tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16424324285860141932024-02-19T09:17:49.378-08:00A MOMENT IN RWANDALIFE, LAUGHTER AND THE SEARCH FOR MEANING IN THE LAND OF A THOUSAND HILLS.Ravihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15194493506517213264noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-7473713614394535532011-01-07T12:04:00.000-08:002011-01-07T12:04:09.054-08:00And Fade (To Black).<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcdmQZxL520MfWkXqc8K-PljTTSfqbpfTsISx05b4heRONNqQnb0zVcPGDXp8pt6BGKjPwUIvwHC_tTXznllwP1m17DGaBF3_1KQAvBh2FUkpEzcyQeqStiRyAnndc6uTiks78WZeGpEQ/s1600/IMG_9810+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcdmQZxL520MfWkXqc8K-PljTTSfqbpfTsISx05b4heRONNqQnb0zVcPGDXp8pt6BGKjPwUIvwHC_tTXznllwP1m17DGaBF3_1KQAvBh2FUkpEzcyQeqStiRyAnndc6uTiks78WZeGpEQ/s320/IMG_9810+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>What are the lessons learned from six months in Rwanda? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
What do you take away from a country, a people and a place that you feel like you've never really left... or that you left such an important piece of you there, you never fully came home. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">How do you find meaning in what happened; find hope and strength and inspiration from the work you poured your soul into? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">How do you come home after an experience that tested the mettle and courage and resurfaced all of the fears that you've ever had to deal with to answer the question everyone asks when someone gets home from an adventure...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>"Well. How was it?"</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">What do you say to that? Do I dismiss it with a grin and a simple, <em>"It was good, man. It was really good."</em> Or do I try and dig deeper, unprying thoughts, feelings and experiences I have yet to wrestle with. Things that you may not want to hear when you asked that three headed dragon of a question. Things that you have to deal with on your own, before you can deal with them aloud. The state of humanity, overwhelming suffering, abject poverty, crippling disease, greed, corruption. Alternatively, the perservance of a people, hope, a thriving culture, sustained harmony and safety. The absence of war. </div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I internalize a lot of it. <em>How do I help this world most? How do we help each other get through life better?</em> <em>And how do we do it without losing ourselves... without losing enthusiasm, optimism and hope? </em></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">These questions emerged over the half year I spent in Rwanda, and the more I thought about it, the more I realize we may never have the answers. Heck, like my friend once pointed out, we may not even have the right questions. And that's starting to become okay with me. There's no easy answers, no simple cliche's that will solve the thoughts that have resurfaced in the land of a thousand hills. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">But this came close. Halfway through the trip, a sentence arrived from a closely distant friend. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>"We're doing it, Rav,"</strong> it read<em>.</em> <strong>"We're living our dreams." </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">At the heart of these questions, through the answers we maybe will never find and the world we'll never completely understand, maybe the lesson of this whole journey... is this simple. <em>We. Are living. Our dreams.</em> We're doing what we feel is right. We're going to try and make this world a better place when we leave. This, I believe, is my purpose in all of this. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> So please, go ahead. Ask me how it was. I may not have the answer your looking for, or any answer at all for that matter. But I hope the smile that flickers across my face when I think of Rwanda in that instance is enough to give you a glimpse of a place and an experience I could never fully articulate. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">It was... exactly how it was. Exactly how it was supposed to be. It was... <br />
<strong>A Moment in Rwanda.</strong><br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKB8CTTSMSDNV-YRnn2lLnFReeNYfDsXXApIQTczKXim0IksRtyizdlIJYLVj9sHP1SdcSRKhd_DQUmGXxAYTLCoFmDJVYRvlw03-J8aqEhIKvRKTo6TUxZu_zIKOEXBAIwVt3vJsYGM/s1600/IMG_1656.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKB8CTTSMSDNV-YRnn2lLnFReeNYfDsXXApIQTczKXim0IksRtyizdlIJYLVj9sHP1SdcSRKhd_DQUmGXxAYTLCoFmDJVYRvlw03-J8aqEhIKvRKTo6TUxZu_zIKOEXBAIwVt3vJsYGM/s320/IMG_1656.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">_______________________________________</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For everyone who has followed and commented on this blog, sent and received emails or letters, laughed or shared in the tears, my gratitude goes out to you. Family, friends and perfect strangers, you were there when I needed you.</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>Every. Single. Time. You. Were. There.</strong> I won't forget that. I couldn't forget that. Thank you so much. </div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">With love, hope and the continued search for meaning in what we call life. </div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Live the Dream,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Ravi Jaipaul </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <a href="mailto:rjaipaul@ualberta.ca">rjaipaul@ualberta.ca</a> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> (The photo journey continues on: <a href="http://southapricot.tumblr.com/">http://southapricot.tumblr.com/</a>)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-91275475753078243622011-01-03T00:05:00.000-08:002011-01-03T00:05:50.373-08:00It Begins (The End).<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5kJ2_5UVQ0mJdUjnsIGZCrfjBJaU7tpEfsFdgAc1Hl6G0Ypg0j06E2Z7J_usloclnkDbpWR8nSgJcXlSkDxWr3BcK3BhxwBTV0BPjPNjDONx7kmjD51I5ggN0kP0kkBVyRSHtv6GO22Q/s1600/IMG_1307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5kJ2_5UVQ0mJdUjnsIGZCrfjBJaU7tpEfsFdgAc1Hl6G0Ypg0j06E2Z7J_usloclnkDbpWR8nSgJcXlSkDxWr3BcK3BhxwBTV0BPjPNjDONx7kmjD51I5ggN0kP0kkBVyRSHtv6GO22Q/s320/IMG_1307.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The class erupted at the opportunity to sign my flag, as they leapt from the desks to grab at the markets. It was a silly day, this last one, and as I handed out Canadian pencils and paraphenalia that my parents had shipped in an overstuffed box, I took out my camera and began taking pictures of the students I would never see again.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">They returned the favor, bombarding me with cell phone cameras and the like, snapping away, chattering and giggling among themselves (just like Nursing students would do anywhere). I spent ten minutes explaning the timer on my camera and asked the class to pile into the corner. After many hilarious practice shots, we finally had everyone in the shot, and we cheered as the flash went off.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">We had come so far, I thought, as I reminisced to my first day of teaching...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofzb6DjRiGWfmOkMJf5f0hwMCVIShMdTMFn0Xn0-a30zAtrq4JKegPHxikiNlgOeGnNDZgB6B7m080Dt_2xiexSfMCkrStg24HT7cU97zguRT6WX8TJ0wK-04Sop3Olq3-ESkQ3mxqDs/s1600/IMG_1309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofzb6DjRiGWfmOkMJf5f0hwMCVIShMdTMFn0Xn0-a30zAtrq4JKegPHxikiNlgOeGnNDZgB6B7m080Dt_2xiexSfMCkrStg24HT7cU97zguRT6WX8TJ0wK-04Sop3Olq3-ESkQ3mxqDs/s320/IMG_1309.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">For a public speaker, I'm used to pre-talk butterflies. This time, they are in flight, diving from my throat to the depth of my legs. 36 students, the Dean of Nursing and the Faculty Head all crammed into an old military room that constituted the classroom. The class remained unnervingly quiet as I nervously plowed through an hour and a half lecture on the Central Nervous System. No one said a word. At the end of the elaborate power-point and diagram presentation, I implored them to give me any feedback. One nervous student eventually raised her hand and said, “<em>Sir. We could not understand a word you said. You speak too fast.”</em> I gulped, and promised to repeat the class in the afternoon, speaking one third the speed of what would be considered regular pace. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">With... my.... new... pace of.... speaking.... established... we moved on and.... began to learn. In the afternoon class, only half of the students showed up, but had signed in for everyone there. This was the only time I ever lost my temper. I held the sign-up sheet in front of everyone, counted the signatures and the number of students aloud. Most students dropped their heads as I ripped the sign-up sheet in front of them and wrote on the board, <em>"I DON'T CARE." </em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><em>"Listen guys, I don't care if you come to my class. If you don't come, that's fine with me. But don't <strong>EVER</strong> lie to me. From now on, there will be no sign in sheet. I'm not going to chase you down, I'm not going to ask where you were. I... Don't... Care. But you should. You are the future of Nursing in Rwanda. Rwanda needs you. But your old enough to decide what you need. If you don't come to class, you don't learn the material. You don't learn the material, you won't pass my course." </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">I took a deep breathe and softened, spending the rest of the class showing them a slideshow of Canada, my family and friends of what my life is like. The explanation of strapping ice-blades onto your feet to slide on frozen water to chase a puck, I am sure, seemed like pure insanity, as evidenced by their open mouths and wide-eyes. This guy, they thought, was nuts. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">I thought I had took it too far. They clucked and cried out when I ripped up the sign-in sheet and at the end of class tension was still palpable in the air. <em>Great</em>, I thought. <em>First day and I'm fired. </em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><em><br />
</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">I arrived the next morning, and walked into the classroom to find all 36 students seated in their chairs, books open and quiet. "<em>Good Morning Professor</em>," they said. I smiled. "<em>Good</em> <em>Morning Class. Let's begin...." </em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">---------------------</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbArXGa46Z7iXtxKMJOglAyEwMWSDRxRnwsTshOmDsTB6ZYDH7-kO8QbNzL0QfXPQNYy5Ei1rJFpMTysBjYfE7h_g37ByWKJIoBIGcPA0wYPEG8vRcwS2RydkJ-L7O-fuxJTIbAcgNT0/s1600/IMG_9816.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbArXGa46Z7iXtxKMJOglAyEwMWSDRxRnwsTshOmDsTB6ZYDH7-kO8QbNzL0QfXPQNYy5Ei1rJFpMTysBjYfE7h_g37ByWKJIoBIGcPA0wYPEG8vRcwS2RydkJ-L7O-fuxJTIbAcgNT0/s320/IMG_9816.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">They had gone on to be a great class, studying hard and destroying the midterm test I had set out for them. We had fun, and they continually poked fun at my stickmen drawings, my <em>'thick'</em> Canadian accent and how much chalk I had usually managed to douse myself with at the end of each class. </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Regardless of how much you travel, goodbyes never get easier. The relationships and work that you find yourself connected to cause you to live in the moment, leaving the last moments to fall with such a shattering finality. You soak in all the moments with a grin on your face, but a crack in your heart. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">The class rep shyly stood up after the class and held up a package which said "<em>To Jaipaul." </em>I opened it in front of the class, as tears began to well up in my eyes. <em>Stay strong, kid</em>, I told myself. I pulled out heartfelt (and totally Rwandan) goodbye gifts; a watermelon flavored lollipop, a Wooden keychain of a shoe that I was wearing, a minitaure Amahoro (peace) basket colored in the national colors of Rwanda and a package of Juicy Fruit. At the bottom was a card, which I read aloud:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>"Dear Jaipaul. We thank you for your kindness. You are a wonderful teacher! and we have learnt a lot from you. This is just to wish you all the best as you go back in Canada and don't forget Rwanda and your A0 Nursing Students (Level 2). All the Best. Your students."</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkRUJ2Dr6Ely1V45MaFMExQcrGmkxqLiFRJXQWssLfUrnHmGAy1de8xvt3Ek3VJ5m4OWdfUT_4mclEWlfBlDSpQjo7rY7bRdTtVfVyDsPBrzpko0NYCdTYuiryzLAVgqgdX3fcnb4bXQ/s1600/IMG_1306+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkRUJ2Dr6Ely1V45MaFMExQcrGmkxqLiFRJXQWssLfUrnHmGAy1de8xvt3Ek3VJ5m4OWdfUT_4mclEWlfBlDSpQjo7rY7bRdTtVfVyDsPBrzpko0NYCdTYuiryzLAVgqgdX3fcnb4bXQ/s320/IMG_1306+copy.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">Thank you was all I could muster, biting my lip, and gathering my bag. I grabbed the Juicy Fruit out of the package and loudly chewed it while looking over the class one last time. I get nervous at the end of farewells, swallowed down the frog in my throat and told them I was proud of them for being my students. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">I looked to the right, the door was swung open and the sunlight was blinding outside compared to the darkness of the classroom. I gave one last wave, and with my backpack slung over one shoulder, walked out of Room Nine for the last time, the class quiet as I walked out. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">--------</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">Staff organized a surprise going away party at the local watering hole (Carwash) and the entire faculty showed up, gathering around three large U-shaped tables underneath an imitation Tiki-Hut that sat on the corner of the bar. Amidst an unlimited amount of Fanta's and Coca Cola's the Faculty took turns going around the table thanking me for my time, and presenting me with various Rwandan relics to bring home with me. Trays of large animal husks showed up on platters and the newfound vegetarian in me tried to disguise it by loading my plates with an obscene amount of overgreasy fries. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLYJ_2W3sWgX5uMOSSfk_pth3_IUx9xTXlijlqFLBn9bR5WOqItyoYCO4BbUVIbTqPMAn2n-WP2i0zrMQ2s6WE8utO0h07P7S9Fgy2vdAHPb_qZeUDkzPmvrumP85uawlrUYKG5spPIM/s1600/IMG_1632.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLYJ_2W3sWgX5uMOSSfk_pth3_IUx9xTXlijlqFLBn9bR5WOqItyoYCO4BbUVIbTqPMAn2n-WP2i0zrMQ2s6WE8utO0h07P7S9Fgy2vdAHPb_qZeUDkzPmvrumP85uawlrUYKG5spPIM/s320/IMG_1632.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">After the meal, I shook as I stood up to finally say my piece. Near the end, I faltered, looking up and seeing my colleagues eyes filled with tears, the ones that had brimmed on my eyelids began to fall as my voice cracked. "<em>You guys do so much, with so little... and it amazes me how you keep going through all of this. It meant... so much to work with all of you</em>," I finshed, taking a seat and looking down, unable to control the torrent now. Elizabeth glanced at me through her own watery eyes, "<em>You ass,"</em> she said. "<em>You made me cry." </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><em>That was it</em>, I thought, shaking hands and giving hugs one last time, as the group left and eveyone scattered for home. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"> My last night, brought with it both a sigh and a smile. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">I did what I came to do and it was time to go. I am forever grateful for the opporutnity. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_4ng-QYPgd-obmSTctBXjTJJSiqWu_uEkq8ksyl6BQp2p4GIaqiLdOMfZSYAIoO9jwYeHijQ2wXWKHofWtK8_RSqBQa9iTT6nFhmkQszZYHWr3cPSi5pZetbTEsqzQsXnznqXN2a4Zis/s1600/IMG_1319+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_4ng-QYPgd-obmSTctBXjTJJSiqWu_uEkq8ksyl6BQp2p4GIaqiLdOMfZSYAIoO9jwYeHijQ2wXWKHofWtK8_RSqBQa9iTT6nFhmkQszZYHWr3cPSi5pZetbTEsqzQsXnznqXN2a4Zis/s400/IMG_1319+copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-58276197251409963342010-12-26T18:06:00.000-08:002010-12-26T18:06:27.749-08:00Dreams (Reality)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9U5OzL2OUtH3NjNGE4I29qoOgoZMEpzK9udXMGd2x9Av8emUnZmztCK2iLrbtwnMEyi048O2VEwp9Cad9dDZb4gBgdxL5L8V7fwyQ10OKq3G86_FaYrdQ8NRrsnGXzvOZtX-T1iDHulU/s1600/IMG_0297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9U5OzL2OUtH3NjNGE4I29qoOgoZMEpzK9udXMGd2x9Av8emUnZmztCK2iLrbtwnMEyi048O2VEwp9Cad9dDZb4gBgdxL5L8V7fwyQ10OKq3G86_FaYrdQ8NRrsnGXzvOZtX-T1iDHulU/s320/IMG_0297.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">I dreamt of Africa. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Like many children of my generation, I imagined the vast, animal-filled plains of the Savannah and boldly dark people with long, lobed ears and strange foreign clicks and whistles. I dreamt of animals; massive giraffes grazing on high treetops and lions prowling through the tall grass stalking gazelle drinking at a watering hole. I imagined heat that soaks through shirts on long, humid nights and the endless heartbeat of the ocean that hemmed the land in. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I dreamt of a world I was afraid of. A land where amidst the beauty, happiness, and adventure lay the dark underbelly of poverty, corruption, and war. My mind replayed movies of children carrying AK-47s, snarled police checkpoints with razor wires, and refugee camps further than the eye gives vision with makeshift hospitals on mud floors.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">These hopes and fears replayed through my head as I boarded the plane to Rwanda for six months, chosen among 400 applicants Canada-wide to teach Nursing at the Kigali Health Institute. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I thought. I graduated from the University of Alberta in December of 2009 with a Bachelor of Science in Nursing and planned to find a job in an emergency room in Canada. When I couldn’t, I accepted the only opportunity I had to use my education, an internship through the Coady Institute and the Canadian International Development Agency. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">For half a year, I was a nursing instructor at the Kigali Health Institute, attempting with my colleagues to battle inefficiencies and improve the standard of education for the nurses of Rwanda. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The conditions at the Institute were difficult and ever-changing. We dealt with scheduling problems, always worrying if we had a classroom to teach in. The one projector we shared was found without its power cord, leaving me to convert my two months of PowerPoint slides into a chalk and chalkboard format. Rewriting the curriculum to reflect current standards and teaching methods took months to finish. Teaching clinical in the hospital was a challenge, trying to restrain myself and guide students to care for patients in the most effective way. The hospitals were always a struggle for me, having to mentally deal with the individual stories and collective suffering, so much of it needless.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The biggest difference I made there was a simple one. I developed professional and personal relationships with the locals around me. Those friendships, as I look at it now, are the lasting change I left. You can't put a price on the quality or respect that two people from different worlds could share. The laughs, the memories, and the struggles we faced together are what stand out. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I learned about Rwanda through Rwandans. Whether it was learning the proper way to greet a Rwandan (using one of five greeting phrases followed by a handshake), or a new saying in the local dialect, they were always willing to share their culture with me. At the same time, I fielded questions about Canada, which hopefully no longer conjures up images of polar bears and igloos to the Rwandans. We gathered on Fridays, after enduring a long work week to unwind, like old friends at the local watering hole, shooting pool and laughing about work. We criticized each other, whether for a shoddy midterm question or an incredibly disorganized meeting. Most importantly, we succeeded together, somehow, someway, manipulating our classes to teach under increasingly difficult time constraints and lack of classroom space. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My fellow professionals were the first to treat me just as that: a Registered Nurse with the ability and knowledge to teach difficult concepts to new students. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I remember, with fondness, my first class. I was excited and nervous as 34 students, the Dean of Nursing, and the Faculty Head all crammed into an old military room that constituted the classroom. The class remained unnervingly quiet as I ploughed through an 90-minute lecture on the Central Nervous System, them never saying a word. At the end of the elaborate PowerPoint and diagram presentation, I implored them to give me any feedback. One nervous student eventually raised her hand and said, <em>“Sir. We could not understand a word you said. Your accent is too thick and you speak too fast</em>.” I gulped, and promised to repeat the class in the afternoon, speaking one-third the speed of what I considered normal. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My students were a source of inspiration, sharing limited computers, living in cramped quarters, and taking turns with one textbook. They were being trained to be the first degree-granted nursing students in two decades and as such had a long and chaotic schedule, a thirst for knowledge, and an aptitude for perseverance. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The six-month internship had an injection of adventure, using time off from teaching to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, scuba dive in the Indian Ocean, and take day-long train rides through South Africa. From safaris in Kenya to weekend trips to the famous Lake Kivu, dull moments were hard to come by on the varied continent. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">After my time in Rwanda, I realize that my childhood dreams, to some extent, are real. The country, however, like my childish notions willed me to believe, cannot be summed up in generalizations; to do so would be missing the point, and simplifying a complex country.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Rwanda is a place where those I met are working and struggling for a better future, not yet satisfied with all of the progress that has been made. I am proud to say that I found heart in the education system, in being a part - however small- of the struggle, and appreciating the hard work being done to train the future of healthcare in the land of a thousand hills. </div><br />
Till The Next Great Adventure,<br />
Ravi Jaipaul (BScN, RN) <br />
<br />
<em>Read more at http://ravijaipaul.blogspot.com/</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-69889165313704947592010-12-24T12:14:00.000-08:002010-12-24T12:14:42.135-08:00South Apricot"<em>Let's go to Antarctica,</em>" she said, opening the only New York times article that caught her eye. The discount was enormous, she explained, and we could fly directly to Buenos Aires from South Africa. Now, when most people say, "<em>Let's go to Antarctica</em>," it's more of a pipe dream, one that gets lost behind sobriety and some rationality. She was serious, I realized, with a start. I'm not one to be out-randomned often (both a blessing and a curse), so I gently encouraged her, prodded to see if she was serious and before long we had compromised on a direct sale flight, not to Antartica, but to Johannesburg, South Africa.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh79RqoFV5ZuI5nr_YH4VAwRTzWPuk35NiuoL5IHOTAvCxLHORBi3WnThC-XB_mLDIWQwc2RgNJ17vCfjc_ETKoy_Kto3YFRe7tVR1_AcXr1y6DntuKBSkM_mWjyLHJmge1u6991NWAHE/s1600/IMG_0991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh79RqoFV5ZuI5nr_YH4VAwRTzWPuk35NiuoL5IHOTAvCxLHORBi3WnThC-XB_mLDIWQwc2RgNJ17vCfjc_ETKoy_Kto3YFRe7tVR1_AcXr1y6DntuKBSkM_mWjyLHJmge1u6991NWAHE/s320/IMG_0991.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In Jo'Burg, we were abrasive about the inflated prices of the taxi cabs, and only realized much later that they were so expensive because they were the only <em>safe</em> way to get around. South Africa's violence was not to be underestimated. A taxi driver allowed us to hire him for the day as we spread out time from the Apartheid Museum to the Sushi Bar to a tour of the downtown core, and ending up in a casino, where we left far too late to catch our train which was far too early the next morning. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Our goal was to ride trains across the country, traversing the mosaic of landscapes from inside a speeding box car, escaping to our cabins to watch the world pass us by and reversing to the meal car for wine and laughter. The trains became a fixture, using fourty eight hours to disappear from the world; the tracks as our road, and the sky as our watch. We followed the light as it disappeared under a crimson and puple hue of mystery only to pop up on the other side in golden brilliance. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRivIjLdi-cuKTb8eIkWgeUEPE6w-OKv6GJjLHenAaiVLrEXIDHw6mAUMim3rbDpng4OGh3vmShALwC0tlGnXpLqq1rlm8M8Eb4ZS6XdRJZIPEi-pUddpVkVUaWr56EZKnh09xECwKtM0/s1600/IMG_0857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRivIjLdi-cuKTb8eIkWgeUEPE6w-OKv6GJjLHenAaiVLrEXIDHw6mAUMim3rbDpng4OGh3vmShALwC0tlGnXpLqq1rlm8M8Eb4ZS6XdRJZIPEi-pUddpVkVUaWr56EZKnh09xECwKtM0/s320/IMG_0857.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In Cape-Town, we joined a wine tour and traversed to little towns with unpronouncable names to be sheparded from wine farm to another, tasting their finest reds and nibbling on cheese. Before high-noon, we were feeling lighter with every stop, giggling and using the washroom ad nauseum. After the tour, we were deposited on top of a mountain overlooking the city, where we spotted the "<em>Wheel of Excellence</em>" and took a turn spinning round as the night grew darker. Most nights were spent lounging on delicious food and drink we couldn't find in Rwanda. At Fork, a Tapas restaurant, the waitress continued bringing us plates of her favorite dishes until hours later, we finally submitted. There was no time limits on our meals, no structure but the ones we created in our adventure. In Tamberskloof, we drank delicious sangria and then another one after the issue of race raised it's ugly head. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha0Q9Dg9BE0JGmS1nD2Pklk08BbCL5Fj7TlG1yaUGWlnPAViMIXGE-5xk9C5B8ZHXa_nngatw9q64EynAISsC59h9hbvP7hHvzGeRWY4MdA6sBwVburkvS_nrRowAY2zcK3Pf-p4_ruUc/s1600/IMG_0970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha0Q9Dg9BE0JGmS1nD2Pklk08BbCL5Fj7TlG1yaUGWlnPAViMIXGE-5xk9C5B8ZHXa_nngatw9q64EynAISsC59h9hbvP7hHvzGeRWY4MdA6sBwVburkvS_nrRowAY2zcK3Pf-p4_ruUc/s320/IMG_0970.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">On Long Street in Cape Town, I stood outside the barred gate of a music store. I orginally thought it was closed, and then caught the gate-keeper who eyed me with the practiced stare of hatred, a white-haired man glaring at me through the haze of his cancer-stick dangling in his mouth. "<em>You going to let me in</em>?" I asked the question, then regretted it as he hesitantly pushed the bell to allow entrance. I felt like an animal, degraded and forced to beg to enter. I took one step, and we shared a dark look at each other before I turned around and left, leaving the door open, forcing him to get up to lock himself back in his cage. My own form of silent protest had me shaking and choked at such an oddly telling moment, one that has replayed itself in far worse ways in South Africa. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>"<em>I'm sorry</em>," the Zimbabwean bartender explained as he sadly shook his head. "<em>They don't like you here</em>." The "<em>you</em>" refers to a racism that divided a country, a people, a world. Apartheid. The "<em>you</em>" in this case, was us. He saw us both lost in thought and tried to brighten our moods. "<em>Let me buy you a drink</em>," he said, ducking behind the bar to grab more glasses. <br />
<br />
In Robben Island, we were shown the cell where Nelson Mandela spent so many of his years incarcerated. His struggle, South's Africa's struggle, humanities struggle, of dealing with generations of racism and hatred has come so far, erasing the segregation and divide by law that had been imposed for so many years. However, there was still so much more work, so much time needed to heal over the scars that had been inflicted on a people raised to be divided. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Nelson Mandela summed it up in a simple phrase, <em>"After climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb." </em><br />
<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISBxeF9q0eheA8f7uL6WiUXpDA1gycqRAmwPMsKL7YivfYubl9230Q9cSrCHzVBnd1XMqOCG9zn26tqgkl3nOzX1hWatZnq6EnMd3Z_-LWcqa_tQko3zrsoS8HCngzmijzSGy3kq2oTo/s1600/IMG_0996.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISBxeF9q0eheA8f7uL6WiUXpDA1gycqRAmwPMsKL7YivfYubl9230Q9cSrCHzVBnd1XMqOCG9zn26tqgkl3nOzX1hWatZnq6EnMd3Z_-LWcqa_tQko3zrsoS8HCngzmijzSGy3kq2oTo/s320/IMG_0996.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I had known Elizabeth for 11 days before we embarked on an impromptu cross continent journey for the same amount of time. An incomprehensible and incredulous number of circumstances had to occur for the trip to happen, and we succeeded. She smiled as she chewed into the already broken sunny side up egg as our car shuddered and sped along the four lane highway to the airport, where we were excited to return home, to Rwanda.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPZRtY4j_8NlMaTdwrMJ9WD9X4KXeJ4ZGOxMIsaHOPuYPKj6YxUUDTZzu8CVzgJ67NX8Z_vrti28b9lzKY8yfbwJl_IuprDTXTCk-bJBKL-Kitpis97qc3j5sI18CBZYtUzmSxgFu6os/s1600/IMG_1025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPZRtY4j_8NlMaTdwrMJ9WD9X4KXeJ4ZGOxMIsaHOPuYPKj6YxUUDTZzu8CVzgJ67NX8Z_vrti28b9lzKY8yfbwJl_IuprDTXTCk-bJBKL-Kitpis97qc3j5sI18CBZYtUzmSxgFu6os/s320/IMG_1025.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-81444792549562160522010-12-19T13:53:00.000-08:002010-12-19T13:53:58.579-08:00The Blast<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was exactly how it sounds on a video game; the explosion of a grenade. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Kigali has been under attack for the past six months; 5 grenade attack gnawing at the relative and fragile peace here like a long-shadow in the high noon sunlight. Under the auspicies of the upcoming elections, the attacks are expected to increase, both in intensity and frequency. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It happened during a lull in conversation, a break between the raucous laughter and general gallevanting that punctuated the Friday night at the outdoor bar and meat-eatery, known affectionately as Car Wash. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PKfGopyyHfA59lTh51F5mbxymqJ1hC8GA1xX23Oig5SscaDcl0qF-vdtX7bUuPf8tm9qwHsUj1UesCFp_pT8i6hb8zhlcJD-UTFQNkk7AcKzE2csavw0fH0Wi3ZjjoRho5wpSBeXxec/s1600/IMG_1609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="162" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PKfGopyyHfA59lTh51F5mbxymqJ1hC8GA1xX23Oig5SscaDcl0qF-vdtX7bUuPf8tm9qwHsUj1UesCFp_pT8i6hb8zhlcJD-UTFQNkk7AcKzE2csavw0fH0Wi3ZjjoRho5wpSBeXxec/s320/IMG_1609.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It was a sharp, cutting noise; an audible rumble, as if it had come from the earth. For one intense moment, I had a flashback to when the ground split in Peru; my mind dragged me back to the night when my world changed. I could hear the chaos over again, feel my feet unsteady on the cobblestone shifting street, smelling the same fear and survival that encapsulated everyone's eyes. It coursed through me, a kaleidoscope of that dark night, and left as quickly as it came; giving me the parting gift of adrenaline, energy and action. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I appraised the situation. There were well over a hundred people in Car Wash, many of whom either did not hear the loud burst that punctuated the night sky, or simply ignored the noise altogether. My friend later told me, </div><br />
<em>"Like most of the other men in here, I have heard hundreds of grenades before. I've been to war and it makes you immune to noises like that. Sadly, it also makes you immune to much of humanity." </em><br />
<br />
I noticed he was suspiciously active in the few seconds after the grenade, getting up and dialing on his phone while shooting me a look that inspired confidence. The look said if anything happened, I would be safe with him. It was a stone-cold look that showed no fear, no hesitation and only action. I rose with him, instinctively thinking of helping anyone who was injured, that was what I could offer. I followed him to the main gate where a dozen curious and scared people had gathered. People pointed and chatted excitedly as to where they thought they had heard it. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Within minutes, the silence in the surrounding valley prevaled and left many Rwandans dismissing it as a flat tire. As we returned back to our seats, I asked my friend if that was a grenade. His answered yes with his eyes but betrayed them unconvincingly with a wave of his hand and a simple, "<em>You know</em>," his thick Ugandan accent adding a tilt to the tone of his voice, <em>"it could have been anything."</em> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The combonation of the oversized glasses of delicious Mutzig, a quickly departing and exhausted hormone release and a long work week willed me to arise from the table shortly and grab a Moto to the relative safety of our Nyamirambo home. As we zipped and zagged home, we passed a few convoys of military personnel, preparing for their night watch, armed to the teeth with large weapons belts, radios and semi-automatic weapons. These soldiers, previously feared, have become a pillar of comfort and safety, and I took heart in seeing them posting up for the night, as I layed my head down to sleep in Kigali. </div><br />
The grenade was not reported on any media outlet or government news source, and the facts muddled and mixed in my head. East Africa was full of contradictions, inconsistincies and half-truths and this experience, left me asking the pivotal question once again; <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>"<em>What the heck really happened that night</em>?" <br />
<img height="48" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0PKfGopyyHfA59lTh51F5mbxymqJ1hC8GA1xX23Oig5SscaDcl0qF-vdtX7bUuPf8tm9qwHsUj1UesCFp_pT8i6hb8zhlcJD-UTFQNkk7AcKzE2csavw0fH0Wi3ZjjoRho5wpSBeXxec/s320/IMG_1609.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 147px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 301px; visibility: hidden;" width="96" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-76882147140301716102010-12-14T19:47:00.000-08:002010-12-14T19:47:43.072-08:00A Day in the DRC.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqsAEOD7BN8E4_aGT3wbLUA_atiCN67QzHL5kelBQO9TfiqlWI1nF1Poiju08OMVCjbB2DNCmxmVas3iifSIVotdBeKOAPNjjnAkmkmighTfNEoquv48K29X9ybVLp7UmubQtTTuoCXY/s1600/P1011478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqsAEOD7BN8E4_aGT3wbLUA_atiCN67QzHL5kelBQO9TfiqlWI1nF1Poiju08OMVCjbB2DNCmxmVas3iifSIVotdBeKOAPNjjnAkmkmighTfNEoquv48K29X9ybVLp7UmubQtTTuoCXY/s320/P1011478.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The Democratic Republic of the Congo's greatest gift - and its inescapable curse - has always been its abundance of natural resources, estimated at around 17 trillion dollars. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Our guidebook states "<em>the city is starting to attract a small trickle of hardcore travellers</em>." One part boredom, one part claustrophobia and one part insanity had led us to an impulsive decision to gather a crew for the weekend to explore the town on the edge of the DRC, Goma. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Joseph Mobutu, who dubbed himself (<em>and get this</em>) Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu Waza Banga (<em>the fearless warrior who will go from strength to strength leaving fire in his wake</em>) took power in government in 1965 and created a new level of government during his time; a government that ruled by theft (theftocracy). In 1997, he left, and the under-reported Great War of Africa followed in his wake; 9 countries, 5 million dead. The Mai Mai, a militia group that believes holy water protects them from bullets, took the famous words uttered after the Jewish Holocaust ("<em>never again</em>") and twisted it into a disturbing Congolese translation of "<em>till the next time</em>." </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1pLHrzLHwd4Deriq0x0AjZPIT6sAZ_RknolONWoG2FDuZ8vpi5CKyzXf662S4sCKQFJGBRM-FgyYrgpovQPP_M46e6qsyJPSIotVlCqGXXdwLrnEWVTZPU1CEzkQzJqOFanTNLCgr5Bo/s1600/P1011480.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1pLHrzLHwd4Deriq0x0AjZPIT6sAZ_RknolONWoG2FDuZ8vpi5CKyzXf662S4sCKQFJGBRM-FgyYrgpovQPP_M46e6qsyJPSIotVlCqGXXdwLrnEWVTZPU1CEzkQzJqOFanTNLCgr5Bo/s320/P1011480.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"<em>It's not that democratic, it's barely a republic, but it is... the Congo</em>," said a close friend on the situation. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Before we left, we checked in with Fidele; a kind, thoughtful hotel manager with an easy and contagious laugh about the situation across the border. He lived and went to school in Goma (<em>you can speak your mind over there</em>,<em> </em>said the soft spoken man) and was going three times a week trying to get his broken computer back. After receiving his blessing and taking his phone number, we crossed into no man's land.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The energy changed, as we applied for our visas on the other side of the border crossing. After paying $35.00 for the visa, I was hassled by a customs agent who wanted a bribe because I didn't bring my yellow fever vaccination with me. After an extended discussion in French where my friend translated, I settled on 22 dollars, a price I wish I should never have paid for entering. He shook my hand, and the money disappeared into his pants as he smoothly lifted his belt and simultaneously scratched the bushy moustache that resided under his crooked nose. His eyes watched me with cautious dislike the entire time. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">A money changer materialized out of the crowd to offer us a <em>'fair'</em> rate for our American notes. As more of a novelty than a necesity, I exchanged $15.00 USD and began to count the money he gave to me. Watching me carefully, the changer sighed and simply handed me the rest of the money. I finished counting and held the rest of my hands out. He reached into his pocket and handed me the 'forgotten' 1000 Francs and walked off, whistling. The money was fascinating, especially the 500 Franc note which displayed shirtless Congolese miners, using picks to dig into the earth, a large outline of a diamond overshadowing the workers in the background.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBup5VzhRrZ6DdiZeDWVUixZHFi6-S-sA2EMgDQ-2KG3uRVrP9fQ5GLPoiKnm-Ba3z8HVrQwUoOI8TL4GQNIsv1Xz00SXJmOxeU6v_xihSanv6RT1wkYeQWy0JaIBPJ6WsAnvWj68FxQk/s1600/banknote%252520500%252520congolese%252520franc%2525202000%252520obverse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBup5VzhRrZ6DdiZeDWVUixZHFi6-S-sA2EMgDQ-2KG3uRVrP9fQ5GLPoiKnm-Ba3z8HVrQwUoOI8TL4GQNIsv1Xz00SXJmOxeU6v_xihSanv6RT1wkYeQWy0JaIBPJ6WsAnvWj68FxQk/s320/banknote%252520500%252520congolese%252520franc%2525202000%252520obverse.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>We began the walk into town along a dusty street littered with strewn trash, speeding cars and rampant street sellers gawking at us. Though the hot, equatorial sun was beating down on us, I felt a shiver up and down my spine. This was not a good place, and it resonated a deep warning within me to be on alert. Motor taxi's pulled up dangerous close, pushing us backwards until we screamed at them to stop. <br />
