a non-Africa topic (partially)

Breaking away from my usual range of snippets of life in Rwanda for a minute, because today is a momentous occasion...

My baby big girl turned 5 today. I cannot believe I am the mother of a five year old child... Not a baby, not a toddler, not a preschooler... A real, honest-to-goodness kid. How on earth did this happen? (Yes, of course, we all understand the scientific reasons behind an infant turning into a real person... but allow me the moment of amazement). I hate that I'm not with her, and I miss her immensely... but I am so proud of my little person. Happy birthday, Leah!

Back to Africa... I am off to Tanzania tomorrow morning (Rwandair, I do not need to be at the airport at 5am... really!). While I'm sure I'll find my way to a net cafe or two along the way, I'm not sure I'll get a chance to blog. Expect updates and pictures of my well-deserved, disgustingly touristy time in Tanzania when I get back.

oh, rwanda

Earlier this morning (after the internet returned from its day and a half hiatus here at the office...), I received an email from my boss asking me to translate a letter for our Francophone directors of advocacy and programming from our regional office. It began with the line "Over the time remaining to travel to Kirimanjaro..."

Point of Interest #1: Amusing misspelling of 'Kilimanjaro.'
Point of Interest #2: He thought it would take me THREE DAYS to translate this one page letter? Yikes.

Point of Interest #1 has some blogging potential that I haven't previously covered, though. So, because the one page letter translation did not take the expected three days (but instead a typical 2ish hours), the r's and the l's. Rwandans amuse me beyond all reason with their ability to use 'r' and 'l' interchangeably. Imagine your confusion when you're speaking to someone, or reading an email or text and the words are just... all wrong. (Well here, for example, the previous sentence in typical Rwandan speak: "Rwandans amuse me beyond arr leason with theil abirity to use 'l' and 'r' intelchangeabry. Imagine youl confusion when you'le speaking to someone, ol leading an emair or text and the wolds ale just... arr wlong." It's not quite that bad... but the confusion!)

My favourite r/l mix up is probably the 'rice/lice.' When the waiter asks you if you'd like some "lice" with your meal, it's extremely difficult not to crack up. People here pronounce my daughter's name as "Reah" rather than "Leah." A Canadian friend of mine is a maid of honour in a Rwandan/Canadian wedding this weekend; the wedding invitations came back reading "We play you will attend" rather than "we pray." When Rwanda held its parliamentary elections back in September, more than one individual told me that we would have the day off work because there were "erections." The hilarity.

these are my confessions

Admissions of guilt are the order of the day. Before moving to Rwanda, there was frantic information-gathering: what’s the highest SPF sunscreen I can find to bring along? Which bugspray has the highest concentration of DEET? Which anti-malarial will make me less crazy? Where can I find a treated bednet for less than $70? What kind of bugs and snakes are in Rwanda, and which can kill me? Will bottled water be easily accessible so I can brush my teeth and wash fruit and veggies?

Well. I’ve lived in Rwanda for nearly five months. I’ve never used bug spray. I bought a bednet my second week here… and it’s still in its package. Sometimes I forget my Malarone (and it does make you crazy, no matter what they say). I’ve used less than a quarter of one of my three bottles of sunscreen. I stopped buying bottled water a long time ago; I brush my teeth with water from the tap, single-boil water in a kettle to drink, and more often than not, I forget to wash produce. Guess what? I’m still alive. No malaria, no sun-burn, no amoebas.

I’m admittedly much more cavalier about things than I should be with my health and safety, much less cautious than the guidebooks (and CIDA…) suggest. Life is a routine here, and while I know the risks, so far so good. Well, except for the time I did think I had malaria…

Just watch though - the day after I get back in Canada, I'll come down with pneumonia again. Winters in Canada are more likely to kill me than Africa is.

bless the rains down in africa

The rainy season is starting to let up, I think. The haze covering the tops of the mountains has returned from its hiatus. A day or two can pass without a torrential downpour pelting the city, drowning the fields and coating every road (and every shoe) with thick mud. People have started forgetting their umbrellas at home (except me, because I’ve never once actually remembered my umbrella!). Most of us are starting to develop what’s called the “Kigali cough,” brought on by the rising red dust in the streets that clogs your throat and makes your lungs feel like they’re burning. Signs of dry weather returning.

