashing down steep, muddy hills as vines and roots alike conspired to ensnare us, we didn’t see the chimps again for another hour.

A ruckus of calls erupted from deep in the valley, seemingly taunting us.

It felt like somewhat of a cross between Indiana Jones and Mantracker, Africa edition. Sharp thorn bushes snapped back into my face and dewy ferns found their way underfoot. All at once, it seemed, I’d be pulling myself up an incline, sliding back down a hill, climbing over a slippery rotten mahogany tree and jumping small streams. Chaffing from the walking stick left blood blisters speckled in my palm. But it was all worth it.

Finally, artillery fire of half-eaten figs hailed down upon us from high up in the trees, each hitting the soft ground with a resounding thud. The entire troupe was feeding above and littering the rainforest with its remains. Branches arched spectacularly as long hairy arms swung from them with ease. As the chimpanzees climbed down to feed elsewhere, we saw that two of the mothers had babies clinging to their stomachs. They were less than six months old.

Four hours and several vertical kilometres later – after tracking the family to yet another location – we emerged from the rainforest exhausted and completely filthy. And happy.

Over the years, I have been fortunate enough to have had many unique experiences, both good and bad, but I can think of few that were more exhilarating – or exhausting. Chimpanzees possess 94 per cent of human DNA and it was incredible to share space with our nearest relative in the animal kingdom.

But how would I love to be able to have a hot shower with water pressure.

Day 25: Shear Experience.

2009-02-05T06:42:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – As the blades inched toward my throat, my Adam’s apple bobbed hesitantly and I resisted the urge to jerk wildly.

Thankfully, the barber had a gentle touch.

In fact, he seemed to pay special attention to each remaining hair on my head and face, the clippers humming a familiar tune as he checked the mirror to ensure each side was even. I had never sat so long in a barber’s chair as I did at ‘Saloon 2020’ in Kigali yesterday afternoon. With barbers on every block, this is a competitive business in Rwanda.

Sounds of a soccer game broadcast in Kinyarwanda blasted from a cramped corner of the five-seat shop. The image was as shaky as most of the passes. People milled about, both inside and outside, and we were immediately seated in standard black office chairs draped in plastic.

The barber produced a clear plastic bag covered in Chinese characters, which contained a bright orange cape with the words ‘My baby girl’ emblazoned across it. I chuckled to myself. He proceeded to prepare the clippers with rubbing alcohol and cotton, and a little oil, which reassured me.

Right from the start, the clippers chewed at my head like a hyena, causing the embarrassed barber to hurry into the back to find a new set. And likely to lament the wily ways of muzungu hair.

At the end of 45 minutes in the chair, every angle had been examined and each hair had been tapered as much as it could be. It cost me 1,000 FRw, about two dollars.

Not being a muzungu, Jethro, of course, paid half that.

Day 24: Landslide to Kigali.

2009-02-04T04:12:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – The rains erased the hills as greens became greys and sharp became blurred. Each icy drop, icier at its core, pummelled the rug of crestfallen cloud that hugged the earth.

The pavement ran red as small landslides cascaded down the hills, the curled roots of grass and small plants clutching like gnarled fingers to the muddy heap. A felled tree lay sprawled across the road.

A convoy of 12 open olive green Mercedes trucks stood roadside with flimsy camouflage tarps flapping in the cold wind. Most held up to 100 standing soldiers who shivered in uniform, staring out with hardened gazes. Two of the trucks carried supplies, piles of mattresses absorbing all the skies could offer.

New clay homes shed their outer skin and windshield wipers duelled, their swordplay leaving sliced remains splattered before us. Ruddy water wove its way down mud steps, down tile roofs, down irrigation ditches. Everywhere down, small stones somersaulted in the surf. People dared the stinging onslaught to collect the water in jugs.

And yet, as the sky lightened, the explosion of green made it seem as though all had grown by twice its size in the past hour.

Day 23: A Measure of Safety.

2009-02-03T04:46:00.001-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Having finished his transactions, a man walks out of the bank with a paper bag filled with money (plastic bags have been outlawed here and this is still strictly a cash society), casually strolling into the busy street with the bag held flimsily in one hand. In Nairobi, he wouldn’t make it three steps.

Here, nobody pays him any mind.

Despite the country’s recent history – or likely because of it – Rwanda appears very safe. In cities and rural areas alike, people walk the roads at all times of day and night. You don't see confrontations and special attention is paid to the safety of foreigners. Given the country’s dependence on rebuilding its tourism sector, one of the last things the government wants is to have something happen to a visitor.

And yet, razor wire twists rhythmically atop heavy iron gates and the jagged teeth of broken soda bottles line the tops of walls that surround homes and businesses in the more affluent areas. Private security companies often appear to be one of the country’s largest employers and military and police are as much a part of the landscape as the buses that careen through villages en route to Kigali. All are heavily armed.

It may be safe, but the caution can sometimes cloak a sense of foreboding.

Day 22: A Change of Pace.

2009-02-02T06:31:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Now halfway through my stay in Rwanda, I can hear the ominous ticking of the clock as time evaporates into the thin mountain air. With the realization of what we have accomplished already, and what we plan to do, my schedule has begun to fill quickly.

I have been working at the Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management (KCCEM), which falls under Rwanda’s education and tourism sectors. Thus far, most of my time has been spent on the education side, editing manuals, a strategic plan and curricula – 130,000 words and counting. Over the next few weeks, however, I have been asked to devote efforts to the tourism side and will be making my way around the country to take photographs and prepare written materials.

Given my love of exploration, wildlife, writing and photography, it’s really not a bad deal.

Thus far, our plans involve visits to the country’s three national parks, including a middle-of-the-night trek far into Nyungwe to track chimpanzees and possibly golden monkeys. Deep in Parc National des Volcans, where Dianne Fossey conducted much of her research, we hope to get close to some of the last mountain gorillas remaining in the world. Giving our legs a break, we’ll finish in Akagera National Park, which is located in the only region of Rwanda that is arid savannah. It is also home to many of the animals one generally associates with Africa.

During my remaining time, I’ll also have opportunities for other personal experiences. My friend and colleague Richard and I are planning to take a bus to Kampala, Uganda, and I’ve been asked to help facilitate a session for the International Gorilla Conservation Programme in Goma, DR Congo. Right before I return to Canada, I’ll be attending a colleague’s wedding in Cyangugu.

It promises to be a busy few weeks, but a period rich in experience.

National Heroes Day.

2009-02-01T08:13:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – While I didn’t personally have an opportunity to participate in any of the many ceremonies taking place around the country today, it is National Heroes Day in Rwanda. This holiday is similar to Remembrance Day in Canada except that it’s held mostly in honour of four heroes (or group of heroes).

I spoke to a number of Rwandans who expressed that they would be spending the day thinking of Fred Rudahigwa, who was the leader of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) until he was killed during the first day of fighting in 1990. He was succeeded by current President Paul Kagame. They will also remember Agathe Uwiligiyimana, the country’s Prime Minister during the early days of the genocide. Uwiligiyimana’s assassination also led to the deaths of 10 Belgian UNAMIR soldiers sent to protect her.

Students of Nyange Secondary School are also being remembered for their courage and solidarity. Three years after the genocide, they refused demands from insurgents who had just returned from then-Zaire to separate according to Hutu and Tutsi lines. In the end, two of the three girls killed were Hutu.

The fourth hero remembered is King Charles Rudahigwa Mutara III, who is believed to have been murdered by his Belgian doctor when he expressed opposition to Belgian colonial policies.

Day 21: Take the Community to Work Day.

2009-02-01T01:12:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – As the last Saturday of the month yesterday, the country came alive for mandatory community work Rwandans call umuganda. Young and old, weak and strong flooded the streets and hills with hoes, picks and other tools. Colourful toques and a rainbow of kangas dotted the landscape like a vast garden of flowers.

Organized at the local cell level (umudugudu), umuganda brings the community together to identify, and act upon, development activities that will improve their areas. Many such initiatives are related to issues of sanitation, security and the construction of water channels.

Community members will typically work throughout the morning until 10, before attending meetings until noon. It’s at these meetings that further development opportunities are identified, and where the community discusses issues related to family planning, healthcare, local politics and security. Funds are also collected for security (approximately 1,000 FRw – $2 – apiece to pay for local police) and for garbage removal (another 1,000 FRw).

It was also the first time since my arrival in Rwanda that I noted a complete absence of buses on the roads. Apart from the buzz of people when passing through a community, the air was silent. By law, they’re not allowed to run until noon as everyone is to be engaged in umuganda.

I can see benefits of such a concept in North America. Beyond community building, it could provide us with an opportunity to clean up our environment and to approach our world a little more selflessly. We may not have the same needs to build ditches, but whether it’s picking trash out of them, or planting trees, it could still provide us with an opportunity to better our communities.

And ourselves.

Day 20: Celebrating Nyungwe.

2009-01-31T07:46:00.000-08:00

Nyungwe National Park, Rwanda – For three and a half hours, I was inundated with wave after wave of Kinyarwanda, and was successful in fishing out about 10 words. And yet, it was still a pretty cool afternoon.

Invited to the annual celebration of Nyungwe National Park, I sat under an orange tarp erected on jagged sticks as various dignitaries, including the local mayor, park warden and director general of ORTPN recapped the past year’s successes and paved the path for the coming year. In between speakers, a song about Nyungwe played on the sound system, and many people sang along. The crowd of about 200 people included members of the community, park rangers, military, KCCEM and ORTPN.

During one intermission, we were entertained by traditional Intore dancers, who swept across the ground, bells ringing from their ankles. It was a real treat, particularly from a cultural perspective. Professional Rwandan Intore dancers routinely win international competitions, though the group we saw today were still young. Another intermission featured a morality play about plundering from the environment.

As with any good Rwandan event, a sumptuous feast was served and, by the end of the day, crate after crate of empty soda and beer bottles were carted away. One opportunistic child located a half-finished bottle of Amstel in one of the red plastic crates and took a couple long tugs.

By the conclusion of the formal programme, everyone – men in suits and in full army gear – got up and began dancing to local music, Rihanna and Celine Dion – whom I’ve heard absolutely everywhere I’ve travelled. Unfortunately.

I felt fortunate to have experienced it.

Day 19: GOP: Goat Old Party.

2009-01-30T05:11:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Around the world, people have been celebrating Barack Obama's ascension to the Presidency of the United States, and it's no different in Rwanda.

Given Obama's Kenyan heritage, in fact, he's a popular choice here. I've seen a few Obama bumper stickers, shirts, baseball hats and have even heard of women wearing kangas printed with his image. He's also often a frequent topic of conversation with people who assume I'm American (despite my attempts to wave the Canadian flag). Inauguration viewing parties were held here, as across the globe.

But the crew at KCCEM has ratcheted up the celebration for tonight. Apparently, promises were made during the election and now the College has to buy a goat. And roast it.

I've given it the name McCalin.

(Update: Given an expected influx of guests, we're now the proud, ahem, temporary, owners of not one, but two goats: McCain and Palin. I can't say I'm overly accustomed to my dinner grazing in the backyard. On its side dishes. Mmmm, goat: no kidding, it can't be bleet.)

Day 18: 3,000 Feet Above Sea Level in the Back of a Truck.

2009-01-29T09:41:00.000-08:00

Nyungwe National Park, Rwanda – Tears flew from the side of my eye and onto the heavily armed man in worn, olive fatigues who sat next to me. A series of scars traced an ominous history up his arm and his grizzled face bore short grey stubble. The soldier’s semi-automatic rifle rested discomfortingly in the direction of my chin.

I was glad to see him smile.

We sat together in the back of a pickup truck as we took a dozen members of the Rwanda Defence Forces and Park Rangers to posts deep in Nyungwe National Park yesterday. They will spend several days in the cold, wet forest, patrolling for insurgents and protecting the area. As we made our way into the mountains, the cold wind inflated my cheeks and made my eyes water. But the views were spectacular.

The truck bed held large packs with all the supplies the men would need for several days in the bush. My feet were buried under bags of tomatoes and heavy yellow containers of water. A machete rattled against the gate. Bed rolls provided cushion for those sitting on the floor.

Setting off with their packs, one group was to hike into the hills for three hours before stopping to sleep. Young boys travelled with them, carrying food and cooking supplies on their heads. They would then rise first thing in the morning for four more hours of trekking, vanishing deep into the forest.

As we climbed to 3,000 feet above see level, clouds filled my lungs and the chill set into my knuckles. Handling the tight curves involved alternately clinging to the truck with every turn to the right, and pushing hard with my legs on each to the left. Monkeys perched on roadside walls, watching with curiosity, and a long black bird with bright red wings flew overhead. A lengthy convoy of UN vehicles with long antennae swaying with each bump in the road passed on their way to keep peace in the DR Congo.

And rain began to fall.

Day 17: An Evening in Kitabi.

2009-01-28T07:14:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – The smoke of dinner’s cooking fires twists and curls up red hills, dancing with low-lying wisps of cloud like a woman in a loose veil. Together, they lower the blanket over the land.