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</div>The 2 kilometer walk into town was eerie, with the unfamiliar constant drone of UN planes whizzing through the sky, and large troop trucks filled to the brim with soldiers, dog-tags glittering in the hazy light. We made our way to the center 'square' of town, which was marked by a destroyed monument and concrete circle, complete with scattered open drainage ditches filled with trash and sewage. We found our recommended restaurant with the attractive <em>'no weapon'</em> sign, ate and emerged again to find that the world had all changed. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju3e6RMTInIjZNhGyCF3lnHxFvs4tjlwveOyCJfcm5jCTSTfKV-7KSOpn-9c6YuuyGfptXpDEI2olRIIoL4QS6FkHcgo_IWyqb_iRU2zUeSb6XE0kFuQQCvH-80BMO0QBl17rAcN5D6UA/s1600/P1011488.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju3e6RMTInIjZNhGyCF3lnHxFvs4tjlwveOyCJfcm5jCTSTfKV-7KSOpn-9c6YuuyGfptXpDEI2olRIIoL4QS6FkHcgo_IWyqb_iRU2zUeSb6XE0kFuQQCvH-80BMO0QBl17rAcN5D6UA/s320/P1011488.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Despite it being mid-afternoon, the sun felt as if it was gone, hiding behind clouds, giving the street an incredibly sinister vibe. One of the girls we were with was being eye-fondled by a local on a motorcycle and when she pulled behind me and told me what was happening, I turned around to face him. He eyes burned with pure hatred as he mouthed the words, "<em>Fuck you</em>" then sped off on his bike. The mere experience left me shaking. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I live by certain rules while traveling. They have been learned through experience, from earthquake zones to robbings, dark alleys and unsavoury drunks from all walks of life and all corners of the globe. These rules have rescued me from dangerous and potentially deadly situations before. The cardinal rule? Follow your instinct. And my instinct was shaking it's wise head. No. No. No. I berated myself for putting ourselves in such unnecessary risk. What were we there for? What were we trying to prove by being there? There's nothing romantic or exciting about escaping to this country for a day. This country is in war. This country is dangerous. Any pretense that we would be safe had quickly left. I no longer felt safe, and my body refused to relax until we began our trek again to the border. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As we neared the border, I saw an MSF (<em>Doctors without Borders</em>) truck rattling it's way into the town, white flag raised high with concerned members inside squinting as they stared ahead at what seemed like an invinsible threat. I stopped and watched, and contemplated my life. I've always wanted to work with this organization, in places like this... or so I thought. Five hours had left me with a dark, brooding feeling of insecurity, stress and fear. What, I thought, would 9 months make me feel? Would it claim my soul? With these rambling notions rolling in my mind, we backed our way across the border and felt instantly safe, familiar... home. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The cortisol, which was coursing steadily through my body began to slow down, and I at once, felt exhausted, and contemplative. Watching the now darkened Congo recede in the rear-view mirror, I realized I needed a drink and I needed to re-think my future. I retreated from the Congo, thankfully safely with our friends in tow, four hours after we had arrived, leaving the country with far more dark questions for my future than I had answers. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1-w5rD3FatjZM8aQc207ya8bBo_C-ITHaw_j1Xzx0XEWhU2iaWhezOBcXdREVkO5cw3tPQub1TZm6OD46VL4XyU-dyshwhIKpi2s1a3uOas24vnqPnccdB7Z38qHVlAOVJlG6RZc3e0/s1600/IMG_9040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf1-w5rD3FatjZM8aQc207ya8bBo_C-ITHaw_j1Xzx0XEWhU2iaWhezOBcXdREVkO5cw3tPQub1TZm6OD46VL4XyU-dyshwhIKpi2s1a3uOas24vnqPnccdB7Z38qHVlAOVJlG6RZc3e0/s320/IMG_9040.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-21096787309958216802010-12-11T18:28:00.000-08:002010-12-12T18:26:38.578-08:00The Sun Falls But Will Rise Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-DrymBUGchS7Uo6FVjJmPOpvbeIVTw3xKdmA1FXLSyWqITkm8ZJ4C4RAmmEOYXxwUe9pAOox6m2ZdQtbrUPkRn7P6z7Z9r-0jGZCIziCpRmnX1pjOo9XdPZxhqi343z1USHlxzIaj-E/s1600/IMG_8754+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-DrymBUGchS7Uo6FVjJmPOpvbeIVTw3xKdmA1FXLSyWqITkm8ZJ4C4RAmmEOYXxwUe9pAOox6m2ZdQtbrUPkRn7P6z7Z9r-0jGZCIziCpRmnX1pjOo9XdPZxhqi343z1USHlxzIaj-E/s320/IMG_8754+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">The sun has disappeared behind Mount Kigali, but somewhere on the distance retains buoyancy over the horizon. The peak of the mountain is the eminant color of a fleeting sun, a wash of yellow with a white aura, resembling a vanilla frosted chocolate cupcake. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">Scan your gaze higher into the sky and the transition is subtle and abrupt at the same time. A pallette of incredible blues; beginning at a soul stirring light blue fusing into a deep-dark-powerful navy blue. The lights in the distance shine, almost as if floating on the distant mountain, attempting to defy the impending dark nights that engulf this sleepy East African city. It's my favorite time of the night, as the cascade of blues is a gentle reminder of the quiet beauty of the sky, while also serving as a stabbing reminder of how much of it you miss when your heart resides in the city lights.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><br />
The night prevails, for now, in Kigali.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPh1hpVPxMWVsmiSBaqkPzSdx1kqQWlLxHxXGiorzbuOOEqiDiDMuQ0cxQz2ZPZwjDdh1tHkCJiIqE4kY_PT3Grm6QC0x8hhzaU6RpOKfOG_YQHanwuUeHy4L5nI5TS5xLTa954zEYd0/s1600/IMG_8777+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPh1hpVPxMWVsmiSBaqkPzSdx1kqQWlLxHxXGiorzbuOOEqiDiDMuQ0cxQz2ZPZwjDdh1tHkCJiIqE4kY_PT3Grm6QC0x8hhzaU6RpOKfOG_YQHanwuUeHy4L5nI5TS5xLTa954zEYd0/s320/IMG_8777+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-44150034155129847442010-12-04T09:13:00.000-08:002010-12-12T18:25:40.826-08:00The Masaii Mara<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1e6BFP2FTRNb5bvbFZYDEheVFCh0bUzMbmG3HYLctAsPzU9VvPCmnElFReesDP0VV6QlJmg70WlOKs4lNG5XCUud_rj1woIOCJR3Z03c5wBD4z7BTHDYLkfzxP4WtxPvVycFtwxTbc8c/s1600/IMG_0029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1e6BFP2FTRNb5bvbFZYDEheVFCh0bUzMbmG3HYLctAsPzU9VvPCmnElFReesDP0VV6QlJmg70WlOKs4lNG5XCUud_rj1woIOCJR3Z03c5wBD4z7BTHDYLkfzxP4WtxPvVycFtwxTbc8c/s320/IMG_0029.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Looking back now, I realize the vacation actually began in Masaii Mara, a world renowned National Park spanning 1510 square kilometers west of the capital city of Nairobi in Kenya. Here we did what everyone dreams, thinks, imagines of doing when they visit Africa... go on a safari. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Our excursion into the wild existed in a haze of two nights and three days, with three long game rides occuring either with the sun rising at our backs, or falling at our feets. We held no qualms about stereotypes and loudly sang The Lion King theme so many times to the same giggling effect. As we learned though, in the wild, it's not all singing and stampedes.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd6DmVjZIqnv4CLP8ouZ1culk46q6RtH-lQLQBELkLlcB3wCyTwK56r0PPHXGzSBBU-qBBo_TtYL8r8IvoEomwRohlZbgS5OryjD6M9FpQpW4ByZn8t_K60Mm57pbPh5Y-imutYHEqh9c/s1600/IMG_9977.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd6DmVjZIqnv4CLP8ouZ1culk46q6RtH-lQLQBELkLlcB3wCyTwK56r0PPHXGzSBBU-qBBo_TtYL8r8IvoEomwRohlZbgS5OryjD6M9FpQpW4ByZn8t_K60Mm57pbPh5Y-imutYHEqh9c/s320/IMG_9977.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Animals don't come out to greet you; you have to work for it, using an old and long forgotten method of searching for the beasts in the tall grass, amidst the silence and through the haze of the heat. There were plenty of times where you could feel a large presence, but not be able to see it. The most unsettling part was knowing that whatever you were looking for was watching every move you made. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The lion we saw was in fact, scary. Immense, intimidating and strangely cat-like, he didn't like the plethora of jeeps that lined up to get a glimpse. As an overambitious man in an open-topped jeep found out, still a threatening beast. He growled, a dark, deep growl from the bowels of his lungs and tensed his already compact body into an efficient killing machine. It wasn't so much he changed positions as much as he compacted himself and flexed, making him smaller but far more deadly. We drove away and I didn't look back, the incident leaving my spine to instantly shiver at the lion's capabilities. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlmeuEfBfeMrkK9cyQgjA_faAnIjzb-Q3gdq7ycgU0rzr1ptpzCqUYN3csC4bYoxaqnBOzkeIhDrdDaYQXNupForYKS5GRLfT6-aEOTfsGrQgxxzGUwjplCH-JQBrB8W8MAaOjcrPdkaU/s1600/IMG_0193.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlmeuEfBfeMrkK9cyQgjA_faAnIjzb-Q3gdq7ycgU0rzr1ptpzCqUYN3csC4bYoxaqnBOzkeIhDrdDaYQXNupForYKS5GRLfT6-aEOTfsGrQgxxzGUwjplCH-JQBrB8W8MAaOjcrPdkaU/s320/IMG_0193.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We spotted a rare black rhino on the distance and chased it down along the potholed filled off-road track, almost feeling the tremor it's thundering jog was creating as he ambled away from us. Elephants meandered in a large pack, looking like old, thunderous men in dark grey, crinkled suits. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The environment always competed with the wildlife for bragging rights, as at the end of the game drives, the clouds would augment and reshape their essence to form different configurations, while the surrounding clear air would form blues and purples of the most magnificent hues. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvV9mRArfl8V1Px-L-isT14MbY3imb_zO_HXbL1O3ltcLxstC3PiQIg7qNbUXGjUfd_Rk_9vItfWHc0GyCvV78snY1ldLF7ZWfNpnvXJuhKjkpb6ewh_Rgq2RfbhbOro2q-hRDrkAaLg/s1600/IMG_0266.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvV9mRArfl8V1Px-L-isT14MbY3imb_zO_HXbL1O3ltcLxstC3PiQIg7qNbUXGjUfd_Rk_9vItfWHc0GyCvV78snY1ldLF7ZWfNpnvXJuhKjkpb6ewh_Rgq2RfbhbOro2q-hRDrkAaLg/s320/IMG_0266.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The sun, would battle for last rites dodging, shifting and shimmering into the night, leaving a long, lasting light for some time after it disappeaered below the horizon, lending a backdrop to the sky's everychanging and darkening palette.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The safari was an assault on the scenes, treating us to the visual delight of nature and wildlife in their natural, incredible setting. As we retreated to the camp for our last night on the reserve, we came across a lone Girraffe ambling out toward the arching sunset, as if knowing that we would forever remember the moment as he began his adventure towards the shimmering horizon.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0txfllaGBXRzU4sdlh85reDcJHyKvpHg0OglMxWRmV9aePkY7oc4a2QTrN_Sr0GXPdJRTUeI8l5R-eOdI9G7pr72eOHAVJTjD9UzyTHi7Xr7Kdv-Qx38QWwWMqpQ5SuHJJg1IZntFgqc/s1600/IMG_0039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0txfllaGBXRzU4sdlh85reDcJHyKvpHg0OglMxWRmV9aePkY7oc4a2QTrN_Sr0GXPdJRTUeI8l5R-eOdI9G7pr72eOHAVJTjD9UzyTHi7Xr7Kdv-Qx38QWwWMqpQ5SuHJJg1IZntFgqc/s320/IMG_0039.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-17922533232042414382010-11-18T19:26:00.000-08:002010-11-18T19:26:25.058-08:00Stoop Till You Drop<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6OMeiT5j5lrJjDgvpkrtQTG1Su1knxGY6pNCCPQCxDUiz7Wgn-QCmMvSZvHzqB6mobDo-L8b698_O4ghNgWwDagmAbiCJFoZ_7kCvLm4XeE1MzVp3thSWYXplDK992pbc8I9QtdvB3A/s1600/IMG_0376_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6OMeiT5j5lrJjDgvpkrtQTG1Su1knxGY6pNCCPQCxDUiz7Wgn-QCmMvSZvHzqB6mobDo-L8b698_O4ghNgWwDagmAbiCJFoZ_7kCvLm4XeE1MzVp3thSWYXplDK992pbc8I9QtdvB3A/s320/IMG_0376_edited-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdkzvS-fEb204Xh8JU0lAd7Mr5DvDIgVXbHFTWjCax3tIMY9cQ1j3k2J8SyjapxMh8LNvsaPvEg2RQXKENiIDW8f1tTEfGAoACi-18vYrtGshJ9_JIwsw54kPM2GFErQpn67X21Al9wM/s1600/IMG_0425+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The barge mistimed it's stopping ability and crashed into our boat gently, bringing a warm spray of Ocean into my lap. The driver leaned over and said in a throaty voiced that exuded calm, <em>"Hakuna Matata, man."</em> No worries. At all. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Lamu exists as an enigma in East Africa. An island town, only available access by boats, the whole stone-city is navigated by donkeys. There are three (count 'em) cars on the island, as the rest of the place is navigated by bicycle, feet or donkey. The donkeys were muscular, timid and plodding creatures, one hammering me over, almost into a baby kitten, as he turned the corner. He didn't break stride. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In Lamu, we 'stooped.' The rules of "stooping" aren't really rules at all. In fact, I can't even be sure that those who stoop know what it consists of. Which is a little maddening, knowing that Lamuians are born with an innate warning that must vibrate when one is becoming too excited, or walking too fast. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Slow. Down. Sit. Down.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9azxEVvxRdv52p_r9tjYKJ5FW4tOyuM0spzUIdj8lB0Co9-0MYqq3P0iRuKvmO0ZP9vl13AU_3ZD2jL1K8r6PinpqZ3qxGy45Yv7sah4ktnyx3PVj8gioAMEtOyuwOFWlbk8EplqrEyc/s1600/IMG_0401_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9azxEVvxRdv52p_r9tjYKJ5FW4tOyuM0spzUIdj8lB0Co9-0MYqq3P0iRuKvmO0ZP9vl13AU_3ZD2jL1K8r6PinpqZ3qxGy45Yv7sah4ktnyx3PVj8gioAMEtOyuwOFWlbk8EplqrEyc/s320/IMG_0401_edited-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Stoops, square chunks of fading and crack concrete, exist in arbitrary locations throughout the narrowed, grey streets of Lamu and perch upon narrow gutters that constantly flow with the whitish-blue water that drain from the town to the sea. As with tradition, our walking tour guide, Zera, an old persuasive Muslim man with an eye for making a quick buck and a relationship with everyone on the island, told us to sit on fomed planks of concrete complete with arm-rests. Apparently, he explained, the families of Lamu in the past used to gather in these narrow alleyways, out of the heat of the sun to watch the day turn into night.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikwdUh3i275V39ozjRnj_bhViyK_OUZeaBlHEoQjMKmoshOlcO0xSnmLkzFnrYiYEipJtMZAy9E0u10JzmB7RO9iJrYRHqcDmx0ofU1ErWw4mfauZvQLrnYKevvRDsOgGF9eYL7HXOYg/s1600/IMG_0368_edited-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikwdUh3i275V39ozjRnj_bhViyK_OUZeaBlHEoQjMKmoshOlcO0xSnmLkzFnrYiYEipJtMZAy9E0u10JzmB7RO9iJrYRHqcDmx0ofU1ErWw4mfauZvQLrnYKevvRDsOgGF9eYL7HXOYg/s320/IMG_0368_edited-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Alternatively, you could chew 'Mira,' the local stimulant that literally took eight hours of non-stop chewing (think cow and cud) to induce even the slightest effect. For my compatriots and I, a sore jaw and a lot of laughing was all that we could accomplish. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Idyllic to the point where one day my only problem was deciding whether I should have a mango or orange-mango juice for breakfast. I spent three days in Lamu, and on the last day, a wanderlust traveler with a heart for Haiku (5/7/5 syllables) poems , wrote me the perfect one summing up the Kenyan coastal town perfectly. It read, simply, </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: large;">Stoopers of Lamu</span></em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: large;">Chewing Mango and Mira</span></em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: large;">Beware the Donkey</span></em></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-64483256043008243012010-11-04T16:49:00.000-07:002010-11-04T16:50:54.652-07:00India (the Ocean)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_h5ycriQXWc7-_lUz4fT7lnDkW56HLntCghERF7DfmyYzD-JiLhjfnP12GBmg2t68-TNfManT2yejkTjImiPm6ZJ9elPjJ8NHy8qjgq4uugjx-q3vtaHv9A6NqnH7dA2RNyxfbsDuAaM/s1600/IMG_0558+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_h5ycriQXWc7-_lUz4fT7lnDkW56HLntCghERF7DfmyYzD-JiLhjfnP12GBmg2t68-TNfManT2yejkTjImiPm6ZJ9elPjJ8NHy8qjgq4uugjx-q3vtaHv9A6NqnH7dA2RNyxfbsDuAaM/s320/IMG_0558+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">It was the wind that caught my breath; the same wind that has been carried around the world on the sea; the wind that whispers of adventurers and dreamers; of lovers and loves lost. It's the wind that takes our wildest dreams and gives them flight.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">I threw myself down hard, cold concrete steps onto the warm, crunchy sand that lay before the Indian Ocean and was greeted by the feeling of heartsickness; the same, powerful, fleeting essence of missing something. The search for truth, was somewhere on the other side of this Ocean, I could feel.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">It was dark blue, littered with seaweed, ragged green rows of sharp, prickling daggers. I knelt down and grabbed a handful or warm semi-formed sand, and pressed it with desire to my other hand. To the right, I realized with a start, was an 8 foot camel, staring down at me, with a glint in his eyes. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">This, I thought, getting up and moving out of the way of the beautiful creature in front of me... This is the closest I have felt to home since I left.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">This... is the Indian Ocean.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRQSngRaBMtoldpPIMCkLmgVa28oe-iLzN4IbA1-16c5ImpQ3uc7rMl5IA90DES099z4TBg8Ru_78hsrwWn5WdDf_8avrBx-KEWDrjX0V0Pa3qRhJPZzOmaFcCZJY2tlgNd29t5GiT5k/s1600/IMG_0640+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRQSngRaBMtoldpPIMCkLmgVa28oe-iLzN4IbA1-16c5ImpQ3uc7rMl5IA90DES099z4TBg8Ru_78hsrwWn5WdDf_8avrBx-KEWDrjX0V0Pa3qRhJPZzOmaFcCZJY2tlgNd29t5GiT5k/s320/IMG_0640+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-31419581460543728862010-11-03T19:15:00.000-07:002011-01-07T11:48:24.224-08:00The Roof of Africa: Climbing Kilimanjaro<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I crawled away from the group assembled at the summit on the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, the roof of Africa. My breathing was coming in short, ragged, gasp-like bursts and the headache that exploded through my brain multiplied in intensity. Doing an army crawl, I nestled around a large rock, inhaled a knife-like gasp of air and propped myself up just as the sun exploded over the horizon in a dazzling array of pinks, yellows and oranges.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"<em>It's beautiful</em>," I thought to myself, as I forced my mind to thank my parents for everything as I gave up, closed my eyes, and drifted into an oxygen-deprived ending. I gave up on life, and let myself go.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Issa, my guide, was screaming through the haze of people at the top in the early morning. He pushed them, through his own altitude sickness to comb the entire mountain-top, thinking that I had fallen off the edge. Frantically, he searched around a rock in the corner, and saw me, sleeping as peacefully as a child. He dropped to his knees, ripped off his gloves and began shaking me with his strong arms gripped to my ice-covered jacket.