As happy as I am about the prospect of no longer getting caught in the rain (and believe me, if it’s raining, I’m bound to get caught in it, usually in a tank top or a white shirt, and never with an umbrella), the rainy season brings a lot of beautiful scenery. The hills that were dry and brittle, faded gold and brown patchwork quilts of fields when I first arrived in Rwanda turned lusciously green almost overnight when the rain started. Shades of green echo across the horizon; the only brown you see is the mud these days. Trees are sprouting more fruit, and there’s a veritable rainbow at every stall in the market as the rainy season brought more interesting things in season. And better still are the people-watching opportunities brought on by the rain. Huge crowds gather under every awning; sometimes people look so morose and confused, like they’ve never encountered a rainstorm before in their lives. The streets become a sea of umbrellas of every colour and design – Premiere League football teams, Primus beer logos, ads for Tuzanet (the free mosquito nets the government provides to mothers) all mixed in with plaids, stripes and floral patterns. Little girls walk down the streets barefoot, shoes in hand, to avoid getting them muddy. And my favourite sight of all – masses of moto drivers hovering under whatever empty space they can find, with or without their bikes.

in which i make a list of the reasons i can't stay

Despite having spent one fifth of my waking hours on Monday (15 hours total, meaning 3 hours) waiting for buses... Despite being broker than I've ever been in my entire life... Despite missing my parents and my friends and my Leah more than I thought I would... Despite having strong cravings for real food (that I can afford; see Point #2)... Despite the miserable state of telecommunications (please, MTN, stop charging me for text messages you aren't even sending. Oh, and make your internet work more than one day a week, yeah?) and the difficulties in talking with anyone at home... Despite forgetting what a real shower feels like, and what it's like to have power most of the day... Despite all this... I have this nearly irrepressible urge to just stay.

52 days left? That's it? Are you kidding me?

A(nother) numbers game

2 … is the number of Thanksgivings I’ve celebrated in Kigali.
3 … is the number of cups of coffee I’ve consumed this morning (and the headache remains).
5 … is the number of years my baby is turning in 15 days!
6 … is the number of people who have called me fat in the past month.
17 … is the number of discrepancies in Rwandan statistics I’ve noticed today.
24 … is the number of different restaurants (with names) that I’ve eaten at in Kigali.
24 … is the number of books I’ve read since being in Rwanda.
59 … is the number of days I have left in Africa.
90 … is approximately the number of dollars I received for stipends in the past week (don’t even get me started).
96 … is the number of phone numbers saved to my phone… 12 is the number of those numbers that I would use in a given month… 71 is the number of those numbers that I have never called/do not remember the person who’s number it is.
114 … is the number of times I’ve tried repairing the office internet connection today.
138 … is the number of days since I left Canada.
1,633 … is the number of pictures I’ve taken since arriving here.
135,000 … is the number of Rwandan Francs it will take to replace my stolen phone.

there won't be snow in Africa this Christmastime

It’s already December; it’s unreal how fast time has passed here. Getting off the plane in July, six months stretched out forever ahead of me – six months of being away from my family and my friends, six months of trying to work in a language I barely comprehend, six months of none of the comforts of home (oh, how I miss showers…). It seemed like forever. And now it’s December, and I’m in the homestretch… and I’m not altogether sure that I’m ready to leave. Today included, I have exactly sixty days left in Africa. Sixty days! That’s nothing. A few weeks of work and a handful of weekends left to explore and enjoy this beautiful place. Some of you probably remember me joking that I thought I would fall in love the second I got off the plane and you’d have to drag me back to Canada… It was never a joke. Africa is home now, and I know I’ll be coming back.