Children use rough sticks to push plastic water bottles filled with sand down the hill – in the vastness of youthful imagination, everything is a toy. A group of children scampers into the hills – leaving a hand-made wooden scooter at my feet – after I surprise them by coming around the corner through the trees. Soon thereafter, they return, giggling. A large group follows behind, chattering in excitement. Once a timid girl in a colourful headscarf agrees to a high-five, a line queues behind her. The village is alive.

With no light pollution, the blackened sky curves like an iron pot and sparkles with a million pinpricks that allow the heavens to shine through.

Day 16: Something to Quaff that Thirst.

2009-01-27T05:53:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – As far as the eye can see, rolling green hills sprout foot-high plants that produce the tea I’ve been consuming a lot of lately. Watching stooped women with large bags slung over their backs perform the arduous task of picking the leaves, it’s obvious I’m indulging in one of the region’s specialties.

While I’m not normally much of a tea drinker, it’s nice to know it’s produced nearby, and to participate in the local culture. That it’s a great help in my battle to keep warm hasn’t hurt its appeal either. Tea with milk (chai) is also quite common, though I’ve found that it’s often made with powdered milk, which – for whatever the reason – I’ve tended to avoid.

Strangely, while Rwanda also produces coffee, I haven’t had many opportunities to enjoy a nice cup of local brew. Instead, what’s generally offered is a small red tin of Nescafe powdered crystals produced in Kenya – not quite what I had in mind. The search is on, though.

Given the tropical climate, fresh fruit juice is also a popular choice, though it’s best as a foreigner to be sure you know what kind of water has been used to dilute it. If it’s from the tap, you’re best to pass. I’ve had the passion fruit juice a couple times, which is quite sweet with a touch of a tang, and a popular choice around here. Plus, it just sounds cool to say to the waitress, with one eyebrow raised, “Passion”, with a seductive emphasis on the first syllable.

The chagrin I felt last year about the ubiquity of soda products is repeated here, though they seems to be less overtly advertised. There are fewer Coca Cola huts slinging glass bottles of the fizzy drink and fewer buildings either painted the familiar bright red or festooned in Coke banners. I wonder if this may be partly because the climate is more temperate and less dry.

Oddly enough, the generic term for soda here is Fanta (which is a Coke product), though you must specify if you’d like orange or citron, or a Coca. A bottle here is not quite as cheap as in Tanzania, but is still inexpensive, running around 300 FRw, or about 60 cents. Conversely, a small bottle of water generally costs about 500 FRw – a dollar – so the same problem exists.

The two main Rwandan beers are Primus and Miitzig, though many people also drink Amstel, which is Dutch. Interestingly, unless you specify otherwise, you will be brought either the large 75 Cl bottle, or two smaller bottles, depending on the make (Amstel doesn’t produce the larger version). Though I haven’t come across any yet, Rwandans area also known for their ‘home brew’ – a banana beer.

Primus is seen as the more blue-collar beer, where Miitzig comes clad in a shiny white foil label. While something may be lost in the translation, someone told me people here have an expression about Primus; it’s the beer that makes children say: “Daddy, please stop taking beer so that we can afford to buy sugar.” A large bottle will set you back just more than a dollar. The expression about Amstel, on the other hand, is to the effect of: “Anna-Maria, go home and make the bed.” I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

One last note on beverages: as people drink beer, soda and water both ways, you’ll also have to specify if you’d like it cold (“aconje”) or warm (“inshyushye”).

Day 15: Removing the Mask.

2009-01-26T06:56:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Only 40 per cent of Rwanda’s estimated 8.5 million citizens are considered employed and, of them, 75 per cent are their own bosses. The average per capita income is only 62 cents a day. In short, this is one of the poorest countries in the world.

I’ve written previously that the abundance of food and vegetation can sometimes seem to mask the extreme poverty that exists here. Walking through a modern city like Kigali – with its hustle and bustle, well-dressed business people and a recent housing boom that has led to the rise of hundreds, if not thousands, of mansions – it can be even harder to fathom.

But Kigali is not representative of the country as a whole. No, this is a country where 94 per cent of people live in rural areas and where 87 per cent are engaged in agriculture and its related trades. There is very little industry here and 60 per cent of the population is under the age of 20. In 2004, the per capita gross domestic product was estimated to be a mere $228. Statistics can be a little numbing, or awakening, depending on your perspective.

In somewhat of a paradox, this is actually quite an expensive country, particularly when compared to others on the continent. The cost of accommodation in Kigali, for example, is on par with anything you would pay in Canada and potentially more expensive in relative terms when you consider the amenities offered. The lack of industry and a reliance on imports also increases the cost of everyday goods.

It’s enough to make you reassess your opinion of what poverty is, which has been gnawing at me of late. Generally, I’ve personally tended to define poverty as a lack of opportunity – for sufficient food, nutrition, shelter, health and access to education or gainful employment – but the poverty here is different from what I witnessed in Kenya and Tanzania.

Here, food is rarely a problem and with better nutrition generally comes improved health. HIV/AIDS infection rates aren’t as high as other sub-Saharan countries. Following a government mandate, there are few thatch houses remaining and people live in solid homes with steel or tile roofs. But Rwanda’s people are no less impoverished.

The Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management (KCCEM) – where I’ve been working – hopes to marry environmental training with tourism to diversify and further the country’s economy. Located at the world’s only surviving Afro-montane tropical rainforest, KCCEM is being developed with consideration paid to the country’s development thrust, particularly to the government’s ambitious Vision 2020 goals and the Economic Development and Poverty Reduction strategy.

In short, the College seeks to generate employment opportunities and training thorough sustainable use of the environment, and to develop private entrepreneurship practices related to environmental conservation and protection. Overall, they hope to address issues of capacity building in the fields of biodiversity and environmental conservation througout the Albertine Rift region. My work here has helped me feel I am at least contributing something, however small.

The government hopes such initiatives will lead to an increase in per capita GDP to $900 by the year 2020.

Day 14: Something to Whet that Appetite.

2009-01-25T16:05:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Food plays a central role in Rwandan culture and is a major aspect of most events and gatherings. Thanks to an excellent climate for agriculture, it’s also abundant, which is so rarely the case on this continent.

Tropical fruit is served at most meals and generally includes some combination – or all – of tree tomatoes (sweet, unlike field tomatoes), passion fruit, pineapple, banana (sometimes the mini version) and paw paw, a sort of sweet melon.
With the exception of one day where soup was also served as an appetizer, breakfast has been the same every morning since I got here: fruit – either before or after – a couple slices of dry bread (or sometimes a sweet bread) and a pseudo-omelette for making an egg sandwich. Daniel, the ‘house boy’ (not my term) who prepares our meals at home in Kitabi, puts onions in, making them that much better.

As with my experience in Kenya and Tanzania, the starch-laden lunches and dinners are hardly Atkins-friendly. At each, you can expect to be served at least two or three of fried or roasted potatoes, rice, sweet potatoes, fried or mashed bananas, or spaghetti. Though generally made from cassava here, ugali can also be found, but it is not as prevalent as it was last year. I had heard fried plantains could be found everywhere here, too, but I haven’t found any yet.

Mashaza – peas, often salty and with carrots or tomato – are a staple found on most plates. Other typical meal-time vegetables include cabbage, collared greens, tomatoes or carrots, often shredded into a salad with onions (usually topped with mayonnaise, which I avoid here). Vegetables don’t tend to be much of a focus. While we don’t tend to eat meat at home, meals on the road have typically included fish (fried whole, or in filets), chicken (split into pieces and eaten with your hands) or beef, usually in a sauce.

Unlike my (granted, relatively limited) time elsewhere in East Africa, however, I’ve found that Rwandans devote more attention to flavour, liberally using herbs like rosemary, particularly in meat sauces and gravies. Eating out, you’ll often find yourself lining up at a buffet. Unlike North America, though, you’re only allowed to take one trip. You may pile your plate high, so get your fill the first time. In larger centres, you can also find French, Italian and Chinese restaurants.

For faster food, brochettes – goat or beef kebabs – and chips (fries) are ubiquitous. The brochettes are prepared with onion and seasoning, and are particularly good when they don’t carry with them the lighter fluid flavour of the gas over which they have been broiled. Roadside, it is also quite common to find men standing around fire pits roasting a dry corn that really ends up tasting like popcorn.

I’m happy to say that, while I came prepared with emergency food, I haven’t needed any of it (except during my layovers en route). The food here is really quite good.

I’ll write about beverages another time.

Bon appétit!

Day 13: Losing Myself in Peace.

2009-01-24T02:56:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – A dozen children, wearing clothes as dark as their skin, first dive into the bush, then chase after me down the road that leads into Nyungwe National Park. “Bonjour, Madame (sic). Comment allez-vous?” “What is your name?” “Muzungu – where do you come from?”

Such phrases echo behind, then alongside me, with differing degrees of both enthusiasm and timidity. They are, for the most part, greetings these children have learned in school and don’t really constitute the basis for substantive conversation. One of them appears to be trying to push her friend into me so that someone can say they touched the muzungu who had wandered past their village. They're all extremely excited to see themselves on my camera's screen, pointing themselves out to their friends.

Adults, sitting nearby and minding even-smaller children who cling to the hems of their mothers’ garments, smile in amusement and offer up a gentle “muaramutse” (good morning) in reply to my greeting in Kinyarwanda. While Nyungwe is a tourist destination, most visitors simply pass through here in the blur of a hired car, and on to the area deep in the forest inhabited by chimpanzees and golden monkeys.

In other words, it’s not overly common for a 6”3 white man to casually stroll past their small plots of land, many of which are occupied by a clay house, a few stalks of corn and a cow that smells as though it has been wallowing in its own filth. Because it has been. Outside one, a one-year-old plays with a small hoe; looking around, agriculture is unquestionably in his future.

Though a little overcast, it is a nice Saturday morning in Kitabi and I had decided after breakfast to go for a walk, with no real objective in mind. Two hours later, I had left my home here behind, wandered through the buffer zone that leads to Nyungwe and up into some of the Park’s hills. It’s easy to lose track of time in the beauty and peace of these surroundings.

Once I leave the roadway, butterflies flit, seemingly aimlessly. Bright red birds scream at each other before darting across the path in front of me when I pause to breathe in the scenery. Vines tap me on the shoulder. Forest elephants used to roam these hills, until the last one was killed during the war in 1994. There’s talk about re-introducing them to the area in the near future. Branches around me crack mysteriously, and yet it all seems so quiet. Peace, much-needed.

Deeper into the forest, crickets chirp in chorus like a relaxation CD, and yet remain somehow haunting. I’ve remained on the lookout for the military patrols that roam the forest as I have no desire to be startled by a group of camouflaged and heavily armed men. They often seem to simply appear out of the forest like ghosts emerging from the low-lying cloud. Many insurgents hid out in Nyungwe following the war, though most have since made their way to the DR Congo. The military presence is here to ensure it remains that way.

It is so silent, and the hills so steep, that you can hear trucks rumbling like thunder long before you see them. Bus drivers careen around corners, the rubber of their tires barely clinging to the rims. Some honk; others wave. Shrivelled corn cobs, picked clean, litter the side of the road. It’s a common snack while driving here, and you can often see roasting pits along the way.

Thunder has begun to murmur over the hills and the first drops have begun hurtling themselves earthward. In the distance, the silky string of rain completes the tapestry of Kitabi. Emerging from the forest, I see a bicyclist making his way down the hill and, around the corner, another man who appears to be smiling in my direction.

My colleague Richard has come looking for me.

Day 12: Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs.

2009-01-23T05:20:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Today is just another (chilly) work day in Kitabi, though it's the first day I've had reliable Internet access (hello, photo upload).

As systems are not as developed as I'm accustomed to, things can take a lot longer to accomplish. Case in point: Jethro had to return to Kigali today just to transfer money from his FRw account to his USD account, which are at the same bank. Yes, that's a three-hour drive away. Not only that, he is going to have cross the street to another bank in order to first exchange the currency, before returning to his bank. Sound complicated? It can be.

People who know me are aware of the small enjoyment I get from signs, products and other forms of marketing that offer some form of double entendre, or a funny inconsistency. In visiting countries where English is not the primary language, these are not uncommon occurrences. Here are a couple I’ve seen thus far.

Throughout the country, you can find several places to get your hair cut on every block. Many Rwandans take their hair pretty seriously and it's a business that seems to have flourished in cities and rural communities alike.

Throughout the country, too, you see signs like the one above and the one to the right, advertising "saloons". It’s a place to get your hair cut, not a place to enjoy intoxicants with your friends. Frankly, if you’re involved in the latter, please keep the scissors away. When I first got here, I had begun to wonder if they had all just used the same sign maker. While many list the traditionally proper "salon", I gather from the prevalence throughout Rwanda that these instead merely reflect a regional morphology of the language. It makes me chuckle just the same.

Given its mountainous topography, Rwanda is not the warmest African nation. That said, it’s certainly not what one would normally refer to as cold – particularly for someone coming from Canada. As such, I found it quite humorous that this Coke ad describes the “Brr Season”. And yes, that is an African Santa Claus. As well as another “Saloon” beneath it.

Last night, I wasn't sure if I should be reassured or alarmed when I discovered that my bottle of "pure" water had a best before date. Of less than a year from now.

While not a sign, I got a particularly good laugh at the expense of a reporter I heard on BBC Africa while driving through Nyungwe. I kid you not, he actually asked his interviewee, as a follow-up question: “So, what’s up with that?”