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I didn't move an inch. The shaking continued as he pulled me close to his ear as he screamed, <strong>"</strong><em><strong>RAVI, YOU ARE GOING TO DIE."</strong> </em>My limp body didn't respond. The sun, meanwhile in the background, was rising steadily, shining with a fiercely bright glow for all the mountain-top to see. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">-------------------------------------------------------</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Mount Kilimanjaro is Africa's tallest mountain, a giant, stretching to 5895 meters tall. Hundreds of trekkers a year attempt the summit, and according to the guidebooks, most do. It was this inclination that led me to believe that the climb would be little more than a hike; I've climbed lots of mountains before, I'm in relatively good shape and live in Kigali, which is at altitude itself. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUE2zvrWFfrQYjSKCS9sTTzVA4WTd4ZSNv9G7hwG_mME0ThvUxv2Jh4LSVUQLGyGZ5kqu_qTCztkyfJEqJuNCMDqd-UUTnkKTivYMB1K-532OKieIw7TfAMlFMyqIq_lW0SkjMhQhKOu4/s1600/IMG_0708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUE2zvrWFfrQYjSKCS9sTTzVA4WTd4ZSNv9G7hwG_mME0ThvUxv2Jh4LSVUQLGyGZ5kqu_qTCztkyfJEqJuNCMDqd-UUTnkKTivYMB1K-532OKieIw7TfAMlFMyqIq_lW0SkjMhQhKOu4/s320/IMG_0708.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"<em>I literally have nothing, but I would like to climb the mountain," </em>I said to Jackson, the tour operator as he appraised me in shorts and sandals. <em>"I don't even have socks,"</em> I said. He smiled, and I saw dollar signs flash momentarily in his eyes, as he pulled out a price list for the slightly-used equipment. "<em>I'll see you at your hotel at 7am,"</em> he said with a genuine smile.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The morning arrives and I grab my pack and settle into the massive 4X4 Jeep when I'm introduced to the crew. Sidee is a slender-faced youth, known for his quick smile and bright, piercing eyes. He is the Porter for the crew, usually carrying the brunt of the load up the mountain. Beside him is Sele <em>("like Pe-le, the famous soccer player</em>," he kids), a trusting Tanzanian with short dread-locks and a decorative chain around his neck. Ayubu is also crammed in the back-seat, but I never really figured out what he did. A little bit of everything, I suppose. One night, I defected from the mountaineers and spent it with the guys, and found out that Ayubu was as much comic relief as he was necessary. A great spirit. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In the front seat sat Issa, my guide of almost thirty years old. That summer alone he had been up the mountain more than 20 times. He and I would get close over the 5 days, and we would probe each other for the similarities that made up our lives. We trusted each other from the outset, and talked about our hopes... and fears for the future. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><strong>Day 1</strong> was solitary and only saw a handful of trekkers coming back with speed walking efficiency down the mountain, while Issa and I ambled down the pathway, together, but alternating moments of solitude and conversation. The looming mountaintop that seemed miles away made me instantly pensieve, lost in my own thoughts. <em>Could I climb up... there?</em> Every time my mind wandered, I tried to bring it back here, to now, to the mountain. "<em>Pole-Pole</em>," he would say almost a hundred times a day, as if to himself. <br />
<br />
Slowly, Slowly. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>The end of the day led us to camp one, 2800 meters above sea level. The silence was deafening, almost frightening at times. <em>The wisdom is in the trees</em>, said Jack Johnson, <em>not the glass windows</em>. Theres so much the wind and silence have to say, I spent the night in thought of how I always run out of time to share with the world outside. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_4AoSC4CM2hqlOMO8JebDgmX6DCVRgXru9PO2fEKz61afvsMrQOHyMykRdCVHIXTXQNd4rNBFjJ_kdbKHoIP-FovW8FSnIiSN_XelzDmP9DKFrkrUBVcoTdos5_f3hcZdB_UV6z5qTA/s1600/IMG_0727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ_4AoSC4CM2hqlOMO8JebDgmX6DCVRgXru9PO2fEKz61afvsMrQOHyMykRdCVHIXTXQNd4rNBFjJ_kdbKHoIP-FovW8FSnIiSN_XelzDmP9DKFrkrUBVcoTdos5_f3hcZdB_UV6z5qTA/s320/IMG_0727.jpg" width="213" /></a>The food is made under the watchful eye of Sele, adding spices and salt, almost randomly to his creations. "<em>You need strength to reach the top. I think you will</em>," he added, fiddling with the dial of his archaic hot plate. White bread starts off most meals, with a choice of jam or peanut butter followed by cucumber soup which is then taken away and replaced with vegetable soup of the same stock and a main course of large potatoes and vegetables. Little did I know, this was the start of a month long experiment with vegetarianism. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Issa sat down while washing down the sodium with water and said, water helps acclimitization because here, the oxygen is so thin and water is made up of 2 parts hydrogen and 1 part oxygen. You get air, from water, he continued. <em>Brilliant</em>. I don't think I would have ever put that together. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>Day 2: Thin Air (Breathe Deep)</strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We left the camp first, catching the Colabas and Blue Monkeys sleeping with their tails hanging below like short vines, as they caught the last moments of sleep. Acclimitization is proving to take it's toll. It's hard to eat to bursting levels, drink so that your walking in the brush as much as you are progressing and going slowly. Always. Slowly. Today, we climbed to the middle base camp, stomping grounds for those who attempted the summit from the days before as well as those who are on their way up. Those on our way up gathered around after supper to hear the struggles and hardships of those who summitted, and many left leaving feeling far more nervous than ever. The top was hard, they say, causing panic in the potential summiters. I broke from the group, and spent time with my crew, not wanting to be subject to the potential negativity and doubt that their stories brought. I knew how hard it was... or so I thought. That night, it was cold and I slept with everything I owned neslted to my body. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>3 (Day).</strong> Kilimanjaro's disappearing snows have been well documented and used as evidence as a continuing case for the detrimental effect of global warning. Issa says that within 15 years, all of the snow will recede and leave this equatorial skyscraper looking like just another piece of rock. <em>Our kids</em>, he says, <em>will never see the whites of the mountain's eyes. </em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>For the next hour and a half, we trudged up the dirt path on the West face of the mountain and stood side-by-side of each other, listening to each other breathe. One in, One out. And repeat. As the day unfolded in perfect silence, our breath started coming in longer and deeper bursts. Our diaphragms expanded and we became more audible as we noticed our bodies working harder to obtain the oxygen we needed. The night was cold, and talking to someone required you to look slightly to one side, lest they become englufed in your visible smoke-like breath.<br />
<br />
<strong>Day 4: Believe.</strong><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">3800 meters can mess you up. The next camp, at 4700 meters can send you home. We trudged today to the high camp to begin our summit ascent at midnight that night. I stopped Issa and asked, <em>"does it make sense that all of these tourists fly around the world for this, to climb this mountain</em>?" He fired back, almost instantly, "<em>Why are you climbing it</em>?"</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">There was no definitive, inspirational, spiritual or conceptual answer to that. I just thought, like most things in life, I was given the choice to climb the mountain or not. I followed an instinct, and it's proved to be right most of the time, so I went with it. I guess I just may never have the opportunity to do it again. As Dad taught me, when an opportunity presents itself, you have to take it. It's the search I think, that holds the most promise. The idea that there may be some surprises or lessons to be gleaned from this mountain, from yourself in this. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69rg05wewXnwUyZZ3aFVRcfJbiwmOKojXj2t26r81lngwJ7k-X0MzrZ6hZNz_pMGDvQRZiRhFriQLkmM2zhRoY1iGeMK2rRtGBLOfeOKZbjBAIJFOUsuZBAUbXf25mw8J5ap-X18C2Cw/s1600/IMG_0769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69rg05wewXnwUyZZ3aFVRcfJbiwmOKojXj2t26r81lngwJ7k-X0MzrZ6hZNz_pMGDvQRZiRhFriQLkmM2zhRoY1iGeMK2rRtGBLOfeOKZbjBAIJFOUsuZBAUbXf25mw8J5ap-X18C2Cw/s320/IMG_0769.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>To The Moon (The Summit)</strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The Kibu huts are located at precisely 4800 meters, where the landscape dramatically shifts away from lush, green forests to red, giant rocks. Rocks that look lie a giant placed them there, in a feeble attempt to play checkers at the top of the world. It's the people though, that have changed the most up here. Oxygen is at a premium and cracks are showing in some of the crews arriving, as the trekkers shuffle themselves from the toilet and back to bed, eyes filled with nothingness. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My moment of realization came when, squatting over a key-shaped outhouse, I thought it would be just fine if I crawled in and slept. My mind stopped it's rational side, leaning towards the goofy and grinning. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We sleep for three hours after supper, and awake to the gentle rapping on the door. The briefing is simple, 7 hours to the top, we won't stop, we won't go fast. We'll reach as the sun is coming up and then come straight down. Any more time up there is suicide.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Bags and gear are packed in a fury, zippers are locked with loud efficiency and a ball of subdued excitement fills the air. Izza looks at me through the glare of his head-lamp, and without a word we begin. His eyes showed no emotion in the least. I did the same, trying to distance myself, partition my mind from my body, in preparation of the impending crippling altitude sickness. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">----------------------------------------------------</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My eyes opened to the world again. <em><strong>YOU ARE GOING TO DIE,</strong></em> Issa repeated. I thought I was dead. A second chance, on life. It all came crashing back, the constant reminders that your body is in trouble, a headache tore through my skull and exited in the middle of my forehead, creating lurching movements. My breathing was broken and shallow, as if my lungs had given up on the effort. My lips were dried, burned and cracking, but the water was too far to reach. And now we had to climb for another 8 hours back to camp. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This, as I collapsed again and began crying on the top of Africa, was the hardest physical moment of my life. I cried uncontrollably. My mind and my body had thrown in the towel. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>Why can't you just let me lie down?</em> Issa was persistent and allowed me the space I needed to fight it out with myself. Within minutes, we had to grab a woman who was delirious from falling down a thousand foot cliff, and it all came rushing back. You Might Not Live. <br />
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It was in that moment I chose life. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As we descended down the mountain, away from the sickness and the staggering headaches, I pulled a large American bill out of my pocket and put it into my guide's hand. "<em>You saved my life</em>," I said. "<em>Without you..."</em> I trailed off, voice cracking as the 16 hour hiking day was coming to a close. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">"<em>It's my job</em>," he said. "<em>They would have taken away my trail license if you had died anyways." </em><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfOBabJUAEzS7TXrGOnLn2vH3TxLky5MAXnHVtYGsOaR6WOzVNKoKzsAy6UUCZFfwK9OWTtlI76PfqjcKSAO5A4f4kWD-lAKUCdceshF_Gtl3hn8uCW-edvzRZqa5uHTdq2aJ-TN-yyY/s1600/IMG_0784.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; height: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; width: 29px;"></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We both laughed hearty and long, arm over arm as the sun dropped in the distance behind us. I looked back, shook my head and jogged to catch back up with Issa.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I'm alive. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Life is perfect. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3pTxUPGJrNYg14kWRDD3BFrWE3AvquD2vyQJ9lskAq15UtqqYtNq2m0hurgsWgvA_PFUpXIF4ObZAHFONMihCcp4qkGm3TrrFa8aFAZBU0kQYhd8J8wIGz0sZInjeQQoGG6pKVChJ8jg/s1600/IMG_0779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3pTxUPGJrNYg14kWRDD3BFrWE3AvquD2vyQJ9lskAq15UtqqYtNq2m0hurgsWgvA_PFUpXIF4ObZAHFONMihCcp4qkGm3TrrFa8aFAZBU0kQYhd8J8wIGz0sZInjeQQoGG6pKVChJ8jg/s320/IMG_0779.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-51675004208763606522010-08-05T00:33:00.000-07:002010-08-05T00:33:48.196-07:00Bright Lights and Low Tide.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlB1PzM2WGTtNEzlqYJfcMJGDqfSzm634Acj4I-NQPKcb3k7hZxEFe-Jv2kZPR1XrwQFSp5WQrwOBuoTkU1j9qogbX2Hjt0y4Zk1HdFUrqG3KZ0RdOwf439_OoVncNwFr2_I0NpizHFFo/s144/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlB1PzM2WGTtNEzlqYJfcMJGDqfSzm634Acj4I-NQPKcb3k7hZxEFe-Jv2kZPR1XrwQFSp5WQrwOBuoTkU1j9qogbX2Hjt0y4Zk1HdFUrqG3KZ0RdOwf439_OoVncNwFr2_I0NpizHFFo/s400/1.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOB0in9XY_GCQr9kosZQQ4H9fPiOQyms-rJVUqvSI8y9c8E0Q95sPW-7ZzLa-mAnCbe6bVLHdhlHh-35Ds1-1JlvjK0deKND0Tbv-3KWR6tuPOCJ6l3SLxRz1dqmWgDloXTluOX9d9Ck/s144/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOB0in9XY_GCQr9kosZQQ4H9fPiOQyms-rJVUqvSI8y9c8E0Q95sPW-7ZzLa-mAnCbe6bVLHdhlHh-35Ds1-1JlvjK0deKND0Tbv-3KWR6tuPOCJ6l3SLxRz1dqmWgDloXTluOX9d9Ck/s400/7.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGtabKIwwTvNbwVojflca_Ght8sS4wJQJGrklRoH99J5oaeXxDC_ofR4GpuelER3jhGJWX5oa14xlbwOKb7K_gcdNavaRZfLWwFpgaZyVeREcUaf-CtWMqNoibkvBMCjPv7vSC5GTrq8/s144/3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGtabKIwwTvNbwVojflca_Ght8sS4wJQJGrklRoH99J5oaeXxDC_ofR4GpuelER3jhGJWX5oa14xlbwOKb7K_gcdNavaRZfLWwFpgaZyVeREcUaf-CtWMqNoibkvBMCjPv7vSC5GTrq8/s400/3.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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<i>Like a child in the night, </i><br />
<i> new to the city's darkness,</i><br />
<i> I was born again and set free </i><br />
<i> to run wild down each street </i><br />
<i> only to find that none would take me home. (B. Knox)</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-23565424128751980502010-07-26T01:38:00.000-07:002010-07-26T01:38:45.998-07:00A Mighty Bellow<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfm3I7S-mP7eGPGFec-1KWviWkS7Umi0semhU8JXMvWTlhYxmOPEUW7-GiiKzU5YECenlvBZHUYdvMP-eIjiI9V8G7PJlc9P0ikZBIyWAiurg2FI_-5YnrxFakxoQayflVB9dxXYsyENw/s1600/gorilla1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfm3I7S-mP7eGPGFec-1KWviWkS7Umi0semhU8JXMvWTlhYxmOPEUW7-GiiKzU5YECenlvBZHUYdvMP-eIjiI9V8G7PJlc9P0ikZBIyWAiurg2FI_-5YnrxFakxoQayflVB9dxXYsyENw/s320/gorilla1.jpg" width="213" /></a>In the far northern pocket of Rwanda lies an ancient volcano range called the Virungas. They cut an imposing figure chisled into the sky like a grand monument serving as a natural border to Uganda and the Congo. As we drove in, they were shrouded in a mist that only served to further their mystique. Somewhere in the trees, high above the ground we walk, lie our ancient descendents, the endangered mountain gorillas. Our backpacks contained the tracking permits required to witness the creatures in their native habitat. </div> Our guide, Placid, began by explaining the infamous 7 meter rule, the distance that we should keep from the gorillas. This, as we found out, was a rule practiced only in theory (“Excuse me gorilla, could you just back up a little bit. Your in my personal 7 meter bubble.”)He then opened up a book of photos, showing us the “Hirwa” group that we would be tracking, a relatively small new group complete with a Silverback, a couple females and some babies to boot. <br />
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We began the trek in the early morning haze, up through the lanes of farmers’ fields, passing families busy with harvesting and grazing livestock. When we reached the jungle path of the volcanoes, a guard carrying an AK-47 emerged from the trees to accompany us. More of a precaution than anything, the guard was there to protect us from rogue elephants, water buffalos and poachers intent on killing and maiming gorillas for profit. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGpslxXg0YXNJByekzfntTipwkD4tWDDnayqt3L__VWbHfp7iBQboGRr3abNJTb_1kEcoF9kLJxwRnHx6YJRjLvmNYd9WLTIRrodeJMLO_gnjRxBUhJPYZSpEUHH3paV7RmxenEHwruM/s1600/g6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGpslxXg0YXNJByekzfntTipwkD4tWDDnayqt3L__VWbHfp7iBQboGRr3abNJTb_1kEcoF9kLJxwRnHx6YJRjLvmNYd9WLTIRrodeJMLO_gnjRxBUhJPYZSpEUHH3paV7RmxenEHwruM/s320/g6.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Our guide instructed us to put down our backpacks and walking sticks (they could be mistaken as spears) and we hacked our way into the interior, where we could see the trees shaking and bending at unnatural angles. <br />
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Out of the dense brush, a black, inky form materialized in front of us and disappeared into the bramble beside us. We inched closer and around the corner came face to face with the leader of the group, the Silverback. He perched on all fours, and appraised us with interest. <br />
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Its eyes were large, sentient and had an incredible human-like quality to them. When he took in all of us, he began to grunt loudly. The grunt was rolling and thunder-like, a rhythmic way to communicate with us. It reverberated through the dense air and into my chest, where it settled, and, through instinct, I found myself wanting to grunt back in response. My fear quickly evaporated; he sounded like my Dad when he had a pressing problem on his mind. <br />
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The gorilla meant no harm; somehow I was sure of it. The eyes of the creature were speaking of somewhere, of something else. It was but a few seconds that we held eyes, but in the lingering stillness, he held an intense and pure stare, powerful and understanding. In that instance with the world progressing with unstoppable continuance, you are given over to a sole emotion rarely felt; complete and utter respect. The stare transfixed me to the spot until he looked away. <br />
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There are under a thousand mountain gorillas left and they are all in East Africa. Only in the last century was it discovered that they are gentle and vegetarian. They share 97% of biological makeup with humans. They spend 30% of their day feeding, 30% moving and foraging for the remainder. They eat bamboo shoots, giant thistles and wild celery, all of which have water, allowing gorillas to survive without drinking. <br />
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A groups Silverback, the leader of the group, determines movement and defends the clan. He can pack a punch estimated at 8 times stronger than Muhammad Ali. They communicate through facial expressions and 2 dozen vocalizations. They are the largest primates in the world and weigh as much as 440 pounds. <br />
