May Experience Turbulence

Coming home has me a bit flustered: confused, unsure, overwhelmed, questioning. Being back in New Orleans last week, I was met with a lot of mixed emotions. My time there felt more difficult than I had anticipated. There were days that I felt completely at home, welcomed and embraced and other days I felt disconnected and distant. It’s hard to accept how much had changed in the six months I was away. Friends have moved; relationships have ended and begun; jobs have been lost. I no longer have a permanent address and my dog has settled in nicely to his new routine with his auntie Jennifer. I had such anticipation of returning to New Orleans and it just wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same. Possibly it stems from the initial rationalization that I would only be away for three months…I mean, how much could possibly change in three months? It was temporary. It was a jaunt back to a continent I love. It was a pause in time away from the city I had grown to call home. But three months became six, and my life changed, and the lives of my friends and family changed…and suddenly all that felt temporary had hints of permanence.

There were moments of absolute contentment and familiarity: catching up with old friends, seeing my favorite brass band, stopping by the neighborhood coffee shop, eating po'boys and southern breakfasts, reconnecting with the city as I strolled alone through the Marigny and the French Quarter. But as the days passed, I was flustered with not being able to accomplish and see as many people as I wanted. I felt rushed. I realized that moving back was potentially not a sure thing as I had assumed last summer. I am in the final interviewing stages for a job in Burundi. I am midway through the process for an international fellowship…and jobs in NOLA just aren’t knocking down my door. My departure on Tuesday morning was bittersweet in the sense that I had no idea when I’d be back. Mardi Gras flights have been bought, but the Burundi gig could begin as early as mid-January. So, in a weird way, my departure from New Orleans kind of felt like a premature breakup. I’m simply not ready. There’s been no closure. I haven’t even moved out my stuff. I can’t yet close that chapter of my life, but I know myself well enough that if I get offered this job in Burundi, I’ll take it. I’m leaving behind great friends, an intoxicating city, a piece of me. It’s a lot to wrap my head around.

And then there’s Philly—my family; my nieces; my other home. My sister’s girls are now 3 and a half, 21 months, and 3 months. They are such a joy to be around. It’s been such a blessing having time with them to bond and connect and get to know one another. Ella is at that perfectly sweet age where everything she says is just so honest and genuine. She loves her Aunt Aimee. We do all sorts of fun things together. She says things out of the blue like, “Aimee, I love you so much,” or “I don’t want you to go back to Africa,” or “I have so much fun playing with you.” And I have to wonder if I can allow myself to be one of those aunts who only comes home once a year at the hectic holidays—if I can really detach from them and not be part of their lives on a consistent basis. It’s hard. And my parents are getting older, and my brother got married a year ago and will soon have a family of his own. It seems the questions become more complicated and the choices more complex as I get older. I know my tendency is to over-think, overanalyze, and tolerate the mental gymnastics at times of serious transition and choice. But I also need to remember that any choice can be temporary, and that life is simply a series of choices that lead one to the next choice. All I can do is believe in myself and appreciate the privilege I have and the opportunities I’ve been given in my life. Any choice will further my path, my growth, the woman I’m becoming. So, I’m trying to remain present, positive, and allow myself this time to explore who I am and what I want from my life. We’ll see what decisions stem from it in the next few weeks. Stay tuned…

The Long Journey Home

It’s 6:35am and I’m in Brussels, sitting next to a snoozing teen with stinky feet, enjoying a gingerbread latte and lemon poppy seed muffin from yes, you guessed it, Starbucks. Evidently I am that American this morning. It’s one of the many fond memories I have from my two day stopover in Brussels on my way here. What I don’t remember is that said morning treat costs 8 Euros. I failed to remember this because my serendipitous travel partner, the millionaire sugar daddy, was paying for everything. Is that even possible…to spend $14 on a muffin and a cup of coffee? Awkwardly, Europeans were chatting with the woman behind the counter, pointing at the Venti cup, shaking their heads, commenting on how enormous all things American are, including Americans themselves. I smile apologetically and say, “Oui, c’est vrai” as I select my deliciously oversized muffin under the glass display case with my grubby little finger.