So?

Operation Red Blood Cells, 2009.

2009-01-22T11:39:00.001-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – I blame the elevation. And the starchy foods. And the beer.

I just returned from a four-kilometre jog – er, butt-drag – through the mountains and tea fields of Kitabe. Has it really been that long since I last suited up for Starlim’s basketball team? People who know me are aware of my distaste of running for running’s sake. Sports, I love, but running to run – not so much.

I blame Christmas turkey. And long hours on a plane and in a truck. And too much time writing.

But tonight was enjoyable. The sun was setting over the hills on a clear evening that left just a hint of blush in the sky. And more than just a hint in my cheeks. Children ran after us, cheering, when we passed the village. “Funny,” Jethro said. “I’ve run past here many times before and they’ve never done that.” Chalk up another one to the muzungu.

Up the steepest final hill, a friendly teenaged boy ran effortlessly alongside, seemingly mocking us. I give him a high five and instantly realized I should have conserved the energy. Two young women who had just gathered jugs of water changed their path in order to follow us up the hill home. If they weren’t so polite – and politely giggling – they could have passed us, water jugs and all.

The sun shone behind the house like a halo beckoning us to the finish line. The way I felt, I wasn’t sure if I was really supposed to head toward the light, or not. The elevation has left the alveoli in my lungs grasping like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

Okay, I blame myself.

Day 11: And the Rains Cometh.

2009-01-22T09:26:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – Given the country’s history, it can be a little unsettling when the roads appear to be bleeding, which they did as rain traced our course back to Kitabi this afternoon. Drops hit us like a thousand flies to the windshield and rivulets of red clay flowed off the hills and across our path.

Even cheery sunflowers appeared droopy, seemingly weeping. It was the quietest I’ve seen the roads during my time here as people took cover, huddling under steel awnings with bundles of bananas and bags of charcoal. Hitting the roof, the raindrops made their own tune. Nobody seemed to be whistling along.

As treacherous as these roads can be, you can hardly blame anyone not wanting to push heavy bicycle loads up the hills with even less traction. Even the smoke weaving its way through the clay brick of homes seemed to want to revisit its course.

For those willing to brave the storm, colourful fabrics contrasted nicely against the grey blanketing the landscape. A child washed in the runoff. Others clung to soggy red sports jackets, which hung listlessly over their heads. Further down the road, a couple of drivers shivering in rain coats huddled under the trailer of a transport truck that had broken down.

It has rained at least a little every day I’ve been here and Kitabi, being a rainforest, often remains cloaked in cloud. The rains, however, contribute to the vast vegetation that is essential to the nation. There is a dearth of industry in this country and more than 80 per cent of its citizens are dependent on agriculture for survival. It’s one thing that is bountiful.

Given the abundance of food and of clay used to make solid homes, it can be easier to overlook that extreme poverty exists in Rwanda, but people here are among the poorest in the world, living off less than a dollar a day.

By the time we returned to Kitabi, however, the sun welcomed us with open arms.

Day 10: Gooooal!

2009-01-21T22:25:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – The second the sharp header crumpled the twine, the crowd of thousands set to dancing, and to small fires. The goal had come just as injury time expired in the first half and excited Rwandans danced excitedly to heavy bass and drums for the entire intermission that followed.

Players rushed to midfield, where they knelt to kiss the grass. By that point, I wished I could do the same as I was beginning to feel the effects of the hard concrete, faded blue, which served as our seats. That and a young Rwandan had decided to attach himself to my leg.

The goal gave the home side a 1-1 draw with Cameroon in today’s Africa Youth Championship match, a score that held through 90 minutes and provided Rwanda with a berth in the semi-finals. The dancing, cheers and ululations that had tempered after Cameroon opened the scoring early in the game continued unabated throughout the second half and seemed to provide the home team with a lift.

Football plays a significant role in the culture here and I was excited to have the opportunity to take it in first-hand. By the second half, Amahoro stadium was about 95 per cent full, and loud. Some wore masks (I swear I saw Nixon), others painted their faces in sparkles the colours of Rwanda’s flag. An entire section wore the nation’s yellow jerseys. Flags, both large and small flailed proudly. A boy even wove in and out of the crowd trying to sell toques in the team’s colours. And yes, there were a few small fires lit in celebration.

Shown on the big screen, President Paul Kagame received cheers nearly equal to those of the players. When he came down to the field to shake the participants’ hands, adoration poured forth from the bleachers on all sides. It’s not something I’m used to seeing for a politician back in Canada.

Even getting into the stadium was an interesting experience. Pulling into the parking lot, a couple of young boys beckoned us to follow them to where they knew there was a parking spot. They received a couple coins for their efforts, and a few more to watch over the truck while we were inside. The entrepreneurial mindset is alive and well. In order to get our tickets, we had to wade through a deep thicket of children who were hoping to find their way inside. It also marked the first time I was asked for money since I’ve been here.

As we left, the same boys who had looked after the truck also happened to know (of course) a shortcut for getting out of the parking lot and avoiding the post-game crunch. A couple more coins and we were out ahead of the masses.

We did not end up making it to Kibuye today as planned. More importantly, Jethro and I managed to secure a meeting with Rosette Rugamba, the Director General of the Rwanda Office of Tourism and National Parks. Very well respected in the country, Rugamba has received many awards for her work toward developing tourism, while protecting the environment. With some luck, I’ll have an opportunity to spend some time working with her communications team before I leave.

We also managed to share a good laugh as we discovered this was not actually the first time we had been in the same room together, although none of us knew each other the first time. It turns out the Director General had accompanied President Kagame on a visit to Western a couple of years ago, where both Jethro and I worked. Now she’s his boss.

Day Nine: History.

2009-01-20T13:39:00.001-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – I was just one, one of a hundred or so sitting in a hotel bar in Kigali; just one, one of several hundred million witnessing history. Never before have American politics so captured the world’s imagination.

Unsurprisingly, Barack Obama’s inauguration as the 44th President of the United States was big news in Africa today. I am told giant television screens were erected in Kisumu, Kenya, where Obama’s father lived (somewhere I visited last year), and I have little doubt the entire community came out to watch.

Here at the Hilltop Hotel and Country Club (it’s not as it sounds, believe you me) in Kigali, around 100 people folded themselves into white plastic chairs put in place for the occasion and took in the pomp and circumstance. A screen was unfurled from the ceiling and CNN’s Internet feed was broadcast on it. Beside it, a small television carried BBC.

The eyes of Muslim, Catholic, black and white were locked in rapt attention as the screen carried the day’s events. Rwandan, Kenyan and Canadian alike clapped boisterously at the site of the next President and listened intently as he spoke. A hush fell over the room until certain salient points were punctuated by rejoicing, cheers and hugs.

Even bigger cheers and sarcastic waves followed as former President Bush was taken off in a helicopter. Most here are thrilled at the addition of the word “former” to Bush, and the removal of “elect” from Obama.

It was pretty neat to be in the centre of Africa, the only white person in the room, as America takes steps toward progress, toward rectifying some of its history, toward change. Regardless of the politician Obama becomes, this has been a great day for humanity.

Day Eight: Back to Kigali.

2009-01-19T12:16:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – Though I’ve only been there for about 12 hours since I landed in this country a week ago, I began my day at my ‘home away from home’ in Kitabi. Shortly after breakfast, though, it was back on the road for the three-hour return to Kigali, where we have a day of meetings with the National University of Rwanda, followed by two days in Kibuye, on the country’s western border with DR Congo.

As I have not seen much blue sky since arriving, it was a particularly nice treat to awaken to a clear backdrop to one of the most stunning natural scenes I’ve seen in my life this morning. The mountain air in Kitabi was thin like the clouds framing the plots of tea that cling to the hills falling away from my front door. I breathed it all in deeply to take with me on our commute to the country’s capital.

Regardless of the time or where we go, Rwanda’s roadways are constantly lined by people on bicycles or on foot, generally carrying something on their heads – suitcases, briefcases, bedrolls, bundles of sticks, yellow jerry cans of water or large foliage that makes them look as though they have Sideshow Bob’s hair. A quick cut to the horn gets those who have strayed onto the pavement to correct their steps.

Heavily laden trucks wheeze exhaust like chain smokers in an attempt to make it up the many steep hills; so slow are they that pedestrians pass them. At any point on the road, you can count on a bus passing in the other direction at least every two minutes. Essentially large minivans, they’re on time here, and full.

Enroute, we passed several more groups of pink jumpsuit-clad prisoners who were off to work the fields under the watchful eye of heavily armed guards. Others manned a biogas facility. Strangely, yet others were found sitting in a small roadside cemetery – it made me wonder if this was an added element to their restitution. It’s striking how many prisoners you see, particularly when you consider how little crime there is in the country now. It’s a bit of a reminder.

Pulling into Kigali in the early afternoon, we were greeted by the familiar red clay brick houses that line the city’s hills like jagged teeth. The rest of the day was spent doing what one learns to do a lot of here: waiting. We sat for more than two hours for a scheduled meeting with a high-ranking official who did not materialize. Alas, this is not uncommon.

At its Most Beautiful.

2009-01-18T10:43:00.000-08:00

Kitabi, Rwanda – More than 2,000 metres above sea level, my head aches and my ears have popped, feeling at moments like snare drums. The sheer beauty on which my eyes have supped today, though, has brought over me a calm as ethereal as the wisps of cloud that hang languidly between the mountains. I am happy.

Put simply, Kitabi, and this region that travels through Nyungwe National Park, provides some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve seen in the world. I cannot get over how fertile and rich with vegetation this country is; it’s as though the rains that fall paint everything green, with small speckles of pink and yellow.

Throughout the drive, I sat with my head lolling out the window like a puppy that hasn’t been outside in a week (except I kept my tongue in my mouth), taking in all the smells of the fresh air and the eucalyptus.

We drove among the clouds and above them, through rain showers and bright sun. All the while, we navigated tight turns on uneven roads over rolling hills to tall peaks. I stared in wonder at the wall-to-wall trees that towered over us, unspooling vines earthward. Small birds somehow contorted to cling to the sheer rock face. It was stunning.

We saw a number of monkeys, including one sitting in a tea field just outside the park, and another with a baby. Not realizing they existed here, too, I was a little surprised to see a squirrel dash across the road in front of us. Somehow, they do not tend to be featured among the many wooden animal carvings artisans offer to help you remember your time in Africa.

We were greeted at Kitabi by a small group of village children who had crept onto the College’s property to fill their jerry cans with water from its well. I was home (away from home).

Day Seven: Hallelujah!

2009-01-18T07:10:00.000-08:00

Cyangugu, Rwanda – This morning, I had one of my favourite memories of the trip so far, though it was actually something I didn’t even get to see.

I was sitting in a planning meeting about finance, IT and communications at KCCEM when I was awoken from my reverie by the sound of drums and a large crowd singing. Women ululated and the preacher’s cries of “Hallelujah” were answered in chorus. Rwanda is 95 per cent Catholic and this is, of course, Sunday.

While I’m not religious myself, I was disappointed to not have the opportunity to head down the street to steal a peak at this service people were investing themselves in so much, and no doubt completely enjoying. It went on all morning, with brief moments of quiet as the preacher addressed the congregation. Another series of Hallelujahs and the air was once again punctuated by the deep tenor of drums and joyous song.

Naturally, I also found it quite comical the service was being held in what is otherwise a bar.

Day Six: Off the Beaten Path.

2009-01-17T04:56:00.000-08:00

Cyangugu, Rwanda – With towering mountains, red soil, tropical vegetation and the twisted shape of Lake Kivu, it’s not really any wonder this is an exceptionally beautiful region of Rwanda. Despite being perpetually overcast – or perhaps hazy is more fair a term – I can’t help but marvel at the vistas.

It’s temperate, though warm in the sun and particularly humid following rain. Still, I was completely comfortable in a long-sleeved shirt as I worked outside on my balcony this morning. The breeze had a relative chill to it – ‘relative’ as I hear it is currently -30 back home in Canada.

You could really hear the hustle and bustle of Saturday morning as children ran around playing and others completed such tasks as laundry and firewood gathering. Drums resonated over the hills in the distance and people could be heard singing from all angles. Children’s shouts and the ever-present chirps of birds completed the aural tableau.

I’ve been told this area has long felt cut off from the rest of the country and that, as a result, people are different here. The depth of the Nyungwe Forest – and its steep, curved roads – have made accessing this region difficult. Due to its proximity to the DRC, however, you see a significant proportion of the population heading off to work across the border, and a number of Congolese working here.

Though poverty would impede many Rwandans from flying, there is at least an airport here, where I ventured this morning to pick up my baggage this morning (finally!) I particularly enjoyed the ride because it took me through the rural area and I was able to witness some of the community’s daily goings-on. A young girl with a large bundle of sticks balanced on her head vanished into the tall grasses, while a trio of young boys disappeared into the hills. Another boy tended to his goat with a bamboo pole twice as long as he as two rusted bicycles with large bundles of bananas slung over the back rested against the clay nearby. Another man struggled to push his bike up the hill with two giant bags of onions on the back. There were people everywhere.