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Simply put, the gorillas are the most fascinating creatures I have ever seen. Our hour flew by too quickly; as the clan stopped taking notice of the strange visitors and continue on with life. The baby gorillas playfully practiced their handstands with limited success, which brought a chorus of laughter from the humans as they grunted and tried their luck again. A large female gently bowled me over as she decided that she wanted to sit in the place I was previously standing. The Silverback, obviously in his prime, found a wide open air to roll over, scratch, yawn, and pose with his hand on his chin, contemplating life’s mysteries. <br />
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The fate of the mountain gorilla is still uncertain. Human poverty is the greatest threat to these great creatures, as they live in areas which have some of the highest population densities and lowest adult life spans. This makes conservation a difficult prospect, as habitat loss, local civil unrest and poachers continually threaten their survival. <br />
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Founded by Dian Fossey in 1978, The Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund International is dedicated to gorilla conservation through daily protection, anti-poaching, research, education and helping the communities they work in. Thanks to organizations like this, the Virunga mountain gorilla populations have increased in the past two decades. To learn more about the organization and their work in the Congo and Rwanda, click<a href="http://gorillafund.org/Page.aspx?pid=233"> here</a>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-46310267188032178442010-07-21T07:13:00.000-07:002010-07-21T07:13:25.230-07:00Turning 24 in Rwanda (By the Numbers)<ul><li>Today, I turn <b>24 </b>years old. There are the same number of hours in the day as I have years of my life.</li>
</ul><ul><li>The average life expectancy in Rwanda is <b>40</b>. In <b>19</b> days, the Rwandan people will be heading to the polls in what I hope to be a peaceful election. </li>
</ul><ul><li>My Mother, the person I should be celebrating this day with, aptly pointed out I have been in Alberta once in the past <b>5</b> years during the day of my birth. Eep, sorry Ma! </li>
</ul><ul><li>I have <b>47</b> students in my class. We have, on average, <b>4 </b>hours of class a day. We have a midterm quiz on Friday, that has <b>25</b> questions; <b>8 </b>on the Central Nervous System, <b>9</b> on Diabetes and <b>8</b> on the Integument. I hope to not fail a student. I am younger than the vast majority of my students. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I have spent <b>103</b> days in Rwanda, there are <b>50</b> days left before a flight home beckons. </li>
</ul><ul><li>For the past <b>11 </b>days, for the first time in my life, I have not eaten meat. I don't know when the next time I will eat it. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I kissed a girl for the first time when I was <b>16</b>. She later broke it to me I wasn't her first kiss. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I'd like to think that I've participated in more light-saber fights than the average mortal; <b>4</b>. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I first sipped an alcoholic beverage when I was <b>5.</b> After cartwheeling down the stairs in dramatic fashion, it would be <b>11 </b>years before I would eye another one. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I've smoked <b>2</b> cigarettes in my life. After watching an autopsy being done on a smoker and analyzing his lungs, I decided<b> 2</b> would be all the cigarettes I will ever have. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I was hit from behind <b>4</b> times that I can remember in Minor Hockey. After the fourth time, I remember quitting the game I loved. In October, for the first time in <b>10</b> years, I plan to play out a full season. </li>
</ul><ul><li>There are<b> 4</b> nurses in my immediate family; they are the most caring people I know.</li>
</ul><ul><li>I am <b>13,894</b> kilometers away from my bed, a new record. </li>
</ul><ul><li>I earn approximately <b>$3000</b> a month less than I could make for doing the same job in Canada.You couldn't put a price on the experience I've gained here. </li>
</ul><ul><li>Wanting to do something exciting last weekend, I went to the <b>10th</b> most dangerous country on the planet for <b>4</b> hours this weekend. I don't ever wanted to return to the Congo. </li>
</ul><ul><li>This is the <b>19th</b> post on this blog. Usually, an entry takes anywhere from <b>4-10</b> hours from memory to finished post. </li>
</ul><ul><li> This entry was written in <b>1 </b>hour (birthday's aren't supposed to be spent in front of a computer). </li>
</ul>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-29623527331332413312010-07-14T01:52:00.000-07:002010-07-14T01:52:33.203-07:00The Kigali International Peace Marathon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4HRbkNXe8HdvkPuAK_BUJfIiX6tj_CewE8k5BcMgs-kJl8g2rW50fL-_1ImDKIXiNzmYwzF28Tbx2B3G_otA81f6Nql4B20e-xHZobxNPoMsByo8T8VM8pgeKHvPOQMYhm5xMx7AcG4/s1600/3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4HRbkNXe8HdvkPuAK_BUJfIiX6tj_CewE8k5BcMgs-kJl8g2rW50fL-_1ImDKIXiNzmYwzF28Tbx2B3G_otA81f6Nql4B20e-xHZobxNPoMsByo8T8VM8pgeKHvPOQMYhm5xMx7AcG4/s320/3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Any country that’s nicknamed “<i>Land of a Thousand Hills</i>” should have provided a clue in my mind, a warning, even just an inkling, as to what running a half-marathon in Rwanda would be like. The city of Kigali, which boasts an altitude of 1496 meters above sea level, should have also been a clear indicator of the how hard running 21 kilometers was going to be. <br />
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It didn't, and there I was, at the starting line of the 6th edition of the Kigali International Peace Marathon. <br />
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There was an eclectic group of individuals haphazardly gathered around the starting gate; a girl attired in black pants and a full-fledged hockey jersey, a man with plastic wings strapped to his back, young adults dressed in Converse high-top shoes. The start time of the race was delayed by 15... 30... 45 minutes, before the organizers decided to put on loud, popular club music. Sporadic dancing instantly began all around me, as I sat down to enjoy the spectacle and conserve my energy. <br />
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When the starting gun sounded, the supermarket around the corner proudly advertised the temperature as being 27 degrees, with the sun shyly hiding behind the clouds. It emerged after a short time and boiled for the rest of the run. <br />
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The most demoralizing, and incredible moment, was seeing the Kenyans. I stood by a group in warm up, with complete awe and admiration. My biceps were the equivalent of one of the man’s thighs. Ten minutes into the race, you could hear the elite marathoners coming; like a herd of animals in a stampede, pounding pavement with frantically circular wheel kicks in dogged pursuit of an arbitrary line 42 kilometers away. They flew by in a torrent of focus and adrenaline, jockeying for early positioning, running as if chased by some unseen force. I saw every muscle in their legs flexing and contracting as they moved, treating me to a real live anatomy class far better than any one I had in Nursing school. <br />
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The first half of the race was fun, almost easy, as the ten kilometers flew by. Somewhere around the 12 kilometers I began doubting myself, repeating a question over and over in my head, "<i>Why do humans run vast geometric distances</i>?" I had no answer for this. <br />
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The heat, with the unrelenting uphills of the last half of the race, destroyed me. The injuries I had sustained through the past month crept into play as the race entered it's last stages; from the sprained ankles from falling in potholes on a basketball court, a runners knee overuse injury that continually pulsed and nagged, and a delightful cold which left me sniffling and chilly in the thirty degree heat.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHWvR0uRjz8ZcvFy4imUDMJjp88Z7iMGyAa7e1VvF1CBgH1IdFdDTEkATqevolCpmozuCJOvLvcN_utE7WKHM3XI4jMqBYWd_BwV0Ig7s35irkBxDUxvO1riitHXnK8KzGVoAknGvCJYc/s1600/4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHWvR0uRjz8ZcvFy4imUDMJjp88Z7iMGyAa7e1VvF1CBgH1IdFdDTEkATqevolCpmozuCJOvLvcN_utE7WKHM3XI4jMqBYWd_BwV0Ig7s35irkBxDUxvO1riitHXnK8KzGVoAknGvCJYc/s320/4.JPG" width="217" /></a>I plowed through, using the doused water-sponges and bottled water breaks to rejuvenate and regroup, trying to motivate myself for a final push that didn't exist. It was too hard and too hot. The last four kilometers seemed like forty, as I entered the stadium to circle the track once before the finish line. I stamped down at the finish line, triumphant and defiant in a distance that simply was too much for me on that day. As I regrouped with Anthony, we watched numerous competitors cross the line and faint straightaway into the arms of waiting medics (including the guy with wings). <br />
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The race was an incredible experience, and finishing was a special bonus, but my most memorable moment came a month before the race on one long, unplanned training run.<br />
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The sun was setting, almost lazily, emitting the last of its warm rays for the night, winking as it prepared to bring light to another part of the globe. I began my ascent up a sharp, steep cobblestone street of a slum which carved and amazingly constructed itself on a jagged hillside. The fires of the slum could be seen, as mothers were busy boiling water and preparing food for the following morning.<br />
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Word spread quickly, almost telepathically, as I continued to stumble my way up the hill, to all neighborhood kids to run/jog/amble beside me on my quest for the top. Within moments, I was doubled over in laughter with the kids, lost in the absurdity of it all; I was lost in a slum as kids continued to come, numbering well over a dozen with the span of a minute. They circled my now slow jog with their dance-ramba-steps and high kicked, as I tried unsuccessfully to cartwheel and attempt some sort of dance, which left them in fits. After exhausting my Kinyarwandan vocabulary, I switched to English, huffing and puffing... "<i>you... don't (gulp)... have to... (haaaah) follow... me.This hill is... steeeeeep. "</i> None of the kids were out of breath when we reached the top, and a group of parents waited alongside a narrow path which led up to more houses on the steep slope. As the parents gathered their kids I waved to them and they all laughed, obviously witnessing my earlier dance attempt.<br />
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For its beauty and simplicity, the moment was perfect. Normally, I would feel self-conscious and uncomfortable in that neighborhood, almost ashamed of the divide that exists between me and those who live in the slum. That experience, that hill and those kids made me forget all of that. <br />
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I took one last look at the large, sloping, cobblestone hill, and wheeled around to return home. <i>That's why I run, </i>I thought. <i>For moments like that. </i><br />
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<span id="main" style="visibility: visible;"><span id="search" style="visibility: visible;"><i>"The real voyage of discovery</i> <i>consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.</i>" <i>Marcel Proust</i></span></span><br />
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</div>I remember the day, late last year, that we were asked to confirm our spot at our convocation ceremony that was to take place in early June 2010. I clicked the "<i>Will Attend</i>" option with hope, but something inside of me tingled with anticipation. Without any tangible explanation to explain it, I had a feeling that I was not going to be around for it.<br />
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At the same time, fate was dealing the cards to land me in Rwanda, far removed from the Edmonton celebration.<br />
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I am addicted to the world; the pulses, people, cities, cultures and general chaos that comprise our lot here on earth. It's taken me to the top of distant mountains, and dozens of meters under the sea. I've seen a small city struggle to overcome a devastating earthquake, while on the same trip watched as a thief struggled to keep me subdued while grabbing my wallet. I'm a proud survivor of multiple infamous 24 hour bus trips, have endured more travelers diarrhea than I should care to admit, and have emerged from it all with experiences, friends and memories I will keep for the rest of my life.<br />
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That being said, nothing is all sunshine and mangoes. By being here, I have missed out on things at home; Ultimate Frisbee season, weddings (<i>Congratulations Pablo and Theresa!</i>) BBQ's, beach parties, friends, family gatherings... heck, the short Canadian summer. Convocation is lumped in with this crowd, one of those things I wanted to be home for. <br />
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Thirteen thousand and three hundred kilometers away from where I sit (13,348 kilometers to be exact), my Nursing graduating class walked across the stage to shake hands with the higher-ups and collect degrees that we have poured our souls into for the past four years. I've idly replayed the moment hundreds of times in my head, hearing my name and walking across the stage clapping and fist-pumping the whole way, turning at the end of the line and sending a hearty "WooHoo" to my already embarrassed parents sitting in the stands.<br />
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Instead, the last time I would see my classmates before we all set off on our own adventures would be last December, at our graduation ceremony. <br />
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At that ceremony, Laura and I were nominated by our teacher to leave our class with an "uplifting message in these dark times" (meaning the current hiring freeze for nurses in Alberta). We decided to speak about happiness and entitled our talk, "Happiness and the Carrot." The premise was exceedingly simple; in Nursing school, we realized we were guilty of keeping happiness at bay, like someone would dangle a carrot in front of a rabbit.<br />
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We always had excuses for this. "<i>When I finish this class, then I will be let myself enjoy this</i>" became <i>"When I finish this year,"</i> which, upon nearing graduation became "<i>Well... maybe when I find a job.</i>" There never was a moment where we would let ourselves be truly happy, we were always busy looking for the next big thing. We then reached into the podium and extracted a bushel of large-stalked, earthy carrots to show to the crowd.<br />
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We had it all wrong, we argued. Being happy was something not to be rationed and controlled. Once you find yourself enjoying a single carrot, you found that it multiplied and grew. The speech ended symbolically with us biting into our carrots, encouraging our graduation class to not let happiness be an abstract, elusive dream. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWd9VZxokRra9_4nLy95ktXVxd0LWExrAZiTZW_mVgNfAcCCyUiQifqP9NydypSQ1TUQM7vOet5ufipasAblq4NAqthY2qtRBZAsuR-QTPdTt3mzHZ5s8aE-MrExJQ-PaQOo5rUccbMs/s1600/IMG_0809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWd9VZxokRra9_4nLy95ktXVxd0LWExrAZiTZW_mVgNfAcCCyUiQifqP9NydypSQ1TUQM7vOet5ufipasAblq4NAqthY2qtRBZAsuR-QTPdTt3mzHZ5s8aE-MrExJQ-PaQOo5rUccbMs/s320/IMG_0809.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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I thought back to the simple truth in that speech, that you have to take happiness whenever it presents itself as I glanced around at where life had led me; sitting in a crowded open-air courtyard in Nairobi, Kenya surrounded by my closest Canadian friends on the continent who were together for a brief reunion. I realized, with a little shock, that I didn't miss Convocation as much as I thought I would. <br />
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The waiter pulled up to the table with a fresh round of beers as I resigned myself to enjoy where I am and how it all turned out as I stood up to address the gang with a smile, <i>"Halfway across the world right now, my nursing class is convocating. This one's for them. Cheers!"</i><br />
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The clink of glasses was loud and hearty, a collision that sounded not unlike the crunching of a carrot. A sound I now associate with happiness. <br />
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Three Cheers and Congratulations Nursing Students.... We Did It :)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMu7cAp-czkoTTyl6FAb5HjLK_F3E_9I8-hp7ArcQvKL6tdXtVTFCzZT2WVsxnLnvPRgNd-JFntl1jx3o_mMiNi_NLBbAYFWvuo69lrN8yY3CHoup2SQO0WALFzs0nAbKIOnAwxxPcE0/s1600/IMG_0838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXMu7cAp-czkoTTyl6FAb5HjLK_F3E_9I8-hp7ArcQvKL6tdXtVTFCzZT2WVsxnLnvPRgNd-JFntl1jx3o_mMiNi_NLBbAYFWvuo69lrN8yY3CHoup2SQO0WALFzs0nAbKIOnAwxxPcE0/s320/IMG_0838.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-40188721016171927302010-07-01T05:31:00.000-07:002010-07-04T23:49:27.002-07:00Two Minute Tales<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks to a well-timed tip from a friend, I scurried to re-work two stories from South America for the Two Minute Tales Writing Contest. The stories were asked to, in five-hundred words or less, describe a travel story that changed you. Here are two of three of my entries.</span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"> <br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> A New Hope, A New Home</span></div><br />
Take a colonial power (England). Then take thousands of indentured slaves from their homes in India (my great great grandparents). Go to Africa and take thousands more. Plop them onto a piece of land, make them toil for decades, then breed racism between the two classes of slaves, subtract the colonial power and what do you get?<br />
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The Republic of Guyana, birthplace of my parents.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQCoSwwTG4e069SJGN5FviYU58nLLnkT-C_rKBpz2UmbMZkPHwiwqXLBV0_feMQ8BzjAeXQgd-me5hgVWoiO-_goZTwifTR9Nj1_IVHhPqMb52XItY-CeEqVUY9pNpTb5d1-p1LmJhyphenhyphenp8/s1600/4975_118451875897_510640897_2858857_46964_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQCoSwwTG4e069SJGN5FviYU58nLLnkT-C_rKBpz2UmbMZkPHwiwqXLBV0_feMQ8BzjAeXQgd-me5hgVWoiO-_goZTwifTR9Nj1_IVHhPqMb52XItY-CeEqVUY9pNpTb5d1-p1LmJhyphenhyphenp8/s320/4975_118451875897_510640897_2858857_46964_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh hey Dad, what you got there? Dad?? Dad??? DAD???</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Despite the warnings from the Canadian Government that ¨travel to Guyana is not advised due to safety concerns,¨my brother, father and I found ourselves landing on a narrow strip of concrete that constituted an airstrip in Georgetown, Guyana.<br />
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Before this trip, Guyana was simply a place on a map where I could tell people my parents were from.<br />
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My family in Guyana lives in poverty. That is according to Western standards, anyways. At first, I found it difficult to completely comprehend. But my family was not despairing, or worried about what they did not have. Life was how it always was, and they lived it differently.<br />