The first leg of the trip was significant in the sense that it was uneventful. I am curious as to how it never fails that the people that seem most irritating, rude, or unable to maintain their composure in public (of which I decide on in the terminal waiting to board) always seem to be sitting next to me on the oversized aircraft. Last night, it was two small toddlers. I haven’t concluded what was more off-putting –the children themselves or their mothers. Typically, I find African children to be calm, obedient, and rather self-entertaining. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Child one had two favorite words, “Mine and Hi!”…neither of which I found remotely adorable at 2am. The other child parroted this with “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” or in between fits of whining, crying, and jumping on his seat. The mothers did not appear disturbed by this in the least, which I found puzzling. Even more perplexing was every time one of them cried, the response was “Sorry, sorry, sorry” followed by a lot of coddling. I understand being tired and exhausted and being up way past your bedtime, flying through the air on a strange piece of metal in the sky. What I don’t understand is the inability to acknowledge that there are a few hundred other passengers on your flight. I was not pleased. Quite possibly another sure sign that I’m not ready to reproduce. Luckily, my flight narcolepsy kicked in promptly at the commencement of Ice Age 3, and I was awoken to breakfast within 45 minutes outside of Brussels. Excellent.

Chicago was another story. No need to remind anyone that the Sunday of Thanksgiving is kinda a big travel day. My connection was only an hour and fifteen minutes to begin with and we got in 20 minutes late. Sooo, by the time I went through customs, rechecked my luggage, rode on the tram, and got to my domestic security check point, I was tearing off my clothes, throwing my clogs in the bin, frantically running through the metal detector. This is the point when I wish I was wearing a head cam. Keep in mind that I have a sizeable carry-on bag and a large handmade tote overloaded and surprisingly heavy with Rwandan crafts that I had been cursing since Kigali. So here I am, weaving through the crowded terminal, stopping every ten feet because I can’t run for longer than this. I am gasping and panting for breath; I am beet red; I am sweating profusely despite the fact that it’s wintertime and I’m only wearing a fleece. I get to my gate at 2:17. My flight to NOLA left at 2:15. The woman looks up at me from her computer and calmly says, “You must be Aimee.” Ah, yes. She hands me my next boarding pass to St. Louis. This flight begins boarding at 2:20 and is in the next terminal over. At this point, I am not only cursing my carry-on luggage, but the size of O’Hare airport and begin sprinting back the way I came from. I make it to the St. Louis gate as they are boarding. I sit down between two women and they both ask me with great concern if I am ok, as my heart is thumping out of my chest at this point and I’m basically incapable of breathing. I pass out for the 40 minute flight, rest for the hour or so in St. Louis, and miraculously make it back by early evening…to the home I had craved, ached for, and missed for the six months I was away, with a good friend waiting for me (and my luggage waiting, too =)

The Darkest Star

It’s hard to summarize my last week in Kigali. It was wrought with the typical ups and downs of any departure, transition, change—the space between “getting back to my life” and realizing I’ve actually been living my life. I had some really wonderful moments with my colleagues and new friends; I detached from a lovely man and parted ways without drama or trauma; I soaked up my remaining moto rides, walks through the city, encounters with kindly strangers and children. Thanksgiving was spent poolside with a friend (albeit a rainy poolside at that), drinking one too many overpriced draft beers at Kigali’s swankiest hotel and talking about Africa and life and careers and love. It was harder than I expected to say my goodbyes at the Tulane office, making me realize how close I had become to my colleagues and what a supportive and fun working environment it was. So again, in many senses, it was hard to leave, but much of me is ready to return to my home, to my New Orleans, to visit my family on the East coast and revel in the time with my nieces, my parents, and my sister and her husband. I haven’t had that much time at home in years. It will be a welcomed treat and rest.

I’m not sure what else I can truly say about Kigali, beautiful Rwanda, and the continent that is Africa. I’ve been trying to finish Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux on the plane ride home. It seems many of the excerpts best explain why the continent is so intoxicating, complicated, endearing in its dysfunctional way, so I figured I’d share some of my favorite passages in an effort to pass along some of the imagery and life that is this dark continent. The book raised questions, enhanced history lessons, and challenged preconceived notions. It also perfectly depicted why the continent of Africa continues to fill space in my soul. Hope you enjoy them as much as I did…

“Travelling makes one modest –you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.”

