A New Goal.

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.

Day 27: A Word on Language.

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 16: Something to Quaff that Thirst.

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 13: Losing Myself in Peace.

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.

Make a Run for the Border.

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.

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

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.

Glasses: Half-Full.

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.

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.

Mabatini.

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 Two: Oyugis/Kasipul/Kabondo.

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.