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It is a culture of giving. I have never drank so much delicious rum, ate so many varying types of curries (sometimes out of a leaf) and felt so much love from strangers who my father told us were family.<br />
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We spent long nights on the porch of the house of my great grandfather listening to Dad tell tales of his childhood, while swatting mosquitoes and sipping sugar cane juice. We took walks along the sea-wall, where he and his friends used to play cricket when the tide was out and visited the trenches where they used to bathe, fish and run from anacondas and alligators.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiBA5SFiWtiFliXD3Rs_b80S1zF7AOEHyOaB92YEysDU4PEXInazNq1rN75rtkZXkecFxpHFP9heTeJmKh-NRgE7b9tBCUj65DcKotgYeXxG3Ysgm_od24VnaUG2wvvOetede18cb-vaI/s1600/4975_118451920897_510640897_2858865_6083723_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiBA5SFiWtiFliXD3Rs_b80S1zF7AOEHyOaB92YEysDU4PEXInazNq1rN75rtkZXkecFxpHFP9heTeJmKh-NRgE7b9tBCUj65DcKotgYeXxG3Ysgm_od24VnaUG2wvvOetede18cb-vaI/s320/4975_118451920897_510640897_2858865_6083723_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My Dad recounted how before the British gave Guyana its independence, they instigated hate between the Indian and African people who were previously in harmony with each other. Villages segregated themselves according to color, and to venture through the other races village could mean death. Today, that segregation still occurs with all-Black or all-Brown schools, and the two major political parties being composed mainly of persons from one color.<br />
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Guyana is a land untouched by foreign investment, tourism and heck, even a decent road to another country. Chock full of mosquitoes, jungle, fruits I will never be able to pronounce, and family I may never see again, it is largely an entity in itself.<br />
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To me, its no longer just a place on a map.To me, its both the beauty of the people and the problems of the nation give it the unique flavor that is Guyana.<br />
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To me, it´s a second home.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lions, Tigers and Tim </span></div><br />
¨<span style="font-style: italic;">Tim is dying</span>,¨ she said, making my fear a reality.<br />
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Tim, a dark brown Wooley Monkey, was rescued from a life of chained horror, forced to sit and be ridiculed by paying patrons at an Ecuadorian circus. His stark, sullen brown eyes pleaded with me as he reached his small furry, black hand through his cage to grasp onto my trembling finger.<br />
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¨<i>But I could... we could...</i>¨I stuttered, choking back tears, quieting as I held his cold hand.<br />
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¨<i>Welcome to my world,</i>¨ the coordinator continued, with almost no emotion in her voice.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBqW6r3iAiz-GmwHfTDCIYuZOkrX4nDnkZP3DKpv3Gfc77j9C0lFyX1rFGngias7ScE5bXUh7pt0u9MCH77XSkEJixUn-gubNbba80tFXdxXFI2GU0aURVlST2s9Pm1bMnmYWe3sQMghY/s1600/4975_118452015897_510640897_2858883_181340_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBqW6r3iAiz-GmwHfTDCIYuZOkrX4nDnkZP3DKpv3Gfc77j9C0lFyX1rFGngias7ScE5bXUh7pt0u9MCH77XSkEJixUn-gubNbba80tFXdxXFI2GU0aURVlST2s9Pm1bMnmYWe3sQMghY/s320/4975_118452015897_510640897_2858883_181340_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two years later, I still think about Tim. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>That world, and my world for the past three weeks, was the Santa Martha Animal Rescue Centre in the centre of Ecuador. I became a volunteer with a host of others from around the world, joining an eclectic family that consisted of both humans and wild animals. From heartbreaking to backbreaking (and outright dangerous) work, we learned, laughed, loved and lost.<br />
<br />
The first moments at the centre seemed numbing, as the stories of the animals were told. There was a hundred year old Galapagos Turtle whose owner tried to install cup holders in his shell, permanently disfiguring him. We had lions that were rescued from a circus, where patrons were allowed to poke, scream and feed junk food to them. There were suicidal parrots that looked as if they had been through a wash and rinse cycle, losing their brilliant colors due to malnutrition. A house raised Puma was given to us by a family because she was becoming interested in hunting children (go figure). Still others were blinded by cigarettes, de-winged for house keeping sake, or painfully de-clawed for easier ´handling.´<br />
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Beyond the stories lied a simple lesson. Despite the cruelty of humanity, the capacity for the animal spirit to give and share affection, human affection, was incomprehensible. For some, it seemed effortless how they could simply forgive and forget. How many times do we hold a grudge for something that pales in comparison to what has happened to these creatures?<br />
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After hearing all of the animals’ stories, one of the volunteers stated that ¨sometimes it would be easier to be ignorant. To not know the stories of the animals and more horribly, not care.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwY7eL73M0mHcewHaNRokYkLMmIucLW2TC-ZFAOlUQ9AkT79CHMKoIqqwC7N5L5nso7XQNBazWD_cYEVIGj4c8P28hyxTTgxlFdFk-8mjkUNAdFDQRYEbwliwF6pPQy7KvuXkURSp_mNk/s1600/4975_118452070897_510640897_2858892_353608_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwY7eL73M0mHcewHaNRokYkLMmIucLW2TC-ZFAOlUQ9AkT79CHMKoIqqwC7N5L5nso7XQNBazWD_cYEVIGj4c8P28hyxTTgxlFdFk-8mjkUNAdFDQRYEbwliwF6pPQy7KvuXkURSp_mNk/s320/4975_118452070897_510640897_2858892_353608_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bribe from the police was too much for us to release this Andean bear. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
What I learned here is that the guilt of being aware of what humanity has or is doing should not be a burden that we carry on our shoulders. One only need to look at the Ecuadorian couple who started this centre for proof of that. They believed in animal rights, and because of their concern, have saved hundreds of animals. It is one small story of hope.<br />
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The process of learning these things about the world should not discourage us. It should serve to strengthen our resolve to change.<br />
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To make what happened yesterday not happen tomorrow.<br />
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Because beyond the confines of this rescue center, lies an Amazon jungle with millions of animals facing the threat of possible extinction. Millions of stories like Tim’s, whose lives hang in the balance of humanity.<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-32152936763852765752010-06-26T06:35:00.000-07:002010-06-26T06:35:48.711-07:008 Weeks, 8 Moments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVBaWIzVXk-OedIhRhfcq4brfJKjMnzOD2nLX4yHZ2LX3KInMwvfxAMuCkvw4IEdhv1y8MakFK0pofg8EMYq9p79NZXSroO-_DVNeGTBHn9PwjQNY1NcnwPfGu9qW3Zx0R9QrV0Ojswjk/s1600/1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVBaWIzVXk-OedIhRhfcq4brfJKjMnzOD2nLX4yHZ2LX3KInMwvfxAMuCkvw4IEdhv1y8MakFK0pofg8EMYq9p79NZXSroO-_DVNeGTBHn9PwjQNY1NcnwPfGu9qW3Zx0R9QrV0Ojswjk/s400/1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><i>I fell asleep thinking that I </i><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"> <i> would </i><i>wake up to become the man</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> someday I knew I had to be. </i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-91680803977257991522010-06-06T23:10:00.000-07:002010-06-06T23:10:14.625-07:00Who We Were (Who We Are)The blistering, blinding African sun was too hot today, giving the horizon a shimmering, glossy texture, making me question if it was even real at all. I sought shelter at a corner store and emerged with a large, ice-cold bottle of water in hand. Sitting in front of me was the vehicle of my youth. I circled it twice, checking to see if it was a mirage, then got lost in a story from my past; a story which directly relates to the present. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4yGAU9B0Ft3v-o1WKFn7GlRhZSrginz-Zl5vnwYAZYJ8A_DeRuXm2IUQh1YbQlqHS4G5KG86j99n2H1N7Tfskcy9M0g_34_wgh2NvsqOmkoyEqSc7YhQ6MkqJ_KeBGU_zLW0qEKEq3nY/s1600/meandvan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4yGAU9B0Ft3v-o1WKFn7GlRhZSrginz-Zl5vnwYAZYJ8A_DeRuXm2IUQh1YbQlqHS4G5KG86j99n2H1N7Tfskcy9M0g_34_wgh2NvsqOmkoyEqSc7YhQ6MkqJ_KeBGU_zLW0qEKEq3nY/s320/meandvan.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Van! IT'S THE VAN!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The morning we left was always a crazy, disorganized half-conscious stumble to the van, which was already laden down with supplies and idling in the driveway. With the stars trading places with the purple and pink acoustics of the Alberta prairie sky, we would be off. A modern-day Oregon Trail, I used to think. Six of us (four kids) piled into a variety of vehicles over the years, but it was the Toyota Previa, the ‘eggvan,’ that became the legendary mode of travel for our family. <br />
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That van, and those trips helped define our family. They helped define me. Mom and Dad ingeniously put the two rowed backseats flat and covered them with blankets effectively converting the van into a hotel, wrestling mat, card playing table and probably the most conducive environment in which to moon fellow vehicles (“<i>Dad…. Angie’s mooning cars again</i>”). I never really knew where we were going, as a kid that’s not what mattered. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure that even Mom and Dad knew the route, destination or duration of the trip, but regardless, we went without fail every summer.<br />
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The van was the viewfinder for the world, using our short two month vacation from school to escape Ponoka, Alberta. The landscape outside the van was a kaleidoscope of North America, changing frames with each sunrise. From the barren plains of blue sky Saskatchewan to the busy urban sprawl of Toronto, or the shining of the crystal clear Lake Havasu, we found the world unfolding into a larger… much larger place than our small hometown. <br />
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The van was our courthouse; where law, order and pee-breaks would be decided by the parent who was not behind the wheel. I vaguely remember the occasional threat of, “<i>That’s it, we are pulling over. You are walking home.</i>” Urine-bottles were needed for the weak of bladder and the butt end of many kid jokes (<i>“Hey Rish, want some apple juice?</i>”). <br />
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The van brought culture in music; from my parents Bollywood cassette tapes which would always make me cringe, to the always popular techno-house dance beats of Chris Shepard’s Pirate Radio (<i>I know what I want, and I want it now. I want you, cuz I’m Mr. Vain.</i>)<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSTXxx3VxxoDrr_bg0gbUxAr8m6-g-pZdxf70fROC41zpg1kS2Bf-D7_yNWrN7eaIRoSAytIEwlnRfLURHEOxafmaJsY0PdEnRZlga8XbIV7zVf0C-4aDv_yQBCbZPtWWiLeN-JBWZZ5U/s1600/van.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSTXxx3VxxoDrr_bg0gbUxAr8m6-g-pZdxf70fROC41zpg1kS2Bf-D7_yNWrN7eaIRoSAytIEwlnRfLURHEOxafmaJsY0PdEnRZlga8XbIV7zVf0C-4aDv_yQBCbZPtWWiLeN-JBWZZ5U/s320/van.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>As the hours slowly stretched into days, the van became our jailhouse. We would invent games to pass the hours, such as Hand Freeze; where we would see who could hold their hand out of the barely opening back windows longest in times of rain or hail (<i>ow-ow-OW</i>!). Another famous game growing up was Make Rishi Cry. There was no skill, or pleasure, or really effort in this game, but we played it anyways. In fact, I don’t think anyone, except Angie, took much pleasure in this game, but it passed time nonetheless. To this day, we still don’t know why he cried so much, but we’re quite glad he grew out of that phase (love, Rish, love). <br />
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The van was our glue. We crammed one-on-top of each other for days on end, and bonded as a family. We dealt with sibling disputes, lengthy detours (<i>We missed the sign… 150 kilometers ago</i>), an increasingly fish-smelling van, suffocating hot days, difficult border crossings and the occasional car accident, as one. Whenever a problem presented itself, we would simply shrug our shoulders, and pile back into the vehicle. That, after all, was all we could do. We roughed it, only rarely opting to stop at motels (by no means luxury), usually preferring gas station bathrooms as our sink-shower and tooth brushing centre. <br />
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Our van was love. One cloudy day in Wawa, Mom decided to neglect the road and utter the now infamous line still used with incredibly hilarity today, “<i>Look at those pretty cottages</i>.” Promptly, we smashed into the lineup of cars which had stopped for construction. The seats were down bed-style and I was sitting up in the middle row, so the accident started my temporary experiment with flying. Dad was lying closest to the front captain seats, and protectively, instinctively barred his strong, loving arm across the seats and stopped me cold on my journey mid-flight, as if I weighed nothing more than a feather. In that moment, I recognized how deep a father’s love is as he said, without saying anything,<br />
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“<i>I’ve got you son. You are safe here.” </i><br />
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From these trips, something changed in the world I knew. I developed a passion for the road, for traveling, for adventure, for stories. Writing this entry from a dark computer lab in Kigali, Rwanda, I cannot help but fight the sneaking suspicion that those impromptu summer journeys played a role in getting me here. <br />
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The years passed and times changed. The kids grew up and moved on to school and work in the big City while the van, unused and unappreciated, was sold. There are no more summer vacations and no big, blue van to pile into and depart across the continent in. <br />
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Our family, however, remains together; getting along more like close friends than family. That van changed everything growing up, forcing us to spend time in a way we never would at home. We bonded and grew up but still share a closeness I now realize is rare in today’s world. In a way, we’ve always been traveling the same road together. <br />
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In a way, I don’t think we ever got out of that van.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAlCKbOOhtVEtBV7wxWjmrb5QTJ6GqD4kY99ovesDDTvVMVFFQ1RxkYaAzRsiOdT27I3Kghltuf7C0aF7yh99UzZDJ3ALNJ41M1gsRiIZSlpzsZ04tpZbr_U6NpBeQKAs2gaXz1V8TXAc/s1600/4975_118433900897_510640897_2858522_4144881_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAlCKbOOhtVEtBV7wxWjmrb5QTJ6GqD4kY99ovesDDTvVMVFFQ1RxkYaAzRsiOdT27I3Kghltuf7C0aF7yh99UzZDJ3ALNJ41M1gsRiIZSlpzsZ04tpZbr_U6NpBeQKAs2gaXz1V8TXAc/s320/4975_118433900897_510640897_2858522_4144881_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Love, Just Love. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-64450375278730665992010-06-03T23:07:00.000-07:002010-06-03T23:07:23.373-07:00'Mange' Like a RwandanAnyone who says they came to Rwanda for the food is a liar. Shame on you. Variety is the spice of life, however neither variety nor spice have ever graced this little countries' dietary imagination. The standard Western three meal fare of breakfast, lunch and supper are replaced with the combination of ‘tea’ and ‘buffet.’ Eating after dark, as evidenced by the availability of food past 3pm, is an unspoken taboo. Rwandans are slender people, obviously accustomed to a diet with substantially less food than Canadians. <br />
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<i><b>Tea</b></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVW_tPus62UqTCvDOaUOSTWQmQsB7ddNaPOp9BCYdlk7kewxPJUMg8o4qIJLh-XZOTCjGXnB_Dkwq9_WbfGzN7TdpBD1oJWyCsgsRleYnbgiutbz9CiPR3VN7bBLNdGN4OQTe1kwgE5OA/s1600/IMG_9473.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVW_tPus62UqTCvDOaUOSTWQmQsB7ddNaPOp9BCYdlk7kewxPJUMg8o4qIJLh-XZOTCjGXnB_Dkwq9_WbfGzN7TdpBD1oJWyCsgsRleYnbgiutbz9CiPR3VN7bBLNdGN4OQTe1kwgE5OA/s320/IMG_9473.jpg" width="213" /></a>9:30 am is the time I live for. Starting work at 8:00am on an empty stomach leads to an unproductive morning and a longing…wanting…needing of tea. All staff at the Institute leave whatever post they are occupying at the time (I stopped my own class 40 minutes early solely for the sacred nature of the event), and head to the meal tent, a giant-circus style structure for morning tea. I rush past the ambling ones ravenously, much like Fred Flinstone leaves work at the quitting whistle. <br />
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A massive container of African Tea awaits for all to ask the tongue-in-cheek question; Would you like some tea with your milk? Essentially, its steaming milk spiced with ginger and nutmeg and usually served with one (<i>no, really that’s enough</i>), two (<i>this is my effort at ‘blending’ in</i>), three (<i>why does my heart hurt so much?</i>), four (<i>really now, that’s just not necessary</i>) overflowing teaspoons of fresh, brown sugar. For most, this is enough for morning sustenance.<br />
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I learned early on that there is enough tea for everyone, so my energies immediately divert to the Golden Tombola; the Holy Grail… the Food Tray. If you get there late, there is a queue, where all former allies and notions of respect for your fellow colleagues get thrown out the window as an unspoken survival-of-the-pushiest contest exists for the breakfast goods. Like traders at Wall Street, you stand back and yell, hoping your order gets heard among the crowd. Waiting for you are 5 items; Boiled Eggs, Chappati’s (flour cooked on a flat pan on an oven with oil), Sambousa (the equivalent of a greasy Indian Samousa stuffed with meat), Spring Rolls (a cylindrical, rolled and deep-fried morsel of goodness packed with beef (?) and an occasional pea, justifying the chef to use the word ‘spring’ in the title). There is also a deep-fried ball of flour (mandwai), but its taste is akin to what you would expect from un-spiced and un-sweetened flour, so I avoid it. I purchase one of each of the desired items (for a total of 450 Rwandan Francs; $0.79 CDN), and make my way to the table with my head down, careful not to make eye-contact with anyone. I learned that my share is far more than the local custom suggests and renders the occasional “<i>Is that ALL for you???</i>” quirk from neighboring tables. Breakfast is served. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBfhSkr8hPIc0uIqyvnpxYM6STVOPVcgVhigotgO8YN0IHjOi6xN5uEOO-TUqCXvWQTXLg9PjArkWcQ5jliEbJ7hW8ExMmip3rUZ-pbnrXSsHC_X1bhVXKRbH0VCGSwpEiHEbUC3hV7o/s1600/IMG_9485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBfhSkr8hPIc0uIqyvnpxYM6STVOPVcgVhigotgO8YN0IHjOi6xN5uEOO-TUqCXvWQTXLg9PjArkWcQ5jliEbJ7hW8ExMmip3rUZ-pbnrXSsHC_X1bhVXKRbH0VCGSwpEiHEbUC3hV7o/s320/IMG_9485.jpg" width="213" /></a><i><b>Buffet</b></i><br />