Though children still attend school on Saturday here, a small group had taken time to watch the planes taking-off at the airport, much like I had seen in Kisumu, Kenya last year. It was nice to see them looking after each other, pulling stray friends out of the way of oncoming vehicles, which have little regard for pedestrians in this country. One young girl in the group could not have been more than two-feet-tall and wore a tiny kanga wrapped around her waist. She was, in a word, adorable.

I took their photo and, despite the severity I’ve seen on many faces here, theirs lit up when I waved, making me feel welcome.

Day Five: A Light Show.

2009-01-17T00:37:00.000-08:00

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Given that I’ve just spent the past couple of days working – editing long manuals that will be used to govern and manage KCCEM – I figured I wouldn’t have many stories to tell.

I could talk about the food, but that will wait for another day. This is an African country where there is no shortage of things to eat, and where flavour is important. Unlike last year, I may just come home heavier, rather than lighter.

After a last-minute invitation to go out with the team to a local dance club, I figured I could write about the nightlife and the traditional Congolese dance, ndobo, that is prevalent in this part of the country. Unfortunately, that opportunity fell through due to a lack of communication, though the beats resounding from next door had my leg a-twitching in my sleep all night.

While waiting, though, I decided to step outside in an attempt to take some long-exposure photos of the lights on the hills across Lake Kivu. For whatever the reason, I climbed out my window (I have a door) and onto my balcony. The storm clamouring for attention over the mountains was one of the most spectacular light shows I have ever seen.

It was like paparazzi in the heavens as several flashes a second lit up the sky for an hour, non-stop. For the most part, lightning bolts weren’t visible, though one could occasionally see one jumping, kamikaze-style, to a nearby cloud. Instead, as though filled with giant flashbulbs, the sky silhouetted – in various shades of grey – the swollen clouds and arrows of rain that fell to the earth in the distance.

Yet, where I stood, the stars in the sky smiled down like a million twinkles in your eye.

Day Four: Clean Clothes.

2009-01-16T01:08:00.000-08:00

Cyangugu, Rwanda - Finally! My bagges has grown restless and decided to return to me. I received the call this morning that it had finally made its way to Kigali and that I should receive it tomorrow. We were fortunate that there's an airstrip here in Cyangugu, which saves us having to make the long trip back to Kigali.

A different pair of pants (after a week in these ones)! Sandals! A razor! Dental floss (though I've temporarily picked up the custom of using a toothpick here, I still have sweaters on my teeth)!

Photos, however, will have to wait until I return to Kitabi on Monday. Internet here is not reliable.

Make a Run for the Border.

2009-01-15T04:07:00.000-08:00

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Today was a pretty non-descript day of work, planning and editing at the retreat, but I did take time to look out from the patio where I was working outside and marvel at the sun shining down on the mountains, the exotic birds chirping all around me and the proximity of DR Congo, right across the lake. In short, it was pretty cool – there are worse ways to work. And yes, I’m well aware of how lucky I am to have this opportunity.

At the opening of the retreat, we learned the meanings of everyone’s names in Kinyarwanda, which varied from “Always exceeds expectations” to “By the glory of the grace of God”. It was neat to hear the cultural relevance of their names and we discussed whether naming children in this manner was believed to help them become self-fulfilling prophecies. We were told there’s a saying in Kinyarwanda that is roughly “Your father may not hit you, but may curse you with a bad name.” So, I guess the answer is yes.

After the day had wrapped, a few of us decided we wanted to go down to the DRC border to ask if we could take a step into the country and pose with the Welcome sign. Zany, perhaps, but some of the group has done it before and it’s not usually a problem. Today, however, the border was a little too quiet as the thousands of people who cross it every day for work had already made their journeys. We made it to within a few feet, but turned away.

I have spoken a lot of French today, getting to know some of the KCCEM staff a little better. Many speak Kinyarwanda, Kiswahili, French and English, but a number feel more comfortable speaking to me in French. It’s also likely that doing so slows me down a bit and makes me easier to understand than I am in English. It has left my mouth sore from using muscles I use so seldomly, but it was also rewarding to carry-on conversations for a half-hour at a time without many struggles, particularly given my usual hesitancy to speak the language.

Yes, I am the Foreigner in the Group, Thanks.

2009-01-14T12:44:00.000-08:00

Cyangugu, Rwanda – In anticipation of the start of more formal work at a team retreat that begins tomorrow, we arrived in time to meet with KCCEM staff for dinner at the La Petite Colline Restaurant. Located on the border of the Democratic Republic of Congo, Cyangugu is also on the shore of Lake Kivu.

Dinner was comprised of chicken, two enormous whole tilapia, rice, peas and chips. There I was, trying to be all polite by removing the tough chicken from the breast bone with my fork and knife. The woman who runs the restaurant came over, reached into the giant platter of chicken and scooped one out for me she figured I could handle: a drumstick.

I immediately started using my hands as everyone around me had been doing.

Zebra Meets Skunk, Meets Lemur. Or Something Like That.

2009-01-14T12:23:00.000-08:00

Nyungwe National Park, Rwanda – Toward the end of a long day spent moving south through the country from Kigali, fog seeps from the pavement as though the earth is smoldering beneath us. It dances hypnotically in the truck’s headlights as lightning briefly introduces us to the mountain peaks that envelop the serpentine curves of pothole-chocked roads in Nyungwe National Park. We’re heading to Cyangugu through Nyungwe, which is the largest montane rainforest in Africa, and whose stunning vistas will serve as my backyard during my time at the Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management.

While Rwanda’s roads are extremely good – particularly for Africa – this one, winding through the park, is far from it. Already, we have seen two trucks that have driven over the edge, their drivers huddled around fires by the side of the road to keep warm. The curves are enough to become vomit-inducing, which has become the case for one of our passengers, and a few before. That it’s dark and raining lightly certainly does not help matters.

I have been fortunate to see my first non-avian wildlife of the trip: a jackal, loping along the side of the road, and an animal Jethro identified as a civet – a medium-sized carnivore with the face of a lemur that looks something like a very large skunk with a bushy tail and zebra striping on its hindquarters. Really. Unfortunately, I had packed my camera given the darkness, but both animals are extremely shy and seldom seen.

Baby, Don't Forget My Number.

2009-01-14T09:03:00.000-08:00

Butare, Rwanda – Returning to Butare for the second time of the day because of a mis- communication at the bank, a local woman came up to me with a wide grin and asked me in French for my phone number. When I told her I didn’t have a phone yet, she said I must surely have an email address she could take. French must not have been the language of love because I certainly was not going to hand it out, though we had a short chat.

Even after we drove across the street and I stayed in the car, she kept her eye on us.

It seems she had had a good chuckle at the muzungu who was standing outside the truck without any shoes on. Jethro explained to me that, in his day, white people were the only ones to wear shoes in most parts of Africa. Today, most of the Rwandan men I’ve met wear extremely nice and fashionable leather shoes, but there I was, standing in the red clay-covered road without shoes.

I had taken them off because of the heat and my more appropriate footwear is in my suitcase. Of course, I still don’t know where that is.

No Words.

2009-01-14T07:44:00.000-08:00

Gikorongo, Rwanda – I made friends with a few children in Gikorongo this afternoon while waiting for one of the team members who had gone into the bank. As a series of children huddled timidly around the truck, it became evident that, for the first time on this trip, my skin colour had made me an object of fascination. We made attempts at small talk in English, French and Kiswahili, but they seemed content to just stare at the “muzungu”.

Though we tried, my Kinyarwanda is still extremely limited and their grasp of English and French was limited to a few memorized questions. Responses, understandably, drew blank stares, or giggles. It became awkward rather quickly with little to say to each other, yet they remained on the other side of the truck window, staring in.

If only we had had a soccer ball.

Day Three: The Ultimate Road Trip – Kigali to Cyangugu.

2009-01-14T05:47:00.000-08:00

Cyangugu, Rwanda – Given the amount of time we spent driving from Kigali to Butare to Gikorongo to Kitabi to Cyangugu today, I’ve broken the trip down into a few smaller vignettes. In many ways, it was an ultimate road trip that offered spectacular sights that may be a precursor to similar trips we are planning to other areas over the coming weeks, including up to Volcanoes National Park in the north-west and Akagera National Park in the north-east, home to the country’s only savannah lands.

We passed a constant stream of people walking and bicycling along the roadways. There were children with large jerry cans of water on their head, others with school notebooks and small slates, and a half-dozen seven-year-old girls in school uniforms helping a man push his bicycle, laden with two large sacks, up one of the many steep hills. A young boy kicked an improvised soccer ball made from a stuffed chip bag, while another used a stick to push a tire down the hill. Classic improvised toys.

As dinner was prepared, smoke seeped through tiles atop mud houses that were surrounded by bamboo fences. Elsewhere, inmates in pink jumpsuits dotted rice paddies like flamingos. Given how many of them would have been incarcerated for vicious attacks with implements such as these during the genocide, I found it ironic to see them lugging around heavy pickaxes and hoes.
The drive throughout was gorgeous, with great views of the mountains, bustling towns and changing vegetation. There were forests of eucalyptus, which shimmered blue-silver in the light and filled the air with menthol, and others with exotic pine trees. Crops of sunflowers sparkled like stars in a sky of green banana trees. From tea plantations to chalk walls and clay soil, there is so much ecological diversity here.

It’s a Small World, After All.

2009-01-14T05:11:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – Funny story: so there we are, sitting at the Karibu restaurant in downtown Kigali. Apparently, it’s an extremely popular spot for lunch among locals and foreigners alike, feeding approximately 1,000 people a day. Think Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, Africa edition.

I’m enjoying the nice buffet with a full plate (in Rwanda, one serving only, please) of fried cauliflower, beef, carrot salad, fried plantains, spaghetti and a few other things, wondering if the clouds that hang over the city are going to bear rain. And something on the television in the corner of the restaurant catches my attention.

The programme features interviews with researchers speaking about tornadoes, hurricanes and extreme winds. Seems basic enough until I realize it’s a programme I’ve helped BBC and Discovery Channel pull together that includes researchers involved with the “Three Little Pigs” project at The University of Western Ontario.

And that I’m in it.

Day Two: Kigali: “Let’s Go for Chinese".

2009-01-13T05:31:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – Day two, and still no bags. I spent a significant amount of time at the airport this morning, only to discover they had found their way to Entebbe, Uganda. They’re the adventurous sort of bag, it seems. Nobody can track them down definitively, but hopefully tomorrow. This is Africa.

I awoke to a cool and hazy morning after a few hours of being tormented by the air-raid siren of a mosquito buzzing around my head. I wasn’t sure if it was inside my mosquito net or not. It was gunning for me, though, I am sure.

Bright and early, the hotel’s cute little garden courtyard was feverishly swept by boys with small hand brooms constructed of bundled twigs. The rhythmic whisking was punctuated by the sharp staccato chirps of a variety of birds that danced in the trees outside my window. There would be no more sleep.

Breakfast consisted of fried eggs, done like an omelet, toast and a thermos of chai, as well as a side of mini bananas and passion fruit. We even had lunch at a Chinese restaurant – yes, we’re still in Rwanda – and it was, in fact, the best Chinese food I’ve had outside Asia. First, yesterday’s mansions, now really good Chinese food – I’m beginning to feel I’m not in Africa after all. In many ways, Kigali is a city like others around the world.

We also met up this afternoon with a Rwandan woman named Bernadette who lived for many years in London, Ontario and now runs a guest house in Kigali where she keeps two crested cranes that wander the property. We spent a bit of time talking about how London has changed and become a little more diverse, and about the University. It’s neat to come across someone with common acquaintances and experiences during travel.

This city is rife with motorcycles, including moto-taxis, and entrepreneurs roam the streets, hoping to sell you everything from newspapers to towels, to shoes. For being a large African city, it’s also very easy to feel safe. Of course, this is helped by the abundance of heavily-armed security guards and police.

Though English and French are becoming more common in Rwanda, I began to learn – and use – some Kinyarwanda today. I got some impressed laughs when I greeted everyone at breakfast with “muaramutse” (good morning) and have also mastered “murakose cyane” (thank you very much). I’ve also been working on “muramuke” (goodbye, in the evening) and “agachupa amazi aconje” (cold bottle of water). I know some other words from Kiswahili or French already, but I’m having a little trouble with how many words sound alike. It is, however, only day one.

The government’s move this past year to anglicize the country is a significant step it hopes will establish Rwanda for the future. Kiswahili is now also mandatory in schools. In the meantime, it’s easy to see challenges given that most of the country speaks Kinyarwanda, grew up in a French state – possibly with little education in the language – and now has to make the switch to English and Kiswahili, which is predominant in many parts of East Africa. There will no doubt be growing pains in the short term.

Unlike last year, however, I’ve only heard the catcall “muzungu” (white person) once, and that was from a couple of teenagers. Given the number of foreigners working in, and visiting, Kigali, I’m not so much of a novelty. And I’m appreciative of that.

Given my adventurous baggage, we’re going to stay in Kigali again tonight, this time at Le Printemps Hotel, which is another guest house, but a step up from last night. Tomorrow, we will leave regardless of my bag arriving as we have a retreat to attend in the south-west of the country. Ironically, by the time the retreat ends on Sunday, I will have been in Rwanda for nearly a week before having had a chance to visit my short-term home in Kitabi.

Remembering the Past.