My sixty days are divided up between three (potentially four) countries, so I need to use my time wisely. Friday morning, Katie, Claire, Logan and I are setting off to Burundi for the weekend. This is half necessity, half insanity, I think. Katie and I need to renew our visas sometime before Christmas, and Burundi is the cheapest way for us to do that. And we all want to see more of this beautiful continent, so Burundi it is. Luckily, Burundi isn’t in the news as much anymore as our neighbour to the west – a peace deal was signed in May and the country is slowly becoming more secure. We’re overlanding, taking the long and winding road from Kigali down through Butare, crossing the border and going south to Bujumbura on the banks of Lake Tanganyika. I’m expecting a pretty laidback weekend; there’s not a lot to do or see in Bujumbura but it’ll be a nice break from the routine of Kigali.

Post-Burundi, I ‘work’ for two weeks, and then Katie and I are off to Tanzania for Christmas. We fly from Kigali to Kilimanjaro, where we’ll spend a day bumming around admiring the view before heading over to Arusha, where we’ll stay the night. Bright and early the next morning, we set off on our safari adventure – five days of driving through the Serengeti, Ngorongoro Crater and Lake Manyara – before getting back to Arusha on Christmas Eve. Christmas Day will be a bit of a weird one for us… We’re spending it on the 8 or 9 hour bus ride from Arusha to Dar es Salaam! We have loaded Christmas movies onto Katie’s IPod though, so it’ll be a tolerable trip despite my carsickness, I hope. We’re hoping to get into Dar just before the last ferry leaves for Zanzibar, where we’re spending December 26^th- January 4^th. We’re spending the first few days exploring Stone Town, followed by a few days in the northern coast towns of Nungwe and Kendwa. I’m so excited for the beach! I’m a Maritime girl; take me away from the ocean for too long and I feel homesick for the waves and the salty air. Zanzibar is an African paradise – beaches to lounge on, forests to hike in, city streets to discover.

I’m hoping our amazing Christmas plans will make up for the feelings that have started springing up over the past few days. I haven’t been homesick yet; lonely, sure, and I miss my family, but so far I hadn’t experienced any particular intense “I need to be at home” feelings (minus the unpleasant phone situation, of course). Now, though… I miss home. Or more specifically, I miss Christmas at home. It’s December 3^rd… And it feels like the middle of August. I’m sitting in my office listening to Christmas carols, staring out my door at a sea of green hills and red dust. The sun is blinding, but not because it’s reflecting off inches of pristine snow. Rwandans tell me it’s cold outside at night now, but it’s certainly not the kind of chill you keep off with mittens and a scarf. I’ve always argued I could live anywhere at Christmas time because I hate (hate hate hate) the snow and cold, and I never thought that was a part of my Christmas experience. Nothing like moving to Africa to let you know you’re wrong!

I am a Christmas preparer extraordinaire. Despite five years of working retail during the Christmas season (which is enough to drive anyone to drink), I love this season. I love the buildup – the Christmas carols in the mall starting November 1^st; peppermint mochas at Starbucks; lights going up on houses and nurseries hawking their trees by the side of the road; baking and decorating cookies; shopping for presents and wrapping them. It’s funny though, because as much as I am sad to be missing Christmas with Leah and all the preparations that go into Christmas with a young child in the house… what I find I’m missing most is Christmas with my mother. The smell of cookies baking in my mum’s kitchen. Endless lists of ingredients and snacks, choosing hors d’oeuvres and cheeses and wine together. Her panicky shopping starting the first week of December (I’m smugly always finished in October or November), where we wander the mall in search of something for my dad (the hardest person to buy for, ever) and stop to have coffee and chat. I think it’s not so much that I miss my family, or that I miss Christmas, but that I’m mourning a huge interruption in tradition – an interruption that is likely to become the new norm. It sort of hadn’t occurred to me that being an adult would mean the loss of something I didn’t realize meant so much to me.