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Lunch provides a different experience; leaving connoisseurs of the event to ask, “<i>Is that ALL for you???</i>” meaning you simply haven’t taken enough. I’ve given up trying to please everyone, it’s not possible. Apparently someone in Rwanda decided that an informal, impromptu, un-judged eating contest should exist at buffet, everyone silently competing for an unknown prize. It is a testament to humanity how such skinny individuals can fit so much food into their stomachs at one sitting. <br />
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For 1000 RWF ($1.75 CDN), the pride of Rwandan cuisine is presented to you in the form of 8 metallic, steaming trays of food set-up in a linear sequence. If there was a Carbs-Only Diet, this would be the model example of it. The locals and ex-pats alike have a variety of colorful and appropriate nick-names to describe the Lunch Buffet experience; with Volcano and Network Down (meaning your cell phone doesn’t receive reception around the pile of food) topping the list as personal favorites. Grab a plate, stand an inch behind the person in front of you (or someone will gladly fill the space) and prepare to be awed. <br />
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Tray 1: Rice. Plain, or, if feeling ambitious, the cook adds the equivalent of ¼ of a carrot to the massive tray, in little chunks (for style points, of course). <br />
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Tray 2: Stewed Bananas with Onions in Red Sauce (a fan-favorite).<br />
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Tray 3: French Fries (Large Chunks, comes with EVERY meal in Rwanda)<br />
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Tray 4: ‘African Cake’ (Grey, dry potato gush)<br />
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Tray 5: Spinach or Casava (Vegetables? Yes, Please!)<br />
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Tray 6: Kidney Beans (Protein)<br />
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Tray 7: Meat (Beef maybe? Two very chewy small-chunks are plopped on the plate by the host)<br />
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Tray 8: Vegetable Stew (This reddish, lava-like sauce is poured directly on top of the mountain of the food and gushes down the sides, giving the food a “Volcano” like activity.) <br />
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When you sit down at the table you wish everyone a good meal by saying, “<i>Mujo Huergway</i>,” which directly translates to “<i>Chew Well</i>.” <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy5rJxu70ffeewrnndbk5sQtREWlfnOI1qFfuK85Ic5aX479AzxjmNYsqiMCF1_LmWAu6qX9-j2sIhEUNGn-RIGWMkvmuDhDXQ_JdEwB5GVtXbCHO5n7Z_mzm9CK6xDmar4U1UXjXObnM/s1600/IMG_9491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy5rJxu70ffeewrnndbk5sQtREWlfnOI1qFfuK85Ic5aX479AzxjmNYsqiMCF1_LmWAu6qX9-j2sIhEUNGn-RIGWMkvmuDhDXQ_JdEwB5GVtXbCHO5n7Z_mzm9CK6xDmar4U1UXjXObnM/s320/IMG_9491.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><b><i>Bonus Meal (also known as Supper)</i></b><br />
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Anthony and I usually stare at each other, about an hour after the sun goes down, and ask the question that’s on both of our minds, “<i>Are we going to eat tonight</i>?” If the answer is yes, we roam the streets of Nyamirambo, or, if we are really ambitious, take a Moto downtown for a hearty fare. You have to work for this meal. <br />
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India has chana masala and chicken curry, Germany has bratwurst and sauerkraut, while Mexico claims burrito’s and quesadillas as their culinary delights. Rwanda, on the other hand, has the brochette.<br />
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Man kills meat. Man makes fire. Man cooks meat. Game, Set, Match. Skewed meat (goat, beef, or fish) is cut into medium-sized chunks, separated by square-pieces of onions and sequestered on a stick, which is promptly charbroiled (well, well, well done) over a fire. The product is a Brochette which is best served with French Fries, a salad, a grilled banana and a large, cold Mutzig. The whole finale costs a whopping 2000 RWF ($3.50 CDN), and apart from the hair you can find from inspecting the meat (now I claim ignorance and simply not look for it), it is a delightful, but time-consuming way to end the food experience for the day. <br />
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Eat, Sleep and Repeat, if you must.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-69575900556765675282010-06-01T03:46:00.000-07:002010-06-01T03:46:52.463-07:00Market ThisTo enter the market in Nyamirambo, you need to steel yourself. You will be heckled from all corners, harassed to purchase unnecessary trinkets, ripped off on the things you will buy and stared at by everyone. If you get nervous in crowds, are adverse to random shouts in your direction or simply don’t believe that vegetables are necessary for six months, it’s best to steer clear.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCzdSsZd30nPRtfdC_V2r-f7qVKioUQP_llImdkzkn5EE7rmXKwklgIJleWoMIClO_P7FAKBgyYt7NJq3GGw94vcmQo23lVCfrmEeL_0wfdRQVQ6Iyx84eaN3aF-nK8-0HqlQyxl05c4/s1600/IMG_9114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCzdSsZd30nPRtfdC_V2r-f7qVKioUQP_llImdkzkn5EE7rmXKwklgIJleWoMIClO_P7FAKBgyYt7NJq3GGw94vcmQo23lVCfrmEeL_0wfdRQVQ6Iyx84eaN3aF-nK8-0HqlQyxl05c4/s320/IMG_9114.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My New Wallet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The market is 3 blocks away from our home and is the fourth biggest of its kind in Kigali. The outer-market, a narrow steep red path that leads down into the main square is lined with unofficial sellers; hawking fruits and vegetables from the baskets lying delicately at their weathered bare-feet. Young men weld noisily at a metal door, blue and white-hot sparks catapulting and arching semi-circles in the sky like fireworks, trying to fashion a replacement part for an upturned Moto in the driveway. Blood-stained apron donning butchers emerge grimly from their darkened caverns, squinting into the bright African sun, announcing their latest conquest, while the local MTN guys attempt to convince passerby’s they need to make a phone call. By the time you cross through the threshold of iron gates that marks the start of the market, hopping the terribly placed three foot ditch, you are already spent.<br />
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However, this is where it begins. The innocent square design disguises the inner-workings and maze-like configuration of the venue. With more entrances and exits than Medusa has arms, one wrong turn can land you in one of the darkest alleys, where the light of day has yet to grace.<br />
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Today, I braved the market and felt as uncomfortable as a Gazelle at a Lion’s party. After three mentally-preparing revolutions of the perimeter, I gave myself a pep-talk and headed in. Young men scrub heaped mountains of shoes donated from Europe and North America, transforming them into the new-looking relics they once were (an incredible display of recycling) while other stalls specialize in baby clothes, dish cloths, antique radios and sewing machines. After ten minutes wandering through the maze, I was stopped abruptly by the goods at the table in front of me.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJBtwqMqAXjA7fwqiyy1CLGoYafzOIrOXz_S1NpmMLT7Esz1CZjC0O90UgW2x0OowYApBT5loaEY6z8dR0xRCmhhn8lF4CieGk3z5Emp9Mk86mNeCqoXjX7JrJBtdCnJPArUc25m0uOs/s1600/IMG_9116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJBtwqMqAXjA7fwqiyy1CLGoYafzOIrOXz_S1NpmMLT7Esz1CZjC0O90UgW2x0OowYApBT5loaEY6z8dR0xRCmhhn8lF4CieGk3z5Emp9Mk86mNeCqoXjX7JrJBtdCnJPArUc25m0uOs/s320/IMG_9116.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I no longer pay with money, just a smile.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Hanging above me on two hangers were two Edmonton Oilers jerseys, one a Special Edition Breast-Cancer Pink Jersey. I fingered the mesh material and quickly put it to my nose without hesitation, searching… hoping… wishing for that reminder of home in the form of sweet, rank hockey sweat. Instead, it had the faint aroma of avocado. I searched for the appropriate merchant, and asked if I could take a picture.<br />
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“O ya,” she responded. In Kinyarwandan, this means a definite “No.” I appraised the old lady for a second with pleading eyes, dressed in a traditional, beautiful yellow and sky-blue African dress and headpiece.<br />
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“Okay,” I responded in plain English, “We finished last in the league, I understand. I’m embarrassed too. It was a terrible, terrible season. Next season, though, we will be better. Don't lose faith... So what do you say… Please, just one photo?”<br />
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“O ya,” she repeated, shaking her head at my indecipherable monologue. She must be a bandwagon fan.<br />
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To be fair, the women in the market have never tried to overcharge me. In fact, it seems like such an undercharge. Once, when I had forgotten a hundred francs at a table, mere pennies, the seller rose from her chair and followed me, tapping my shoulder and placing it delicately in my palm with an incredibly gentle motion. They run an honest business, at an honest price, regardless of where you come from. My respect for them is boundless; toiling day in and day out cramped into wooden stilt structures competing with dozens of others for their livelihood. I purchased an avocado, papaya, bushel of bananas and host of vegetables (tomatoes, onions, garlic, green peppers and green beans) for 1500 RWF ($2.60 CDN) and ambled away from the overpowering smell of the fruit section.<br />
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I wandered an alley-way of stalls, no longer reserved in my actions as I began bonding with the merchants, inspecting their wares and making friends. I wouldn’t be taken for a fool with the prices, but I wouldn’t low-ball them. In that, we created an environment of friendship and respect. I left the market, thirty minutes later, with a few new epic purchases, a result of a merchant and I digging through his treasure trove of goods, while laughing about the randomness and absurdity of some of the items (what do you mean that nail clipper has a flashlight?).<br />
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As I walked away, I realized that like most things that are worth their due, you have to make yourself vulnerable and submit to the Nyamirambo market before you can begin to understand it. <br />
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Oh, will you look at the time? Gotta run.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRlUPY0YTj7dvQVTnkqfr5sxELXgcjHQeJd5NKOArdmI9SGjfVeP1d-O2LaaJJ01QjkpbR7ZLT2bh6bnuQybWxypUwdO6lHdiBTzIKxTbS411azqd2HU2XOCXewsnos3YnWRr4tIamWSs/s1600/IMG_9118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRlUPY0YTj7dvQVTnkqfr5sxELXgcjHQeJd5NKOArdmI9SGjfVeP1d-O2LaaJJ01QjkpbR7ZLT2bh6bnuQybWxypUwdO6lHdiBTzIKxTbS411azqd2HU2XOCXewsnos3YnWRr4tIamWSs/s320/IMG_9118.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-83860774298758131242010-05-24T03:12:00.001-07:002010-06-19T06:46:49.242-07:00Starting From Scratch<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Starting From Scratch: The Long Road to Rebuilding Health Care in Rwanda</b></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><b>KIGALI, RWANDA</b> <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">By Ravi Jaipaul</span><br />
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How does a country rebuild an entire health care system? In April of 1994, the Rwandan Genocide spared none in a fanatical pursuit of racial purity. Entire hospitals; including Doctors, nurses and patients were killed or driven out of the country in 100 days of madness. When peace resumed, the country was left, among other deficits, without qualified health care workers. <br />
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Compounded by growing concerns of post-traumatic stress disorder, malaria and HIV/AIDS as well as reconstructing a nation decimated by war, the country was slow in addressing the concerns of health. Schools and training centers began the process of providing short-term, low-trained and overworked replacements to put a temporary band-aid on the issue. These training centers led to an undereducated and largely inefficient workforce, unable to provide the care the country needed. <br />
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Today, sixteen years later, it is easy to dismiss the Rwandan system as still being in disrepair. A World Health Organization report states that Rwanda does not have the minimum health workforce required. Estimates suggest that there are only 400 Doctors and 3,600 nurses and midwives for the largely rural population of nine million in Rwanda. Alberta and British Columbia, in comparison, share a similar population with Rwanda and have over 13,000 Doctors alone. <br />
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Infant mortality in the country remains incredibly high, as rural hospitals are crippled from the lack of resources needed to perform life saving operations and interventions. Corruption in administration continues to plague the health community, with regular investigations and firings occurring based on the grounds of financial mismanagement. <br />
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However, progress has been made on many fronts. In the national budget, health has increased to 12%, up from 4.2% in 1996. Millions of dollars in international aid is earmarked each year for global initiatives, such as eliminating malaria and prevention of HIV/AIDS. This has led to a promise of increased salaries for nurses in Rwanda; in hopes to combat the ‘brain-drain’ that continually sees professionals leave for more prosperous opportunities elsewhere. There is also a drive to use innovation to solve the accessibility issues for rural patients. Last month, the Minister of Health pledged 2500 mobile phones to Community Based Health Workers, hoping to connect patients, health care workers and communication of care through technology.<br />
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In 1996, the government introduced “Vision 2020,” a plan which aims to improve human resources for health professionals, restructure and prioritize the health budget and improve on current health statistics. As a result, 50 inadequate training centers were closed down and the Kigali Health Institute was created to train nurses and technicians for the health center in a centralized, standardized post-secondary setting.<br />
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Welcomed into the role of Nursing Lecturer at the Institute, I have first-hand witnessed the successes and struggles that exist within the educational and health care system. A lack of local staff and under-funding continue to hamper the ambitious developments of the Institute. With the new mandate in Rwanda for all institutions to teach in English, the students are struggling to master a new language, leaving a difficult language barrier for teachers to bridge. The new development of a four year Nursing program is still in it’s infancy, requiring more time to be recognized by the government as an official program and designation. At the same, Rwanda’s first Nursing degree students graduate this November, lending hopes to starting the first Masters in Nursing program next year. This would be an opportunity to retain locally trained and taught professionals. <br />
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Despite the enormous complexity that exists in reconstructing a health care system from almost nothing, there is a determination and drive by the health professionals in the country to improve the system in Rwanda. This drive, coupled with government and international initiatives has led to new hope for universal and qualified health care for all Rwandans. <br />
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<i>Ravi Jaipaul is a University of Alberta Graduate on a six month internship in Rwanda teaching at the Kigali Health Institute through a partnership with Saint Francis Xavier University, the Coady Institute and the Canadian International Development Agency.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-9668560071693322812010-05-21T00:17:00.000-07:002010-05-21T00:17:46.433-07:00Two Hours TrafficMovement is the most dangerous part of my day. It is also the most exhilarating. Often, we take the experience of going somewhere for granted, hopping into our cars or getting on the bus with nary a thought as to the beauty that exists in the act. Beautiful in the fact that there are rules, laws and order. It’s easy to take movement for granted, until you are forced to engage yourself in the infrastructure of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Rwanda</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt36Kc8wSi1E5G_LrB_m9Yfmy6IRTi4S4Xq-fnLTvx7qKDazODHfORrgENXWeidbMpvoPp4N-3oB8gUEo6FKox6WNcsgagilhcHoGtitZLTlutgVfBQvn4Ej01UpFq4epRmeomL_arO4A/s1600/IMG_9055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt36Kc8wSi1E5G_LrB_m9Yfmy6IRTi4S4Xq-fnLTvx7qKDazODHfORrgENXWeidbMpvoPp4N-3oB8gUEo6FKox6WNcsgagilhcHoGtitZLTlutgVfBQvn4Ej01UpFq4epRmeomL_arO4A/s320/IMG_9055.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Kanye-West Mobile</td></tr>
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The people’s choice for transport is the Matutu, a converted mini-van with added benches for increased human capacity. To add interest to your day, people watch or feel a little more a part of Africa, I hop a Matutu. African Mama’s load into the bus, chattering and laughing with animated conversation while balancing their young ones on their laps or over their shoulders. Professors and students cram in side by side and exchange formal pleasantries. Clubbing girls, adorned with big sunglasses and large amounts of chewing gum apathetically enter and mumble for the driver to turn the music up. Fares are handled by the Conductor, who carries a wad of bills and hops out at random, unmarked bus stops or street corners, enticing passengers through use of a gentle shoving, to choose THIS minibus, as opposed to the dozens of others. Granted, there are subtle differences, if one is picky. Those with a flair for the artistic have transformed their caverns of steel and rust as moving tributes to favorite T.V. shows, Rap Artists and Sports Teams; from Kanye West and Sean Paul to Manchester United and Prison Break. Costing a pittance (180 RWF, $0.30) for a lengthy twenty minute ride downtown (it’s stops ever 1-5 meters for more passengers), the Matutu is the economical and integrated way to move around Kigali. </div><div class="Body"><br />
</div><div class="Body"><div style="text-align: left;"></div>I never fully understood the allure of motorcycles until I first sat on a Moto-Taxi. Like farming and tending your crops connects you to the land, riding one of these Japanese Mini-Bikes connects you to the thrill of movement. You feel the repercussions of speed; as air whistles through your clothes during the jerky accelerations, dust and exhaust pitches up at you on the dusty roads and the constant hum of the street life permeates the government-mandated helmet (safety first) perched atop your head. The degree of separation between you and the world is lessened on a Moto, enabling you to chat with others at long red-lights, or for the driver to give slow moving pedestrians a well-intentioned comment as they whiz by, millimeters away from danger. It’s the connectedness, openness and the sheer joy of Moto’s that draws you in. </div><div class="Body"><br />
</div><div class="Body"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0-mef5xj91i6gHY4i9AiTofqjCAH-yzY8skpUARYfaGq6kNnu5IuWWkuo6DtwzNinOK226XNrPqKEd8sn9aDHTcv7N_OwuAhAp9UZVbEqEB0any2vdoLj0xBFBAck5Sr62OpBFSk2js/s1600/IMG_8822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0-mef5xj91i6gHY4i9AiTofqjCAH-yzY8skpUARYfaGq6kNnu5IuWWkuo6DtwzNinOK226XNrPqKEd8sn9aDHTcv7N_OwuAhAp9UZVbEqEB0any2vdoLj0xBFBAck5Sr62OpBFSk2js/s320/IMG_8822.jpg" width="212" /></a>My first Moto ride was on the third night in Kigali. Slightly drizzling, and completely on the opposite side of town, we were only able to direct the Moto to our neighborhood (Nyamirambo), not knowing where we lived. It was like getting into a taxi in Edmonton and only knowing you lived in St. Albert. Charles, my Moto-driver, however spoke English and we chatted amiably the whole way. <br />