2009-01-13T01:54:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – “Children, you may have been our National heroes,” the plaque reads at the Kigali Genocide Memorial. Behind it, light streams through large yellow picture windows of young children who perished during the massacres. Beneath each, a name and thumbnail biographical sketch that reads something like this:

Age: 3
Description: Mummy’s boy
Favourite pastime: Playing with friends
Favourite food: Chocolate
Last memory: Watching mum die
How killed: Stabbed in the eye. Or, Hacked with a machete in mother’s arms. Or, Grenade thrown in their shower.

I really hope my children are being given a big hug right now.

Elsewhere, cases of skulls, many in pieces, lie perfectly arranged. Like many say the genocide was. In other cases, femurs. Clubs, hoes and machetes. And bloodstained Superman sheets. And rosaries. How can there be a God in the Hell these people endured? Picture after picture, testimonial after testimonial. A toddler’s sandal. The very chain and lock that was wrapped around an entire family thrown into a mass grave.

Not to mention the memorial is built on a mass grave that is the final resting place for 150,000 people. Humankind is capable of atrocities I am simply unable to comprehend.

Of course, it is also capable of tremendous compassion and healing.

For more, or to make a donation, visit here.

Day One: Kigali - "Toto, We're Not in Africa Anymore. Are We?"

2009-01-12T11:47:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda – With the cloying humidity and a distinct pot pourri of smells that includes the sweet smoke of home fires and the choking mask of diesel exhaust, my senses took me immediately back to my last trip to Africa as I stepped out of the airport this afternoon. Driving around Kigali, however, things looked fairly different when compared to Tanzania and Kenya.

Given that this is the most densely populated country on the continent, the sheer volume of people is unavoidable. That the city – and most of the country – is built on sprawling hills has also made everyone’s plot in life stand out all the more. Tremendous infrastructure developments like good roads seem also to have attracted that many more drivers. There also appears to be less yelling and jostling. Case in point: there is an orderly system at the bank – policed by its users – whereby you take a seat at the end of the line and move down one until it’s your time to visit the wicket. I dare say that would not work in Nairobi.

The biggest shock for me, though, was the houses. Housing developments of hundreds of homes that would rival the largest in London are cropping up everywhere. It’s not just a couple select communities, either; it’s all over the city. Apparently, over the past 15 years – and even moreso over the past six – foreign investors have invested heavily in Rwanda and have begun to build monstrous homes with imposing gates, Roman columns and infinity pools. It seems so out of place, particularly given that extreme poverty is enmeshed into the very same communities. Jethro explained to me that, unlike a city like Nairobi, which has very geographically defined slums, sparse land has left the poor living side-by-side with the rich.

Entire hills are being carved out for these new developments, leaving the shanties that previously occupied the land in toothpicks. For me, it raises the question of where these marginalized people are going to live, particularly given the population density. Driving through these neighborhoods, though, you no longer feel like you’re in the Africa you’ve become somewhat accustomed to. It’s surreal, much in the way I imagine Las Vegas to be.

We’ve decided to stay in Kigali tonight at the Agasoro Motel, nestled behind a large steel fence with imposing spikes on the top. While it's very basic, it will certainly do the trick and the lunch they prepared for us – consisting of grilled fish, fresh cut fries with a sauce you could add and spiced peas – was very good.

Given the amount of traveling I’ve done over the past few days, I had also planned to have a shower to freshen up. It turns out that, by flushing the toilet, I exhausted my water supply. There must be a lesson in there somewhere. When in Africa, you have to roll with the punches, or in my case at least, roll with the pungent.

Welcome to Kigali.

2009-01-12T03:37:00.000-08:00

Kigali, Rwanda - I’m here. Sure, it has taken me 37 hours door-to-door, with 17 hours on airplanes and a total of approximately 90 minutes-worth of naps over the past 53 hours, but I am back in Africa, and in Rwanda for the first time. If only I could say the same for my luggage, but who am I be kidding?

We flew overnight from Amsterdam, so there was little to see, despite it being a clear night. Still, though, the Nile stood out like a giant ink spill seeping into tissue paper, and the stars seemed to provide a mirror reflection of some of the continent’s larger cities. Come daybreak, though, the pastels rose from Kenya’s horizon like a dust storm, parting the blackness from the centre. Like all sunrises I’ve seen from the air, it was gorgeous.

And now that I am here, I am surrounded by a beauty that isn’t easily described by words, much like love.

En Route.

2009-01-11T04:22:00.000-08:00

Amsterdam, The Netherlands - This journey began at 16:40 yesterday in London, Ontario. Or, well, it was supposed to begin at that point. Instead, I became very familiar with a near-empty airport waiting room and its shiny vinyl seats. This was after airport security became all too familiar with me, 'randomly selecting' me to receive the kind of rubdown you usually have to pay for in an airport.

Instead, after a flight from London delayed by two hours and consecutive missed connections, I now find myself sitting in the very nice Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam for an unexpected layover of eight hours. I won't, as a result, be spending a night in Nairobi, which will probably be easier. Logistics thus far have been a gong show.

Despite the delays and change of plans, I'm still on track to arrive in Kigali at the original time, which is a positive and means I don't have to change the time Jethro picks me up, which is good considering it's a two-hour drive to Kigali for him.

I'm not quite halfway to my destination yet, but I've pretty much been up for 24 hours and have survived the past couple of hours on some shortbread cookies (thanks mom for the package of goodies - the security guard in London got a big kick out of it, saying "someone has a sweet tooth.")

I tried to sleep. Really. I folded myself like an origami crane, contorted and creased, but slept like I was being jabbed with unexpected needles. Which is to say, not well. The odour of stale feet walked hand-in-hand with breath, aged like cheese, and dark snores drowned out the engine, carrying me to a daylight that lives several hours ahead.

Yes, such metaphors awaken from sleep deprivation.

Preamble.

2008-12-30T08:49:00.000-08:00

London, Ontario, Canada - Upon my return from Kenya and Tanzania last November, I was tired and confused. I'm not sure it was so much the 'reverse culture shock' many describe, but having my entire world view so completely recalibrated was incredibly disorienting. A restless quiet descended over me.

Only a three-week piece of life's puzzle, this first foray to Africa filled in more holes and taught me substantially more about myself, the world and my responsibility in it than many much larger swatches of time. The lessons I learned were certainly far greater than any I imparted.

For weeks on end, though, night after night, dream after dream, a vivid tableau of images of Africa - of poverty, of war, of disease, of displacement, of happiness - played out consecutively in restless sleep, to the point of resentment. I yearned for dreams of something else for a while. Daylight hours were already devoted to processing my experiences and I found myself frustrated that I could not find solace in darkness. I felt haunted, and hunted, by memory. This, of course, led to feelings of guilt, more exhaustion and further confusion. I had not yet found my peace, torn between having to learn and hoping to make a difference, however small.

This is all in spite of the overwhelmingly positive nature of the experience for me individually. While the past few years have been rife with personal challenges, frustrations and pain, this opportunity to discover the world has blessed me with perspective. Despite the difficulties we face, we are extremely fortunate. At the end of the day, I've come to believe the biggest difference between our worlds is just opportunity. And, I've long posited that we could become much better societies if everyone had the chance to see how others less fortunate live. And triumph. Perhaps then, the exorbitance of our holidays, the aggression on our roads, the little time we spend with our families and the miasma of petty infighting that surrounds us all could be put into perspective.

As a colleague of mine - a Kenyan herself - recently said to me, Africa has got into my blood. I think about my time there every day and have spent the last year exploring options that would allow me to return. As I re-read my writings, however, I realize how much my perspective has changed and how having had the occasion to distance myself from my first experience will allow me to return as less of a wide-eyed naif. It has been a growing process borne of reflection and discussion; the initial journey was merely the catalyst for change.

The dreams have again long-since begun: I leave for Rwanda in 11 days.

Over the past couple of months, I have immersed myself in a dozen books about East Africa - its people, history, politics, problems and opportunities. Given my destination, I've also devoted a fair bit of attention to the country's 1994 genocide in which approximately 800,000 people were killed over 100 days. It's beyond comprehension. From Roméo Dallaire's Shake Hands with the Devil to Fergal Keane's Season of Blood: A Rwandan Journey to Scott Strauss's very analytical Order of Genocide, I found the disturbingly named We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will be Killed With Our Families by Philip Gourevitch to be, for me, the most accessible and informative on the subject.

There were movies, too, including the well-known Hotel Rwanda and Shake Hands with the Devil, and the lesser-known Sometimes in April.

I'm looking forward to seeing first-hand how Rwanda has begun to heal over the past 14 years and how it is progressing toward becoming a country where the word 'genocide' is no longer used in the first line of every story about it. With a year of reflection behind me, I feel better prepared to learn from my experiences and to be able to actually provide some expertise where it's needed, while contributing something meaningful to development, including development of self. One person may not be able to change the world, but you cannot underestimate the impact one can have, even if it's on individual lives. By affecting individuals, we can, together, effectuate positive change.

I'm young; there's still plenty of time ahead for sleep.

Recognition.

2008-06-10T15:41:00.000-07:00

London, Ontario, Canada - While it's not what drives me per se, recognition for one's work is nonetheless always appreciated, particularly when it's for a project as personal as this one. My experiences in Kenya and Tanzania affected me profoundly and have helped shape my future direction.

Last night, this blog was awarded a Virtuoso Award of Excellence in the Electronic and Digital Media Category from the International Association of Business Communicators (IABC), which provided another opportunity to share the story of Western Heads East to a new audience.

Thanks, too, for the continued comments. It's always gratifying to see an unexpected comment appear, months after the initial trip.

Shake a Fist at the Devil.

2008-04-03T18:46:00.000-07:00

London, Ontario, Canada - In some ways, a little late perhaps, but with retired Lieutenant General Romeo Dallaire - who was responsible for the United Nations mission to Rwanda during the 1994 genocide - speaking to local audiences a couple of weeks ago and current Rwandan Ambassador to Canada, Edda Mukabagwiza, in town yesterday, Rwanda has been a hot topic around here recently.

Dallaire spoke of his experiences and frustrations in Rwanda, and of the lack of international support for the UN mission. He also tried to motivate young people to effectuate change and to make a difference in this world of 'haves' and 'have nots'. While certainly not without his faults - as if any of us are - he is an inspiring man dealing with very important issues. I simply cannot imagine having walked in his shoes. As frustrating as things in life can sometimes be, they can always be worse. This is a man who had to move dead bodies off the road in order to drive through the streets. I tell myself daily that however ridiculous some of life's challenges are, I'm not having to deal with that. It's amazing how simple life can sometimes be: if you have the love of family and friends and are blessed with skills, health and opportunity, little else is really significant.

During her public address, Mukabagwiza told nearly 200 people, “When people think of Rwanda, they think of genocide. We would like to change this image." She spoke of her country’s efforts to rebuild following the 1994 genocide, and its attempts to bring perpetrators to justice – something she was tasked with in her role as Justice Minister.

Pointing out that only 6,000 files were closed in the five years following the genocide, Mukabagwiza said classical justice was not enough: with more than 120,000 suspected perpetrators, it would have taken more than a century to prosecute everyone. Instead, Rwanda combined classical forms of justice with a traditional, community-based ‘Gacaca’ court structure. The system uses “wise people used as judges elected by the community so that people can trust the judgments they are going to make,” Mukabagwiza told the audience. “We can get reconciliation more quickly than with traditional justice.”

Depending on the purported offence, suspects are divided into one of four categories. The first, tried in national criminal courts, is dedicated to those accused of planning, organizing and leading the genocide, or suspected of carrying-out sexual crimes. The second and third are reserved for those alleged to have been involved in committing physical attacks, the former resulting in death. The fourth category is for those suspected of committing crimes against property, like theft and looting. These last three categories are tried in community Gacaca courts.

Due in large part to incidences of intimidation and violence directed toward witnesses, the concept of community justice is not without its critics. “The genocide was still there, but we had people who weren’t prepared to accept responsibility,” Mukabagwiza said. Perpetrators were encouraged to plead guilty to lesser sentences, often resulting in community service as punishment. Rwanda has also recently abolished the death penalty. Asked how fair it is to have murderers punished so leniently, Mukabagwiza replied: “It’s a step of reconciliation, of managing the situation – no matter what, it’s not going to be fair, but we had to face it as a country if we wanted to heal.”

This system has also helped in the reconciliation process by involving the families of both the perpetrator and the victim, as well as the communities into which offenders are being reintegrated. “The Gacaca process helps end suspicions and rumours,” Mukabagwiza said. “It wasn’t easy to put people together and have them trust. We need to know what happened so that we can reconciliate with people.”

Mukabagwiza spoke highly of the country’s progress in the decade since the genocide, saying Rwanda has managed well, developed strong business and legal structures and repositioned its tourism assets. “The country is now viewed as the most secure in the region,” she added, pointing out low rates of crime and corruption. She also added that 48.8 per cent of Rwanda’s parliamentary representatives are women – among the highest in the world

"Our goal has been to rid of the impression of impunity and to provide penalties that allow people to amend themselves and reintegrate into society," Mukabagwiza added. "The image of Rwanda is changing."

Endnote.

