Shake a Fist at the Devil.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.