“The criterion is how you treat the weak. The measure of civilized behavior is compassion.”

“I was the classic traveler, arriving bewildered and alone in a remote place, trying to be hopeful, but thinking, What now?”

“After that, having unburdened himself with this story, having heard nothing from me of my life, he said that he felt he knew me well, and it was as though we had known each other for a long time. I could see that the meant it and was moved by this feeling. I told him what I felt about time exposing the truth-that time did not heal wounds, but that the passing years gave us a vantage point from which to see the reality of things.”

“Some trips mean so much to us that we rehearse them over and over in our heads, not to prepare ourselves but in anticipation, for the delicious foretaste. I had been imagining this return trip down the narrow track to Soche Hill for many years. In Africa for the first time, I got a glimpse of the pattern my life would take—that it would be dominated by writing and solitariness and risk, and already in my early twenties I tasted those ambiguous pleasures. I had learned what many others had discovered before me—that Africa, for all its perils, represented wilderness and possibility. Not only did I have the freedom to write in Africa, I had something new to write about.”

“Not much, because all aid is political. When this country became independent it had very few institutions. It still doesn’t have many. The donors aren’t contributing to development. They maintain the status quo. Politicians love that, because they hate change. They tyrants love aid. Aid helps them stay in power and contributes to underdevelopment. It’s not social or cultural and it certainly isn’t economic. Aid is one of the main reasons for underdevelopment in Africa.”

“I sketched out my theory that some governments in Africa depended on underdevelopment to survive—bad schools, poor communications, a feeble press, and ragged people. The leaders needed poverty to obtain foreign aid, needed an uneducated and passive populace to keep themselves in office for decades. A great education system in an open society would produce rivals, competitors, and an effective opposition to people who wanted only to cling to power.”

“I was passionate about the cause. But I had had an epiphany: though my children would be enriched by the experience of working in Africa, nothing at all would change as a result of their being here.”

“You visit a place and peer at it closely and then move on, making a virtue of disconnection.”

“Humanity is a product of Africa. We are what we are today because we’ve been shaped by our environment—and it was the African environment that hosted almost every major evolutionary change we’ve experienced on our journey towards being human.”

“First contact was a vivid and recurrent event for everyone—bumping into a stranger on the subway, finding yourself with a fellow rider in an elevator, knocking elbows with your seatmate on a plane—at a bus stop, at a checkout counter, on a beach, in a church or a movie theater, wherever we were thrown together and had to deal with it. As a traveler, first contact was the story of my life, and was a motif of my African trip…”

“That had been in the world news, as African disasters always were—earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, massacres, famines, columns of refugees. And these are the lucky ones. Images of inundated fields, people clinging to treetops, and helicopter rescues had appeared on TV for a week before becoming old news. The trouble with such disasters what their unchanging imagery—viewers got bored with them for their having no silver lining and no variation. For a catastrophe to have legs, it needed to be an unfolding story, like a script with plot points, and preferably a happy ending. The ending of the Mozambique floods came with the news of cholera and poisoned water, of thousands of people who had been made homeless, and hundreds who had drowned like rats.”

“Africans praying for a disaster so that they would be noticed seemed to me a sorry consequence of the way charities had concentrated people’s minds on misfortune. But without vivid misfortune Africans were invisible to aid donors.”

“In even the whitest town on the veldt there was a reminder of less fortunate Africa—a ragged man walking on a path, an old man riding a bike, a woman balancing a bulging bale on her head, an amazing bird on a post, African huts, barefoot kids, tin privies, squalor, corn fields.”

“The train was almost heartbreaking for being so pleasant, for offering this view of South Africa, the same misery, the same splendor. But my work was done, my safari finished. This trip was just a dying fall; I was clinging to Africa because I had not wanted it to end.”

“Travel had changed him. You go away for a long time and return a different person—you never come all the way back. Like Rimbaud, you think, I is someone else.”

“The kindest Africans had not changed at all, and even after all these years the best of them are bare-assed.”