2007-10-28T14:09:00.000-07:00

Zanzibar, Tanzania - I feel almost too overwhelmed to really grasp all that has transpired over the past few weeks, and to be able to say it was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Almost. But, when I look back at the sum of the parts -- the sum of incredible experience after incredible experience -- I realize there cannot be any question. I'm just not sure my mind is ready yet to think collectively of all these experiences as one larger memory. It was all too much for that.

The opportunity to learn about other people, and to be able to make a difference -- however fleeting -- in their lives is something that cannot be underestimated and is something that will remain with me always. We are so lucky -- and we can still learn so much from other cultures. Even faced with staggering levels of poverty, disease and malnutrition, the majority of people I met in Africa were overwhelmingly happy. With an average life expectancy of 45, and much to overcome to prepare their children for a better life, one has to wonder if there's simply little time to dwell. It's a perspective many of us could learn to appreciate.

Day 13: A True African Experience.

2007-10-27T08:36:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - As large raindrops begin to fall from a darkening sky, one of our host’s daughters reached up and silently took my hand in a sign of friendship as we made our way downhill through a small Mwanza community where we had had lunch. It was a sweet moment on a day that really featured a true experience in Africa that most tourists don’t have the opportunity to enjoy.

Meaghan, Alison and I had been invited to lunch by the interns’ housekeeper, Pendo, at her mother’s home a distance out of town. Making our way first to Pendo’s place, we were greeted by a succession of children – some hers (she has eight), some her sister’s and some her friend’s – in a small dark, teal room with a set of shuttered windows and a curtain that had been pulled across to separate bedroom from living room. Leaks in the ceiling were like large cup rings on a coffee table. Chairs and couches quickly filled as children came in, saying the respectful “shikamoo”. They seemed very excited to be having us as guests and quickly brought out a box of photographs and showed us their English homework. None of them spoke it much at all.

They were, however, quite eager to have their “picha” taken and would laugh with delight – and rib each other mercilessly – when we’d show them their facsimile selves on the backs of our cameras. The whole day, they’d point out photo opportunities and often stepped behind the shutter themselves. It was a nice change from having to be so careful about respecting cultural values here, where you don’t just randomly take pictures of people.

Eight children of various ages, the three of us and Pendo each piled into a dala-dala (a small mini-van-like bus) for the 25-minute ride to our destination. Stuffed beyond capacity, there were at times more than 25 sweaty people in the vehicle. And a basket of live chickens. This is Africa.

With the children leading the way and carrying a large basket of cooking bananas, vegetables, wood and other cooking supplies, we made the 20-minute trek up into the hills to Pendo’s mother’s home. The dirt ground in front of the relatively-large house was impeccably swept and out of small gardens sprouted plants that folded unto themselves when touched.

As one child flicked impatiently though stations on a large radio, another showed off his dancehall moves; others began preparing the food and yet another box of photographs was brought out. The children eagerly pointed out themselves and their parents. Pendo’s mother brought out a large bag of plaited straw and taught the interns how to make intricate patterns that could eventually be woven together into large mats.

Lunch, made on a small portable stove outside, was cooking bananas with tomatoes and onion, and some pineapple. Sitting around a coffee table, the children eagerly dove into a large plate, using pieces of banana to scoop up the sauce. Apart from the great company and honour we felt at being invited, the amazing thing about this was that they fed 13 people – most of whom are still growing – for less than five dollars (the enormous bundle of bananas cost 3,000 TSH, or about $2.75). It boggles my mind.

After lunch, the children rose to action, whisking away the dishes, washing and cleaning the house while Pendo had her hair braided by her mother. This was all a real African experience and I was very thankful for having been able to participate in it.

Day 12: Sekou Toure Hospital.

2007-10-26T03:23:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - Visiting the Sekou Toure regional hospital in Mwanza this morning, we were reminded of how lucky we are to have the health care service we do in Canada. While the hospital was better equipped than the one we visited in Kenya earlier in the trip, its inadequacies were punctuated by its complete lack of electricity and water since last night. They have no back-up generators.

A large number of the hospital’s patient base of 4-5,000 lines the hallways on long benches, or sits on the lawn. One woman brought with her a basket of live chickens as geckos scurried along the floor. Each of the “In case of emergency, break glass” cases was cracked.

Each day, the hospital helps bring 40 babies into the world and cares for 80 HIV/AIDS patients. One advantage of its being a government-run hospital is that patients only need to pay 5,000 TSH (approximately $4.75) for a registration card that will cover all of their examinations, necessary diagnostics like ultrasounds or x-rays, and any medications. Wait times are only two hours.

HIV/AIDS patients undergo mandatory counselling sessions before they are able to see a doctor, and the room where one such session was being conducted was full of women and young children. And the surgeries scheduled for today? They will have to be postponed until such time as electrical power returns. Such is life in Africa.

This afternoon, we went back to the kitchen so that Meaghan and Alison could deliver follow-up exams related to the mamas’ English lesson earlier in the week. The mamas were busy cooking lunch for one of the local schools, for whom they prepare breakfast and lunch as a side business. We also returned to the Forever Angels orphanage for a couple of hours and it was nice to see I was remembered from last week.

Day 11: A Good Deed.

2007-10-25T16:37:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - It was tremendously rewarding to take part in a good deed today during an excursion that will make an enormous difference in a woman’s life.

Where there’s poverty throughout Mwanza, homes in the slums up the hill we visited today are in even more serious states of disrepair. Missing are even the open sewers of the city; refuse of all varieties – fabric, packaging, corn cobs and liquor sachets – blanket the ground, piling high in areas where the wind has carried it. The hills are rocky and steep, the ground hard and dry. Small shacks perch precariously on ledges, gravity pulling wood planks to the ground. With the heat in full force, the hike makes your lungs ache.

As ever, children call out to us and we are welcomed by a number of friendly adults sitting in front of their homes or small shops.

When we reach our destination, a frail-looking woman with few teeth comes to the door of her clay hut and welcomes us warmly into the small room that serves as kitchen, bedroom – with a bed made from pieces of discarded foam – and living room. Soon, her granddaughter, Sikitu – the reason for our visit – comes by and we’re able to hand over a letter and 500,000 TSH (approximately $450-500) from former WHE intern Dallas Currow. Dallas had come to know Sikitu during her time in Tanzania and had conducted additional fundraising back in Canada to help her pay for medicine and other needs.

That is a life-changing amount of money here, particularly where she lives. I can only imagine the look on her face when she opened the envelope.

Glasses: Half-Full.

2007-10-24T14:58:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - All within five minutes today, we witnessed a large contrast of activities within the community where the interns’ apartment is located. Returning from the market, we saw a crowd forming as people hurried from all corners to see what the commotion was about. People were smiling, laughing and pointing toward a large throng of people amassed in front of a couple of stores, and someone else was lying on the ground. Suddenly, two police officers appeared from the centre of the mass, one firing shots into the sky, as they whisked an uncooperative suspect away. Yet five minutes later, when we came back outside, a crowd had formed for a different reason: some of the performers we had seen in the HIV/AIDS morality plays last week were doing an African dance, backed by musical instruments reminiscent of a southern jug band. Quite the activity – and a little surreal.

The heat hung heavily and we really felt its effects as we walked throughout the city, and over to the community kitchen, where Meaghan and Alison also teach the ‘yogurt mamas’ English three times a week. Today’s lesson was about the possessive forms of subjects and the interns worked with the mamas in both Swahili and English to help them understand proper sentence structure. The mamas were also really excited to receive reading glasses, which Meaghan’s mother had sent to the community. It was cute to see them trying on different frame styles, but the glasses should really benefit the mamas in their studies and day-to-day work.

All the while, a number of the community’s younger children began appearing on the kitchen’s steps and looked in at us with curiosity. Playing peek-a-boo and making some funny faces sent them into peels of laughter and led to their pretending to hide on the steps or to their scurrying away, only to return all over again.

To Market, To Market.

2007-10-23T11:15:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - Looking to pick up some materials for the apartment, Ruben – who is from the Netherlands, and lives with the WHE interns – and I had our senses assaulted when we headed to one of Mwanza’s local markets this afternoon.

The acrid smells of burning garbage were paired with pungent herbs and spices and fresh produce. Though we had our first real rainstorm of the trip this morning, and have enjoyed somewhat cooler temperatures – particularly at night – it was hot and sticky as we wove between the small stalls amid repeated cries of ‘’ and ‘rafiki yangu’ (‘my friend’). Swahili rap music fused aurally into the familiar patter of 50 Cent as a man with a Rastafarian hat danced in the street. A tall man with traditional Maasai sandals made of old car tires hurried back to one of the stalls, where he helped an older mama. Women with babies swaddled in colourful African fabrics on their backs pushed through the crowds, looking to pick something up for dinner. Commotion ruled the moment.

Bargaining sometimes became heated vocally, but everyone was eager to make a deal. Prices dropped radically when you showed you knew a little Swahili and refused entreaties to pay higher prices. We waded through tight wooden stalls hawking bins, cooking ware, produce and a long row of caged, squawking chickens. Men sat in front of tiny shops, ironing clothes with cast irons into which they place hot embers; young boys followed us around, their arms laden with plastic bags for sale (going rate is 1,000 TSH, or a little less than a dollar). Others carry large quantities of produce or timber on their heads or on wheelbarrows, navigating uneasily through the throngs of people. It was impossible to move without pushing past people and without your head and both sides of your body rubbing up against various wares.

Walls, concrete pillars, bus shelters, store signs and banners were all festooned with the colours and familiar wave of Coca Cola.

Another market we ventured into, called Mlango Moja, was laden with t-shirts, sneakers and other clothes that had been sold here from charity clothing bins back in North America. Row upon row of Nike shoes and Tommy Hilfiger shirts hung tightly in rickety stalls and, unlike my experiences in such markets in Malaysia, these weren’t, for the most part, counterfeit. Instead, they were merely second-hand. The irony of buying something and taking it back home would have seemed poetic, but I didn’t.

I have been struck by many of the small shops you pass when you’re going through town; at every turn, there seem to be hair salons with garishly distorted airbrushed faces on the front. A disproportionate number of bed frame manufacturers ply their trade in small workshops along the road, though with the size of families here, I suppose it’s a product that is always in need. Small shops hawk candy and soda and are flanked by one-room shanty hotels. Wood and concrete structures lay side by side, many of which are brightly painted with advertisements and brand logos.

Day Nine: Buswelu.

2007-10-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - On roads carved from clay, and etched by rivulets and sinking tires, we made our way to the Buswelu Primary School this morning to take hand-made cards and picture books prepared in English and Swahili by students at Tecumseh Public School in London, Ontario for the children here.

At times, flooded roads became impassable and we were forced to wind through the labyrinthine community, past residents tending to meagre plots of land and washing clothes or themselves in their front yards. By the looks of surprise we received, it became immediately evident these weren’t roads regularly traveled by ‘s’. I suddenly felt very conspicuous and exposed in my pallor. The fact our cab ride to Buswelu – a suburb of Mwanza – cost an average man’s monthly salary was also food for thought.

Homes were generally constructed of clay or concrete; chickens, dogs and goats darted onto the roads with impunity. Children, of all ages, too. It continues to amaze me how many children are always scurrying about – often with loads of water or sticks on their heads – and taking care of themselves from very young ages. It’s not uncommon to see a five-year-old looking after his or her smaller siblings, without a parent in sight. I can’t imagine how young responsibility is foisted upon, or accepted by, youth here, but with the sheer level of poverty, there is an obvious reason why. There is very little time for parental supervision.

Upon arriving at the school, our car was immediately surrounded by children, pointing at us and asking us questions. Thankfully, Meaghan and Alison’s Swahili is much better than mine. Ushered into Headmaster Leonard Chinyele’s small office, we were welcomed and asked to sign the visitor’s register, which has happened everywhere we have been thus far. It was our hope to ask Mr. Chinyele to have students at the school write back to their Canadian counterparts on cards provided by the Western Heads East project; he readily agreed, saying that he could get them to us by the time the interns return home in December. The more we can learn about people in other parts of the world, the easier it can be to understand where we can help and what we can learn from them. Exposure to children like those at these schools is a positive first step.

Lions and Elephants, Hurrah.

2007-10-22T03:07:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - The goal of the modern safari seems to be to shoot as many as you can of the ‘Big 5’ – lion, leopard/ cheetah, hippopotamus, water buffalo and elephant. Only now, you do it with a camera instead of a rifle.

While sitting beside my tent on the rim of the Ngorongoro crater the first night after a full day of travel, I realized our journey (“safari” in Swahili) had already provided me and my travel partner – Western Heads East intern Meaghan Horgan – with more than we could have hoped for. We were blessed with clear weather as we traversed various topographies – flat, dry savanna, tropical forests, lush mountains and short scrub – making animal sighting easier.

We were greeted almost immediately by giraffes and a herd of approximately 13 elephants, crossing in front of us. Three hours in, we had already seen thousands of antelope, gazelles and zebras. Water buffalo and baboons made their way through the grass at every turn. Hippos resembled clumps of grey rocks floating in the water; warthogs and ostriches scampered about. We had also crossed paths with our first big cats, including a pair of lions, a leopard climbing out of a tree and a cheetah enjoying its freshly-killed Thompson gazelle – while fending off a flock of vultures. All of this happened within a few feet of us, which was surreal, especially considering there are no fences. This is the wild.