Oh, and four countries (because if you did the math, you would see that Rwanda + Burundi + Tanzania = 3) is because we might take a couple of days prior to our flight into Heathrow to play around in Kenya. I say might, because I am already broke. And surprisingly to some people, traveling in Africa costs money. Real money, which I don't have. Depressing!

women keep the skies from falling

One thing I have discovered is that nothing could more encourage my feminism and my outrage at the dire state of women’s reproductive health than living in Rwanda (I am tempted to say “living in Africa” because I suspect my indignation would be similar across the continent, but as my experience is here, we’ll stick with that). I work with the only provider of sexual and reproductive health (SRH) services in all of Rwanda (according to UNFPA) and I have been a witness, directly in my activities and indirectly through reviews of programming, of the absolute lack of quality services, of information, of anything.

I spent last night at the home of my best friend, Nadine’s, cousin. His wife, pregnant with their fourth child, died over the weekend, while her husband was stationed in Darfur. Yesterday marked the final day of mourning, during which the extended family and friends congregate at the deceased’s house to support the family members before the burial. She was in her early thirties, already a mother to three girls aged 12, 8 and 5. This fourth baby was their first boy. She had had a difficult pregnancy, primarily due to extremely elevated blood pressure. Her primary care clinic determined it was necessary to have a c-section, despite the complications that would arise for the premature infant. They sent her off to the best hospital in the city, where she was told she needed transfer papers in order for them to proceed with the procedure. She took the two mini-buses back to her clinic all the way across the city. They were so concerned about her condition that they considered doing the c-section at the clinic, but decided against it due to the lack of incubators. Back she went again, alone, to the hospital, papers in hand. On her way up to the ward to be admitted, she collapsed and fell into a coma. This young woman and her son died because of a couple of papers. The bureaucracy involved in obtaining health services here is mind-boggling. The paper trail exists at home, too, but the consequences are so vastly different here.

I’m alternately depressed and energized by the state of reproductive health here. Depressed because there is so little I can do, because it’s engrained – no matter what leaps and bounds have been made in progress for women’s rights and equality, women’s health issues, here as everywhere, are not a central concern. Maternal mortality is still high at 750 women per 100,000 live births. The HIV prevalence for women is estimated at 3.6% versus 2.3% for men (regardless of whether I think the statistics on prevalence are correct, there is a clear feminization of HIV/AIDS in Rwanda as in the rest of Africa). The last DHS found that 80% of married women reported recent spousal abuse. 70% of births occur at home, and 61% of births occur without the assistance of trained health personnel. The total fertility rate remains above 6 children per women per lifetime. 29% of women are illiterate, and few women have received above a Primary education. These are determinants for poor reproductive health – anyone in the field is well aware of the connections between wealth, education, fertility and overall reproductive health status. Poorer and less educated women bear more children in shorter time frames, are more likely to die from a pregnancy-related complication, and are less likely to receive ante- or post-natal care. Their children, especially their girls, are more likely to suffer malnutrition and less likely to receive an education; they are statistically more likely to die before they reach their fifth birthdays. It’s a nasty and preventable cycle, and seeing it in action in Rwanda is heartbreaking. It’s for this reason that I’m energized at the same time as being outraged – there is so much potential for improvement. Many women here want change. They’re becoming more aware of their rights, particularly to education and to reproductive health, and women are beginning to demand change. It’s heartening to see more and more young women speaking out against the conditions that have oppressed their mothers and grandmothers. More and more young women are finishing secondary school and going on to university. More and more young women are seeking access to contraceptives and family planning information, and are actively involved in protecting themselves against unwanted pregnancy, unsafe abortion and HIV. Women are becoming actors and participants in their own reproductive lives, rather than remaining passive spectators as their lives unfold around them.