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</div><div class="Body">“<i>What is your name</i>?” He asked over the roar of the engine and splatter of the rain around us. I replied, yelling over the noise. “<i>HEAVY</i>???” he screamed in response, beside himself in laughter as he pointed at the compressed shocks over his front tire as we whizzed down a busy thoroughfare. “<i>YOU SURE ARE</i>!!!” he chided, as he convulsed in obvious joy over what he thought my name was. </div><div class="Body"><br />
</div><div class="Body">After 42 minutes (what should have taken 15), three phone calls to friends and two stops to ask for directions, we ended up miraculously at our guest house. We paid our then disgruntled taxi-drivers and, still pumped off the high of riding a motorbike for that long, pledged our allegiance to the two-wheeled creatures. </div><div class="Body"><br />
</div><div class="Body">Now, we are veterans of the Moto circuit, making friends through simple Kinyarwandan banter, and an obviously display of manners (upholding the stereotypical Canadian attitude of "please" and "thank you's"). For the seven minute ride to work in the morning, we have stopped the arduous process of haggling for the local fare (paying $0.87 instead of $0.70, gasp!), instead appreciating the subtlety that an extra 100 Rwandan Francs could mean to the driver. </div><div class="Body"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVhxz6fbKACfK3AzweQyvtQUhz0DpxGt4ljUYaVQR1940-ge5au0Db5LjjjRoJW3mBkx-YScwZYBVc_-8_IA0CDJ2_OZZtsEFqwKrp1OEIcp7q8rzmluaOFKav4L6prBcMsdwoWt45hs/s1600/IMG_8884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVhxz6fbKACfK3AzweQyvtQUhz0DpxGt4ljUYaVQR1940-ge5au0Db5LjjjRoJW3mBkx-YScwZYBVc_-8_IA0CDJ2_OZZtsEFqwKrp1OEIcp7q8rzmluaOFKav4L6prBcMsdwoWt45hs/s320/IMG_8884.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moto Like A Rock Star</td></tr>
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As I hopped onto a Moto recently, I greeted the driver and began to say, “<i>Nyamirambo</i>” when he cut me off by kick starting the engine, drowning me out. As I began to buckle the helmet tightly, he looked back with a knowing smile and said, “<i>Merez Station</i> (a block away from home).” We laughed and I yelled to him as he shoulder checked and gunned the engine, kicking up thick, black-smoke from the tailpipe as we swerved and wobbled out into the mid-afternoon rush hour traffic,</div><div class="Body"><br />
</div><div class="Body">“<i>Tugende, Inshuti!</i>” (Let’s Go, My Friend!) </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-29823165033797924192010-05-17T02:03:00.000-07:002010-05-17T02:03:38.804-07:00Nyamirambo --> (NYR)"You live <i>here</i>?" My colleague asked, pointing up at the two story faded-orange building I was standing outside of. "Isn't this area," he said, leaning in and looking around, "a little <i>dangerous</i>?"<br />
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I stopped rolling up my sleeve, and watched to see if his face betrayed his words and showed any signs of untruthfulness. It did not; his eyebrows were genuinely raised in surprise as he shook my hand and proceeded on down the street.It took me a moment, frozen in our busy intersection to digest what he had said. You see, my colleague is from the <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7554195.stm">Congo</a>. The man from the <a href="http://www.condition-critical.org/?gclid=CJba4Z2Cx6ECFQm7Zwod2nLl9g">Democratic Republic of Congo</a> asked if where we live is dangerous. <a href="http://www.theirc.org/special-reports/congo-forgotten-crisis?gclid=CK-Ik86Cx6ECFQw9ZgodglRi8A">The Congo</a>. <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8548794.stm">C</a> <a href="http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2010/03/28/dr-congo-lord-s-resistance-army-rampage-kills-321">O</a> <a href="http://www.insightonconflict.org/conflicts/dr-congo/?gclid=CMvW5MaDx6ECFQm7Zwod2nLl9g">N</a> <a href="http://www.amnesty.org/en/region/congo">G</a> <a href="http://www.unhcr.org/refworld/country,,HRW,,COD,456d621e2,4b586cf5c,0.html">O</a>. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsheaxMCzi5zRMRcyHTxKirRmeR8u726Wmw6SQCpC2YHaIASNTBOjTp5qTpDPVYQkGIfcgn5odhRZTJCyIUm05onFEP5XssFyOuz9_O5DGmw3r9QwlEFST3zgUhfgTyUY_uveuqqOIoUg/s1600/IMG_8777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsheaxMCzi5zRMRcyHTxKirRmeR8u726Wmw6SQCpC2YHaIASNTBOjTp5qTpDPVYQkGIfcgn5odhRZTJCyIUm05onFEP5XssFyOuz9_O5DGmw3r9QwlEFST3zgUhfgTyUY_uveuqqOIoUg/s200/IMG_8777.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from our deck: Menacing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>This wasn't the first time I have heard concern over the area, but in that moment I gained a deeper love for the misunderstood side of town we live in.<br />
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Nyamirambo, our neighborhood, is the bustling Muslim district of Kigali; a bounding pulse of the city of Kigali. Two towering mosques mark the entering and the passing of our neighborhood, and our house lies directly in between the two. This leaves us vulnerable to the morning calls to prayer, the never-closing bars, the stray-dog discussions at 4 am, and the constant hum of the chatter and traffic that never ceases. 'Rambo even has a Town Crier. One man, obviously chosen for the sheer-unpleasant quality to his voice, arms himself with a loudspeaker, and at random intervals (day or night, sun, rain, whatever) plants himself on the corner of every intersection and yells in rhythmic Kinyarwandan (Ubanda-Grenada-Lugunda-Uganda). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSLcwWpbRQLmCqr9iNhPKa5W6ZLU5HcclWv2RsJLKxuTQcNCFam__uTBo6nJS490B6qYoOr7oLrRyP1vtf_l-xQTb_hpQbueEWbRYrlnqv2blM080QuA21GYsmQjO57bsIawtvtMFOYLk/s1600/IMG_8967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSLcwWpbRQLmCqr9iNhPKa5W6ZLU5HcclWv2RsJLKxuTQcNCFam__uTBo6nJS490B6qYoOr7oLrRyP1vtf_l-xQTb_hpQbueEWbRYrlnqv2blM080QuA21GYsmQjO57bsIawtvtMFOYLk/s200/IMG_8967.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2020: Closing in a Decade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The newly paved Avenue de la Justice is the thoroughfare for all happenings of the neighborhood. Streets are lined with creatively thought out names such as "Human Lover Boutique" and "2020" (obviously the new 2012). Pass by these shops, and hear old-fashioned sewing machines constantly "whirring" as mannequins are dressed with the freshly minted wares. Others are seen scrubbing second hand shoes (donations from Canada and Europe), returning them to their former glory, where they are sold for a profit. A fifty foot tall television screen randomly plays a Kobe Bryant highlight reel on repeat. Women carrying fruit baskets weave their way up and down the Avenue, miraculously balancing their wares with dignity and skill while balancing their babies who are wrapped around their backs, sleeping comfortably in their mother's makeshift-baby-backpack. Children sprint up and down the shoulder of the road playing and laughing in their school uniforms after school while devout Muslims bee-line for the Mosque, heads down and deep in thought. The indiscriminate smells of the neighborhood punctuate and captivate the air, wafting faint trickles of the day's menu (is that goat?) and open-fire stoves. Moto Taxi drivers line up outside the Great Wall of China Supermarket, chatting about whose bike is cleaner, faster and most dangerous. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgf5PT1PHXubBswi8NqYugaTVoIhJj50h_YD55rIrkjoT9rBXorB1Of-6y3cgMcfJSNhAAJxX7trzTeaKcDuQ63CRtUcZnGPfF13PfW6amDUiQLLtpyPOlGVDnczRH0TbJCKcf_JUALU/s1600/IMG_8810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgf5PT1PHXubBswi8NqYugaTVoIhJj50h_YD55rIrkjoT9rBXorB1Of-6y3cgMcfJSNhAAJxX7trzTeaKcDuQ63CRtUcZnGPfF13PfW6amDUiQLLtpyPOlGVDnczRH0TbJCKcf_JUALU/s200/IMG_8810.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The First Wave is Free</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Stay a little longer, and you see destitute poverty reach it's dark claws into the neighborhood. The rest of Kigali has been purged of the beggars and street vendors that punctuate so many majority world cities, and Nyamirambo has become a collecting ground for everyone not rich enough to belong elsewhere. Dull-eyed children carry trademark yellow Jerry cans to the local watering hole to be filled. Women breast feed malnourished children while plead with their eyes for some change with their free hand. A man, amputated at the hip, uses flip-flops as hand shoes as he trudges his way down the street. Drugs, prostitution and theft lurk behind the shadows of day. <br />
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Kigali is like a bad actor; pretending to be something that it is not. Few neighborhoods offer the realism and awakening of the real situation that Nyamirambo does. It forces you to confront questions of charity, of ethics, of power and privilege. Of how where you were born determines a large portion of how your life will be lived. With 80% of Rwanda living in the rural populations, our neighborhood is a truer representative of the state of the country.<br />
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It's what makes living here matter though; the chaotic, urban sprawl, the misunderstood neighborhood characters and community that we are becoming a part of, the poverty and privilege. It's all here in the beautifully bold and vivid streets of Nyamirambo. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1642432428586014193.post-67981217174819500752010-05-07T05:46:00.000-07:002010-12-13T15:56:10.130-08:00This. Is. Genocide.<i>"400,000 people are dead. 2 million are displaced. The numbers... well, they are numbing....</i><i> If we let the numbers hinder us, we can be crushed under the hopelessness they represent. </i><i>” -WFD Speech</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2lLgi6NhmRQp0J_a6KkJ9y4s6yOZa6y7sfIljYFVdUI0aYz_RDAKYTjjQPBaqPjYstdj8JbiIrVQEZNQJ0-0Hsna3B6BZY7hFC1nVb9dBTcvDfFZT1hFWk9sqx9i6HpFANtAqlev77c/s1600/front-darfur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2lLgi6NhmRQp0J_a6KkJ9y4s6yOZa6y7sfIljYFVdUI0aYz_RDAKYTjjQPBaqPjYstdj8JbiIrVQEZNQJ0-0Hsna3B6BZY7hFC1nVb9dBTcvDfFZT1hFWk9sqx9i6HpFANtAqlev77c/s200/front-darfur.jpg" width="200" /></a>I knew the words well, I wrote the speech. I had spent two years with the <a href="http://www.walkfordarfur.ca/">Walk for Darfur</a>, speaking from an activist standpoint on the <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/3496731.stm">Genocide in Darfur</a> to thousands of students across Alberta. I had never given the words a second thought, until now. They echoed through my mind, almost with a twinge of innocence, as I wandered through a Rwandan countryside Genocide Memorial. For two days the numbers of Genocide crushed me, utterly and completely. The numbers numbed me to the soul.<br />
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From room to room, the tour went from terrible to horrifying as our guide started in a room full of adult corpses. These remnants of the 1994 Rwandan Genocide were preserved in grisly fashion layed out on wooden racks, bones unnaturally gleaming white. The smell of mass decay and hell wouldn't leave my nostrils for days. The final room of children and infants was too much to bare. Nausea and waves of dry heaving were swallowed back down as I forced myself to enter. Even in death, their innocence was their trademark. Kids and infants killed for no other reason than being born. It was then I noticed my chest heaving, my breathing became audible like that of an angry animals, my muscles flexed, as if ready to fight, my eyes focused forward with intensity. <em>My soul was shaking with the failure of humanity</em>.<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5NFhVzzltbieZTXSzENAwgmaYggDrlnVpqwLdcOyY5xwnJFl5zg3-6QfbuHeAPmXFojB-Y4NjUVEXa7R6MxtSlmtzVI86sw943WefEv9YiUVZyAo4gl-E4k3PC51rranM4aQbDc657no/s1600/gcid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5NFhVzzltbieZTXSzENAwgmaYggDrlnVpqwLdcOyY5xwnJFl5zg3-6QfbuHeAPmXFojB-Y4NjUVEXa7R6MxtSlmtzVI86sw943WefEv9YiUVZyAo4gl-E4k3PC51rranM4aQbDc657no/s200/gcid.jpg" width="200" /></a>We left the class, and the guide pointed to the other classrooms that lay in long houses that were scattered throughout the hillside. Like a nightmare where you run as fast as you can, but can't escape the evil, the guide said we could visit the other houses... but they were all the same. Homes of bodies. <i>There were more than I dared to count</i>. As if reading my mind, the guide explained there were “o<i>ver 50,000 are buried in these hills.</i>” The tour ended with the guide saying,<br />
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<i>“This. Is. Genocide. This. Is. Genocide. This. Is. Genocide.”</i></div><div><br />
Each time he said it, he sounded a little more lost, as if replaying the madness of it in his mind.<br />
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I was too sad to cry, too shocked to feel hurt. Watching humanity at its absolute-lowest point was despicable. Inspiration, Faith and Hope, the ingredients I had grown up with had been replaced with Death, Decay and Darkness.<br />
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Two days later, we went to the Kigali Memorial Centre. In progressive stages, the exhibition walks you through the causes and precursors of genocide, the days of the massacre and the aftermath. Whole families, whole congregations, whole communities disappeared forever. Rwanda was dead. The most disturbing part came on the final part of the tour, entitled “<em>The Missing Future</em>.” Here, life sized photos of children in the massacre included plaques that described the kids. Keri, a 7 year old boy, had his last words written as, “Mom, where is it safe to run to?” Underneath, in quiet font, it said he was killed by machete. Amielle, who liked soccer and laughing, was shot to death after saying the words, “<em>Don’t worry, UNAMIR will help us</em>.” It went on and on like this...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIZ-7SL0_wB3uQueOlxA4fH_DBQe7qeLW3_KULc2-hIHqpHBy6kXxWl19HmcRl0iRcLdyfRYW6DM39azTY-ZHlQZm4kZtSUnVCJZVlnQLgnkgmv35zkVWAdya-eDnUJ608kxL0wmG7Jo/s1600/kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIZ-7SL0_wB3uQueOlxA4fH_DBQe7qeLW3_KULc2-hIHqpHBy6kXxWl19HmcRl0iRcLdyfRYW6DM39azTY-ZHlQZm4kZtSUnVCJZVlnQLgnkgmv35zkVWAdya-eDnUJ608kxL0wmG7Jo/s200/kids.jpg" width="200" /></a>The exhibit ended in a hallway filled with pictures, put up by family or friends of the victims. It was here I lost it, staring into the smiling eyes of hundreds of innocent children. The room had benches where people had gathered to rest. My legs buckled on the closest one, and I buried my head in my hands. I dug the heels of my hands into my eye-sockets, unsure if I was trying to brand the terrible images to memory forever, or force them out altogether. I cried uncontrollably on the bench, hands shaking and tears flowing like sharp daggers from my eyes. I have no idea how long I sat there and when my own crying had subsided, I realized that others were crying too. Everyone else in the narrow hallway, spread on black benches, were filling the audible silence of the kids absence with our sadness. We were crying together but each person was lost in their own personal hell. When the tears subsided, I stood and watched a proud lady, dressed in all-black, clutching at a crinkled photograph of a smiling young boy. We shared a look before I left.<br />
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Everything you ever sense, in touch, feeling or thought has an effect on you that is greater than zero. Some things, like a dog trotting by you on the street, or the steady hum of traffic out the window, have such an infinitely small effect that you can’t detect them. Other things, like heartbreak and happiness, effect your life in such a way that it changes it forever. The look we shared will stay with me forever. <br />
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As we held eyes, I saw in them the horror and pain and despair I felt I had in mine. But as I held her gaze for a moment longer, I saw something I never expected to see... hope. An, absolute, quiet, determined hope existed. And it has to, for us to move forward. For Rwanda to move forward. The people of Rwanda have shown an incredible resilience, drawing on strength and hope from the very core of what it is to be human. The country bears an incredible burden and responsibility to it's citizens, preaching reconciliation and forgiveness. Every small victory is a reason for celebration, every step forward a triumph. There is a lot of healing to do still, yes, but much has been done since 1994. Rwanda is peaceful, Rwanda is changing, Rwanda is alive again. <br />
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Like we said in the speech those years ago, if all we were to do was focus on the numbers, the chaos and disregard for human life, no one would ever act. We would simply be numbed into submission, too overwhelmed and defeated to do anything about it. In the longhouse, surrounded by the horrors of the Genocide, I was flooded with a wave of quiet, forceful resolution. <br />
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It was in that moment that I was changed. I no longer felt comfortable, safe, inspired, hopeful... free. In these seconds of weightlessness and uncertainty we define ourselves, and distinguish between right and wrong, good and evil. We choose in those trying moments what it is we will fight for, what it is that we will live for... what it is that we are here for. <br />
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In the weeks that have passed since Memorial, I have found my way past the sadness that exists, and instead have focused on finding the light that exists within, the resilience and strength found inside. By finding our own hope, we can bring our energy, our passion and our experiences to help a situation or to empower a community, assist a family or even a person. It may not make a difference to the world, but it could make the world of difference to one person. And that difference alone could mean the distinction of having hope and losing it completely. That difference could mean life and death.<br />
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By using these hands, this mind and this heart, I want to use my skills as a nurse to bring light and hope to the darkest situations in the world; from refugee camps to natural disaster zones. I joined nursing with this very intention, but only now am I starting to understand the scope of the situation. Only now can I admit it with grim resolution. I'm signing up for hell, I'm sure, but will relentlessly be looking for hope. As long as it exists, even if just from inside of us, inside of one person, it is reason to believe in humanity. <br />
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That humanity is something worth helping, worth fighting for and worth dedicating yourself to. That humanity can be better than it is.I believe that this world we live in can be full of darkness, but if you only look for that, you miss out on the light. I believe this is why I am here; to help kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight. <br />
<em>"When the end of poverty arrives, as it can and should in our own generation, it will be citizens in a million communities in rich and poor countries alike, rather than a handful of political leaders, who will have turned the tide. The fight for the end of poverty is a fight that all of us must join in our own way. We have exciting times ahead, and no time to lose." </em>-Jeffrey Sachs</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4