We were reminded of this as we came across the female lion, lazily lying under a tree near a pond. We watched as a gazelle sauntered over, separated from its mates. It fell over, possibly sick, then continued to the water hole. The lioness tensed on her haunches and sprang into action, catching herself a meal. Seemingly unimpressed, a male appeared from the tall grasses and decided to challenge a water buffalo. Without the female’s support, he ended up backing down, tearing off a piece of the gazelle as a consolation prize instead.

During the trip to Ngorongoro, too, we passed a number of Maasai, their easily distinguishable red or purple garments contrasted against the dry grass. Their villages, surrounded by fences of stick and brush to keep predators out, dotted the mountainous climb. Acacia and Baobab rose randomly from the vast terrain, but passing hollow, bleached bones served as a reminder that this is one part of the world over which you have very little control.

The Ngorongoro crater – the largest unbroken caldera in the world, and considered by many to be the eighth wonder of the world – was breathtaking in its beauty, though clouds and fog washed in over it in the morning. It is also considered by some to be the birthplace of civilization. The crater’s walls rose high and were scarred by the switchbacks that took 20 minutes to traverse to the bottom. The backdrop was stunning, with cascading hills, vast plains and the large Lake Magadi. We had our drive interrupted briefly as a large herd of wildebeests crossed the road in a perfectly straight line and, toward the end of the day, we completed our ‘Big 5’, spotting one of the very few remaining black rhinoceros in the crater.

The second night, we camped in the Serengeti and went to sleep to distant calls from lions and hyenas. I was bitten on my Achilles by a tsetse fly, but though it really stung, I don’t think it has made me sick. It was an amazing and surreal night to look up at a partially-lit sky, pinpricked to let the heavens shine through the silence. Lit light blue, it was as though darkness should never completely fall over the sky, depriving us of the Serengeti’s beauty. I couldn’t believe I was standing in the middle of it at night, surrounded by all I had seen during the day.

Today, Meaghan and I rose at 5:45 to watch the sun rise over the park and to begin our trek home to Mwanza. We awoke to zebras, antelope and gazelles visible from our tent door; we passed lions as we exited the camp. On the way out, we saw many more animals and actually had a chance to get out of the car to take a rope bridge across a river in which a crocodile swam below. I didn’t want to lose my sandal. Or my footing. The most amazing experience came toward the end of the day when two long lines of elephants came together in a V, heading to the river to cool off. In all, more than 150 elephants of all sizes passed within feet of us. It pretty much summed up the trip for us: we were very fortunate to see all that we did; many people spend far more time and see far less.

Forever Angels.

2007-10-19T09:48:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - Really making me miss my own back home, Meaghan, Alison and I spent the afternoon volunteering our time with the children at the Forever Angels orphanage in Mwanza.

The orphanage is currently home to 20 children under the age of three, and is being expanded to house double that number. Many of the children came from families where the parents died from disease, or were simply left on the orphanage’s doorstep. One boy we met had been beaten so badly, and left at the gate, that he needed to be resuscitated in hospital. Others had had their growth stunted by severe malnutrition. Most of them just wanted some love and some attention – just like any other child.

It was funny to see just how little difference there can be in children, regardless of where they are from – much like my previous experience, it seem inevitable that if you build a sandcastle, a child will get the biggest kick out of squashing it. And then asking, amid peels of laughter, to have it rebuilt. We played in the sandbox, gave piggyback rides, sat with the children during snack time, played catch and participated in other children’s games. One of the boys, Joseph, was really interested in my camera and wanted me to put Alison’s sunglasses on so that he could take a photo. Then, he wanted to take a picture of his friend. He was quite pleased with the results of his pressing the button releasing the shutter and capturing the moment for himself.

It was also a little funny to hear them sing the Bob the Builder theme song – or some variation thereof. Like kids everywhere, they’re good mimics.

Mabatini.

2007-10-19T05:17:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - “Hapana – asante!” (“No, thank you”) I said to the ‘yogurt mamas’ this morning after they expressed many thanks for our visit and for our support. “We teach you about probiotic yogurt, you teach us about life,” Gregor added. With the experiences we have had over the past week, such a statement resonated with a tremendous amount of poignancy. The energy the ‘yogurt mamas’ bring to the Western Heads East initiative and to their community is tremendous. I am privileged to have had the opportunity to witness this first-hand. We were meeting with the mamas for the last time as a full complement of team members on this trip; Gregor, Jennifer and Maryanne have just left for the airport. I, however, look forward to working with them again over the coming weeks before I, too, return home to Canada.

From a personal standpoint, I have been amazed to see the sheer number of children running about and looking shyly, excitedly or sometimes with trepidation, at these “muzungus” coming into their community in a Range Rover. The Mabatini village is not exactly a tourist destination. They are quick with smiles when you engage them, and are fascinated by seeing pictures of themselves on the back of a digital camera. Today, I nearly incited a mini riot of children who rapidly surrounded me after I took a photo of one of the boys and showed it to him. Soon, children – seemingly extricating themselves from crevices in the walls – clamoured around for their opportunity to be photographed and to be around the visitors. It was as though it took one to break the ice, to show we were friendly. The excitement is infectious. Of course, my handing out superballs to a few of the children only whipped the crowd into more of a frenzy, but you can’t possibly begin to bring enough for everyone. Children are, literally, everywhere.

This, of course, is one of the big reasons this project is so important. While I can presume it’s the same throughout the majority of Africa, I have seen first-hand, and know to be true, that malnutrition, disease and lack of access to potable water are ravaging populations in Kenya and Tanzania. It has been astounding to see so few senior citizens throughout our travels. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach when I realize just why that is: the average life expectancy is just 45. It’s universal whether you’re in Canada, the United States, Kenya or Tanzania: the children are the future. With this in common, we could certainly learn from each other to help create a better future around the globe. Despite their hardship, and often limited opportunity, the children here are, for the most part, extraordinarily happy. Many are sick, but they do not look defeated. Nearly all their clothes are in tatters, but “sawa” (“it’s alright”); it’s hot here.

It’s something I would suggest we think about a little more often as we stress about deadlines, bills and what shade of taupe to paint our walls. We certainly have poverty, disease and a different kind of malnutrition in North America, but here, it seeps into everything the dust can reach. Which is to say, everywhere.

Day Five: Mwanza.

2007-10-19T01:04:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - The heat hangs heavily, like a sopping wool sweater, sucking from you what breath hasn’t already been stolen by dust-filled lungs. Despite being the beginning of the rainy season, we have seen but a sprinkle since we landed in Africa nearly a week ago. The small breeze rattles the palms into chatter and Lake Victoria glistens hazily in the morning sun. Kingfishers, storks and eagles stalk their breakfast dizzily, lazily drifting. Then rocket straight toward the water below as through threaded to a fishing line.

The ‘Faculty’ portion of the trip draws to a close today, as does much of the formal agenda. Gregor, Jennifer and Maryanne begin returning home this afternoon, though Isaac will remain for a couple more days. I’ll be starting the ‘Intern experience’ of the trip, staying with the Western Heads East interns and volunteering in the community for the rest of my time here. Goodbye hot water, regular access to the Internet and reliable electricity. The interns are the are the contingent from Canada who keeps the project going on a daily basis, so I look forward to gaining some perspective into their experience, and we have a number of great things planned.

Oh, that and a couple of us are heading out to tent on the Serengeti and at the Ngorongoro crater for the next couple of days. You know, small things.

Day Four: Mwanza.

2007-10-18T09:46:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - Without question, the days painted with the experience of visiting various towns and communities have thus far proved to be the most rewarding – both personally and professionally. Being among the people has provided unparalleled opportunities for seeing how other people live, and also for how much we have to be thankful. The sights. The smells. The sounds. The feelings. Our senses are alive and being pulled in so many directions.

Today, we visited the birthplace of the Western Heads East project in Africa – the Mabatini community kitchen. Before we had the chance to do so, however, we had a successful meeting with Regional Administrative Secretary Alhaji Yhya Mbila, who cleared space in his morning schedule to meet with us at the prompting of Amran Batenga, Chairman of the regional Chamber of Commerce, with whom we met last night.

Our objective during the meeting was to increase awareness of, and generate increased support from government for, the Western Heads East project. “We all out support it; we’re talking about AIDS, which is a big threat,” Mbila said. “Mwanza is the hub,” he began, telling us that the lake region is home to 30 per cent of the country’s population. “Historically, we have competition economically with Kenya and Uganda, but invariably, we are the best.” While he previously had little knowledge of the project, he was sufficiently impressed that he promised to visit the community kitchen over the next month to experience it first hand.

Which is what we did next. Greeted by the mamas, who were all wearing green Western Heads East T-shirts (which read, on the back, “How can a cow fight HIV? Western Heads East”) along with their traditional kitenge, we were given portions of the probiotic yogurt that has helped them build their reputation in the community. Though we eventually added a little bit of sugar, it tasted quite good.

The mamas’ kitchen is a small room with turquoise walls and a mural depicting the community engaged in the yogurt making process on one wall. Awash with green plastic containers, a small floortop stove, a refrigerator, other tools and a table for distribution, the kitchen will need to be expanded to increase opportunities for sustainability. The village of Mabatini is dry and set into the hills with dirt roads and people everywhere. Most of the buildings are stone and the wind whips down the laneways, carrying with it dust and the excited trills of children. I look forward to revisiting the community over the next week or so and seeing more of it. It was an amazing experience.

Following our time in the kitchen, we are treated to a cultural experience as the local Tunda Sana theatre troupe ushered us in as honoured guests to watch a series of performances aimed at teaching people about HIV/AIDS through drama. While I likened it in my head to opera – which you don’t necessarily need to understand the lyrics to enjoy – we had an interpreter and were truly blown away by the performance, and the experience. Following the main morality plays, the audience was engaged to ask questions of the actors, who remained in character while providing their responses. It struck me how this encouraged important discussion among the group, and was impressed by the actors’ ability to reply in metaphor. On one such occasion, for example, an actor portraying a philandering girlfriend was asked, “Why have more than one boyfriend,” to which she replied, “You can’t live on the same diet of rice.” This also happened to be the one time an actor had no answer to the follow-up question: “If you need change in your diet, why not women?” I also thought that was a pretty enlightened question for this area. The session wrapped up with a traditional African dance, which was also a tremendous, unexpected experience.

Looking out at a rainbow arcing over Lake Victoria, I feel almost like I have found the pot of gold of experience; this has also been another amazing day.

Day Three: Mwanza, Tanzania.

2007-10-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

Mwanza, Tanzania - Arriving in Mwanza, Tanzania this afternoon following yet another travel day (that makes five straight days on planes), we are finally able to shed our wings for a few and settle in one place. Upon arrival, we were met at the airport by the Western Heads East’s project’s current interns, Meaghan and Alison, and taken to Hotel Tilipia, on the banks of Lake Victoria. We were even greeted by birds the size of small adults, nicknamed “Dirty Birds” around here. I thought they were statues they were so big. Statues don’t move, though.

Taking in the sights from the air has its unique benefits and can give provide perspective about just how big things are, how the topography and climate change and how dense populations are. From what we have seen so far here, it’s mostly: very vast, predominantly arid and home to geographically diverse peoples.

We had a pretty clear day for flying and got a good look at Mount Kilimanjaro, where we landed to pick up additional passengers (I’m gathering Precision Air functions a bit like a big city bus…), the Ngorongoro crater and the Serengeti. There was also volcanic activity below as a volcano bordering the crater had begun spewing ash.

Seeing small vortexes of dust curling violently into the sky like wagging fingers, it was amazing to see just how dry and dusty everything is. I had believed the plumes were smoke from campfires, but as I watched them dance through the brush as the winds changed, it became apparent they were something else entirely. It was also particularly interesting to see homesteads on the savanna set up with circular or square fences of planted brush to keep wild predators away. Likely a good thing when you live in these parts in a mud hut. Small sections were portioned off with additional brush fences for gardens or for goats, and in the inner circle – with the most security – were the owners’ homes.

Prior to bidding kwaheri to Kenya this morning, we had an early meeting with Nyambura Gigthagui from The World Bank, who looks after funding for this probiotic yogurt project in Kenya. She warned of the importance of moving quickly to prevent any loss of momentum, and to also ensure that any community kitchens set up are wholly owned by the women’s groups rather than any one individual. “At the community level, we have so many resources available, but we need a framework for decentralizing them,” she said. Hopefully – and I believe we do – we have a positive way in which we can encourage these groups to take ownership and use their learnings to provide significant benefits to their communities.

The dust in the air has coated the interior of my lungs, bringing with it a slight hacking cough not helped by the long days nor the pollution in the cities, but none of us can believe we have been here for only three days.

Day Two: Oyugis/Kasipul/Kabondo.

2007-10-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

Advance caveat: I'm aware this is far too long a post for a blog, but it was such an important day, I feel I had little choice. Given the inconsistency of Internet service here, it also comes relatively unedited.

Put simply, this was one of the most incredible days of my life. While there is so much to say, I still feel trepidation in my fingers because words – especially in the written form – seem unable to do justice to all we did and experienced in such a short time. Without first-hand knowledge, much of rural Africa is, unfortunately, beyond the context of understanding for many North Americans.