I spent two days last week in a training organized by my organization and funded through UNFPA (the UN Population Fund, the only UN body to focus specifically on population activities and the importance of reproductive health). The first day’s training was on the minimum initial service package (MISP) for reproductive health interventions in emergency situations (refugee camps, conflict zones, etc), and the second day focused on sexual and gender-based violence, specifically in emergency situations. Old information to me as the MISP was something I’d researched quite a bit while writing my honours paper and prior to arriving here, but interesting to see in a new light, especially as for the majority of attendees, this was a whole new aspect of disaster management and response. A few staff from ARBEF was there, as well as several representatives from different NGOs in Kigali, but the vast majority were Disaster Response representatives from districts around the country, people who had little to no training on reproductive health issues. I was sitting in a room full of well-educated and well-spoken Rwandans, roughly evenly divided by sex. And yet, it was still primarily the men who were speaking. And the comments being made demonstrated exactly why training on GBV is so necessary in Rwanda. Comments about what leads to a woman being sexually assaulted, what kind of acts constitute ‘violence,’ and when and whether women have a right to refuse sex. People say the same things in Canada, too. But women here have so little protection, legally or socially, and it’s largely because of a culture that treats women as less. This isn’t to say that women aren’t respected, or that all men treat all women with contempt, because I have seen a lot that suggests the very great respect that many men have for their mothers, sisters, wives and daughters. But there is a culture that emphasizes the role of men as being dominant over women; the patriarchy is alive and well in Rwanda. I’m not criticizing Rwandan culture, because I think there is a lot to be celebrated about it. At the same time, change needs to happen at all levels, and needs to come from men as well as from women. It’s interesting to see the winds of change for women’s reproductive rights starting to blow here, beginning with a whisper of a breeze. Hopefully it will build up to a windstorm.

get up, stand up, don't give up the fight

Today is World AIDS Day – the twentieth anniversary of the first one, in fact. This year's slogan is 'Lead, Empower, Deliver.' Many milestones, some progress, much sorrow. We’re seeing changes, small ones, but there is still no end in sight. The number of new HIV infections has declined, certainly: 3 million in 2001, 2.7 million in 2007. But that’s still 2.7 million people. Fewer people are dying: 2.2 million in 2005, 2 million in 2007. But that’s still 2 million people. Nearly 8 million people are still waiting for treatment. Over 7,400 individuals were infected each day in 2007 – 7,400! That’s more people being infected every day than the entire population of my university town.

But this is the problem with HIV/AIDS. It’s a numbers game to most people. You see the figures written down, and you struggle to imagine. You gasp in surprise when you hear how many children are HIV positive (about 1,000 of those 7,400 daily infections are children under 15) and you puzzle over prevalence rates – can it really be 12%, 15%, over 25%?

In Rwanda, it’s a bit about the numbers. The official prevalence rate is quoted at 3% (3.5% is the highest published estimate I’ve ever seen). There is statistically no way that this is even close to accurate. Not even a little bit. For the sake of my safety sanity at the moment, however, I’m going to leave that analysis for another day. I will, however, throw out a few numbers for the statistics-lovers among you: Of more then 154,000 Rwandans requiring ARVs, 68,034 receive treatment. 75.8% of women and 78.1% of men here have never been tested for HIV. Only 19.7% of women and 40.9% of men use condoms consistently. 19,000 Rwandan children are HIV positive. 220,000 are AIDS orphans.

For me, though, it’s about the faces behind the numbers. The woman on the street the other day who begged me for money for ARVs (the official line is that ARV treatment in Rwanda is free – it is, for pregnant women and those deemed ‘low income;’ for everyone else, it’s approximately $20USD a month… The average Rwandan earns about 1,000RWF a week, around $2USD). My 21 year old friend who has endured and survived more than his fair share of tragedy and still just never stops going on. The tell-tale signs of ARV side effects on the men who call out the names of buses. All my friends here who refuse to get tested, because they just don’t want to know. The women at one of the camps I work with who recently underwent VCT and came back with a positive result. Sitting in a room surrounded by these women, all returned refugees living in camps because they have nowhere else to go, all young, all married, almost all mothers. There is nothing more heartbreaking than looking into the eyes of a woman bouncing a new baby on her lap when you both know she has no chance of seeing that child grow up.

For me, right now, the statistics on AIDS in Africa are all around me, every minute. But it’s important to remember that AIDS in not an ‘African’ disease, or an ‘African’ problem. It happens at home, too – we have just been lucky. Prevention and education are everyone’s business. HIV affects us all. Take a few minutes today to find out your HIV status.