Complaints about traffic and poor road conditions rank somewhere between hobby and sport in Canada, yet, I have never endured a ride bumpier than today’s trip past various villages into Oyugis, Kasipul, Kabondo and points between. The roads – where formal ones exist – are in serious states of disrepair, while others have been carved from the earth and wend their way awkwardly up hills and over jagged rocks. But it’s not that we could complain about traffic. The roads were nearly devoid of cars, though a few buses spewing black exhaust made things interesting on the narrow strips of pavement.

No, instead, the roads were lined with people walking or cycling, carrying with them their wares, belongings or other people – one bicycle transported five people. Along the way, children waved, smiled and ran alongside the truck; others led their goats and cows along the ditch. As we climbed into higher elevations, the relatively arid terrain gave way to lusher, tropical trees and plants, including coffee, pineapple and banana. Consistent throughout, though, was the poverty. The landscape was dotted by small villages of mud huts or tin-roofed shacks in varying states of disrepair, and by town markets teeming with activity and people hawking their wares.

Following a two-hour drive, our day began at the Rackuonyo District Hospital, where we met with the superintendent, the district AIDS/STI coordinator and representatives from KEMRI and the ministry of public health. The project’s researchers sought permission to include some of the hospital’s 5,000 HIV/AIDS patients in the probiotic yogurt project, a proposal agreeable to the superintendent, so long as privacy standards are maintained. Visiting the hospital was interesting in its own right as it was equipped with very few facilities – mostly an outcropping of small buildings the size of an average North American kitchen. Additionally, when we walked in, a technician was drawing blood from a long line of patients – without wearing gloves. This was mind boggling, particularly given the high-risk nature of the task.

We were then welcomed in the Kokal village by the Oranda Women’s Group, who will likely follow in the footsteps of the ‘yogurt mamas’ in Mwanza, Tanzania, and begin preparing probiotic yogurt for their community. “We are very happy for your visit,” the group’s chairperson stated as we were ushered to seats of honour in their compound as cows grazed and small children sucking on sugarcane peered with curiosity at their visitors. “This is the only project like this in all of Kenya, so you are leading the way for the country,” said Canadian scientist Gregor Reid.

We then made our way through villages to meet with the Nyanam Women’s Group, who showed great promise as advocates for the project and demonstrated particular strengths in communications, marketing and sales. “My argument has always been, who brings food, brings life,” added Isaac Luginaah, the project’s principal investigator. There could be real value in leveraging their aptitudes to help spread the word of benefits from probiotics and to potentially involve them with the sales aspect, rather than yogurt production itself.

For lunch, we stopped at a roadside restaurant and I enjoyed some local fare: fried chicken and a slab of ugali. While I came to Africa armed with 50-60 Swahili words, I have limited my use to fairly basic sayings, particularly “habari”, “nzuri” and “asante” (hello, I’m fine and thank you, respectively), but at lunch I used my first full sentence: “Samahani – naomba una chupa ye maji baridi; asante sana” (“Excuse me, I would like a cold bottle of water; thank you”).

In the afternoon, we met with two more groups of mamas to examine other viable options for community kitchens and were asked some important questions, including one about whether traditional, local sour milk products provide the same benefits as probiotic yogurt. Differences between controlled and uncontrolled fermentation are important to distinguish. According to Professor Reid, while the sour milk may provide certain benefits, bacteria in it dies in the gut and, thus, does not provide the same beneficial qualities as probiotics.

I am amazed by how ubiquitous Coca Cola is here. The company’s logo was permanently overlayed in the corner of a television program featuring music videos. Shiny red, well-painted bus shelters bear the Coke logo (and were unquestionably financed by them). In many villages, bright red Coke stands rise up between dilapidated shacks housing other businesses. And, in nearly all cases, the Coke buildings were the nicest ones in the village. Even more shockingly – and perhaps the irony of ironies – one of the hospital buildings was sponsored by the beverage maker (and bore a large mural to that effect). In a community with a 17 per cent HIV/AIDS infection rate, however, I suppose the hospital’s need for funding surpasses concern for diabetes, gum disease and other drawbacks of soda consumption.

For someone as interested as I am in the world and in how people live, today was an incredible opportunity to experience a different people, a different culture and a different way of life. It was amazing. Children would invariably bound along, waving and giggling or retreat shyly. Many would then soften with wide eyes and take off with peels of laughter with their friends. Replying “nzuri” to their timid hellos left them tickled pink. In matching school uniforms, they’d cut down the laneways and peer into the buildings we were in, often unsure until we waved or said hello. Then came the widest smiles. Driving through the countryside and villages, and meeting the mamas in the various communities was rewarding on so many levels.

This was a day to remember.

Kisumu: Part Two.

2007-10-15T23:22:00.000-07:00

Kisumu, Kenya - My first full day in Africa is winding down as I atop the Imperial Hotel watching the sun set over Lake Victoria.

After chicken stew with rice for lunch, the group met with members of the Kenyan medical institute, KEMRI, and other key Kenyan stakeholders to determine elements to be covered for a baseline study related to the introduction of probiotic yogurt to the community. Researchers were hoping to discover if three measurements they felt could help determine the success of the project were viable within the community:

By measuring levels of CD4, does this probiotic yogurt affect immunity for HIV/AIDS?
By measuring height and weight of children, 2-5, do we see any significant benefits?
Do episodes and duration of infection diminish with consumption?

Significant progress was made in preparation for the project’s commencement in Kasipul, which has a population of 140,000; during the second phase, the project will expand to Kabondo, which has a population of 60,000. Both have an HIV/AIDS infection rate of 17 per cent.

It was important for the Canadian and Kenyan representatives to clearly understand how they planned to identify candidates for the study (including ratios of men, women and children), and how potential candidates could best be served. It was commonly agreed upon that it is critical that potential candidates are properly sensitized to the benefits of probiotic yogurt for an ongoing commitment to become sustainable. And now, dinner beckons.

Day One: Kisumu.

2007-10-15T16:12:00.000-07:00

Kisumu, Kenya - Now I feel like I’m in Africa. Having spent most of the past two days in airports and flying over the continent, I have arrived with the full team – which now includes Gregor Reid and his daughter Jennifer – in Kisumu, Kenya. Flying at the crack of dawn this morning, we were able to see Mount Kenya rising above a carpet of clouds – towering over it, in fact.

At Kisumu’s small airport, we were greeted by a group of uniformed school children who waved eagerly as we disembarked. Kisumu isn’t really a tourist spot, but the group seemed to enjoy watching the planes land. It’s a rural area, replete with farms and thatched houses on the opposite side of Lake Victoria from Mwanza, Tanzania, where we are headed in a few days. In town, however, Kisumu is pretty hectic, with Jeepneys and bicycle taxis careening down the roads and through the myriad roundabouts. In reference to driving in Kenya, our driver this morning said, “Here, you just take care of yourself”.

Gregor and Jennifer have already been on safari, and also had the opportunity to get up-close and personal with some cheetahs, and to pet them (apparently, they purred). Wild giraffes also come up to their hotel’s windows, and stick their heads through, which, based on the photographs, looked pretty neat. So far, I’ve only seen some pelicans or storks, and a crane, all of which are really large birds.

As the Internet service has been down at our hotel for a few days, we sought out an Internet café, which turned out to be a bit of an exercise in futility. After playing musical chairs trying to find a computer that would even let us open a web page, we waited. And we waited. Then, a couple of us drafted quick emails and pressed send. Nothing. The service went down and our efforts were lost. While we got nothing in return, all things considered, the 17 Kenyan Shillings I spent amounted to less than a Canadian dollar for a half-hour of so-called connection. And, I like to think that’s part of the experience, too.

As I am want to do, I parted from the group for a while this afternoon when we had some free time. I wandered outside the city gates and came across a large open market, where they sell pretty much everything, from dried fish, to fresh produce, to clothing. I tend to like to immerse myself in the world I am visiting, and not just visit tourist sites. I like to see how people live and what locals do and, because of this, I can be a bit impulsive in my wandering. Based on some of the looks I received, I’m not so sure I was welcome in this market. Being such a shutterbug at home, I also had to be more careful, given that many people here don’t like to have their photos taken, or want to be paid if you do. I encountered one vendor who asked me to pay up, though I hadn’t even been shooting in her direction. I also acquired a shadow, a young boy named Ricky, who followed me back to the hotel, asking for money, keeping up by hopping along on-and-off of the ragged sidewalks.

Our plans have changed for today and we will now not be going to Oyugis until tomorrow morning, but we have meetings for the rest of the afternoon, and into the evening.

Alive in Africa. But the Internet Isn't.

2007-10-15T14:15:00.000-07:00

Nairobi, Kenya - Habari! Sorry folks, but the Internet has been intermittent at best here in Africa, which I suppose is part of the experience. As such, the posts have been somewhat delayed in being posted, and are without photos. I'll do my best to update the posts with photos when I can, and when I return. I also haven't been able to adjust the dates/times, so I've simply attached them as part of the copy of the post. In the meantime, bear with me.

Africa. (!)

2007-10-14T14:32:00.000-07:00

Nairobi, Kenya - Okay, I have been up for 30.5 straight hours (discounting the 10-minute catnap I got on the plane), of which I’ve been traveling for more than 26 of those hours. But I’m here on the other side of the world, landing in Nairobi a few hours ago and then having to negotiate with an Air Kenya representative for the tickets we need to fly to Kisumu tomorrow morning. Yes, tickets we had already booked while back in Canada.

As we passed over the equator around 18:30 local time, the sun was setting with ruby reds atop brushed cotton clouds. It was a pretty sight. Unfortunately, the clouds thickened as we descended into Nairobi, greatly reducing visibility. The first thing I noticed about flying over Kenya was how dark much of it is – unlike many of the other places you travel, this country does not appear like a Lite Brite from the sky at night. Upon touchdown, a single thought popped into my head: “Omigod. I. Am. In. Africa.”

But, it’s 21:45 here and I have to be up at 5:00 to catch our flight at 8:00 tomorrow morning, so even the much sought-after Tusker will have to wait. Timely enough, too, because I just about lost electric power for the second time in ten minutes.

Head in the Sand.

2007-10-14T08:21:00.000-07:00

In Flight - We have been flying over the African continent for some time now and have been greeted by little more than a giant tableau of sand for as far as the eye can see – even while traveling at 900km/h. A stretch a few minutes ago proffered some outcroppings of rock and a brief change to an ochre-hued landscape, but from the air, we were still left with enormous rivulets of sand – a giant beach without the water, or a sandbox you wouldn’t want to be stuck playing in. There also appeared to be a section of farm plots layed-out in rectangles and hexagons, but with no other signs of civilization around, and definitely no roads. At first, I had thought we were flying over some really dirty water, but then it struck me: could this be the Sahara? Yes, it was.

We have been blessed with a perfectly clear day for nearly this whole leg of the journey (my first stretch with a window) and it has been fascinating to watch the topography change from lush, verdant Dutch farms fed by the tendrils of innumerable irrigation ditches to the mammoth crags of the Alps to now, the vast aridness of a seemingly unending desert. It was also particularly interesting to see the crisp outline of Italy’s boot at the southernmost point of the European continent.

A notoriously poor sleeper on planes, I’ve only mustered a single 10-minute nap since we left 21 hours ago. With only a few more hours to go until we land in Nairobi, I’ll likely hold off at this point – I don’t want to miss seeing the land shed its skin yet again as we pass over the Savannah on our approach.

3...2...1...And so the Journey Begins.

2007-10-13T13:26:00.000-07:00

Toronto, Ontario, Canada - As the plane gained altitude and the landscape shifted from checkerboard farms and the rust-coloured, paintbrush-like tips of fall trees in southwestern Ontario to a field of dimpled clouds, it struck me that my journey to a land far different from my own had begun. It is a journey that involves more than a series of connections through airports filled with nomadic people of whose lives you gain little but a fleeting snapshot. It is, I say without hesitation, a journey where the impact will be felt not just physically in the hot, dusty climates of rural Kenya and Tanzania, but on the psyche. And hopefully, at the same time, I will be able to help make a difference in others' lives. Having spoken with numerous people who have made this trip before me, I have an extremely difficult time thinking I won't come back in some way changed.

It is this feeling that both excites me and renders me slightly apprehensive – there's something about leaving a piece of yourself behind and coming back to those you love somehow less complete. Or, paradoxically, more complete. I have long been fascinated by how people live, particularly in other parts of the world, but I've been told that nothing really prepares you for your first visit to a developing continent like Africa. The poverty. The disease. The morbidity. The happiness. A trip to Malaysia last year provided me with my first real experience in the developing world, but the newly-industrialized country remains quite different from many of the areas I'll be visiting in Kenya and Tanzania over the next few weeks.

Drawn to the lore of Kunta Kinte, Kizzy and Chicken George, Alex Haley's Roots has been my favourite book since a young age. From the opening chapters of the book, I became intrigued with Africa, but never really thought I'd ever end up going there. Now, a flight to Amsterdam, followed by one to Nairobi, is all that stands between my breathing the air of what many consider to be the cradle of civilization. And I do not hesitate to believe that the journey will mean far more than travel to a far-off continent.

I hope you'll join me.