Ihahamuka-“without lungs or breathless with fear”

“Everyone from abroad seems to think they have something to teach Rwandans about reconciliation. No one considers that it is the other way around.” Christine Stansell

Since arriving in Kigali five months ago, one of the biggest challenges for me as a foreigner (and a social worker) has been to try to wrap my head around the mental health of this nation, and do my best not to pass judgment or make premature conclusions coming from my Western-educated lens. And like most things, the more I read and the more meetings I attend, I only have more questions. I finished “A Thousand Hills” by Stephen Kinzer a few weeks back, a book following the trajectory of Paul Kagame’s career, Rwanda’s current president. While I didn’t particularly enjoy the writing style of the author (sorry Stephen), it’s a fascinating account of Rwanda’s recent history, and the complex and complicated events that led up to the genocide of 1994, and how the country has since worked to become a leader in East and Central Africa under the Kagame administration. I’m not sure I’d particularly recommend the book to others, but do advise anyone to read many of the books that have been published about Rwanda since 1994 in order to combat some of the ignorance the majority of the Western world still suffers from genocide history.

The ethnic history of Rwanda was strongly influenced by colonization by the Germans and ultimately the Belgians. Prior to this time, Tutsis and Hutus lived together harmoniously, speaking the same language, intermarrying, obeying the same laws, following the same religion and traditions. The distinction between them was not ethnic at all, but based primarily on economic status. In fact, individuals could move between the two groups freely, depending on whether one raised cattle (Tutsi) or farmed the land (Hutu). It was not until the arrival of the Germans in the late 1800’s, and Belgium after WWI that Europeans began classifying Hutu and Tutsis into separate and distinct groups, mirroring Europe’s monarchy by wrongly concluding the ruling class and minority Tutsi as nobility, and the majority Hutus (85%) as their serfs. Further, Belgians found visible distinction among the two groups: believing the taller, lighter-skinned Tutsi were superior to the more “African-looking”, shorter, broad-nosed black Hutus. Further classification was made in 1933 with mandatory identity cards, a legacy that would pave the way for the mass killings of thousands of Rwandans in future years, and pave the way for the racial propaganda that fueled the genocide.

Again, numerous books and essays have been written about this topic, so my feeble attempts at summarizing 100 years of Rwandan history are poor at best, and I apologize for the distastefully abridged version. Further, I won’t attempt to summarize the events of the actual genocide itself. The 100 days of murder, terror turning neighbors against neighbors, media campaigns spreading hate ideology, children witnessing the murder and rape of family members, mass ambushes in local churches, abandonment of the international community (particularly the United States)…it’s all too much to process, digest, and accept. I visited the Gisozi Genocide Memorial museum a few months back, and have not yet been able to write about it, let alone process it. It’s unfathomable, impossible to believe that it occurred.

What’s unique in contemporary Rwanda is this idea of cultural or national identity. During the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s, Belgium and the Catholic Church strongly shaped social and political life. Loyalties shifted post WWII, and the support of a ruling aristocracy in the Tutsi quickly shifted to sympathy towards the powerless Hutu masses. Anti-Tutsi sentiments were stimulated by this new sense of justice for the majority. Local and regional Hutu officials soon replaced Tutsis, and with the support of Belgium and the Catholic Church, the Hutu Manifesto was drafted, calling on Hutus to rise up against the oppressive Tutsi rule. By 1959, attacks became common and Hutu militants began fighting back in fits of organized violence. Tutsis flooded neighboring countries of Uganda, Congo, Tanzania, Burundi and Kenya, and remained refugees afraid of returning to their homeland until after the war. Because of this, Rwanda’s population of 10 million people has a large Tutsi population that never even saw Rwanda prior to 1994. They were raised in neighboring countries, taught in other languages, yet had a strong determination to return to their home and the land of their ancestors. Paul Kagame was one of these refugees. It is not uncommon to find a Rwandan who speaks French, English, Kinyarwanda, or KiSwahili. Despite this historical displacement, Rwandans have pride in their country, their traditions, and their culture. They were asked to repatriate and assist Rwanda in its growth and new national identity.

Today, fifteen years after the genocide, Rwanda is among the leaders of the region. There is no doubt much of this comes from Kagame’s vision. First impressions of Kigali, as I’ve shared before, are that it’s very “un-African”. It’s incredibly regulated. It’s unbelievably clean. It’s the kind of city where if you drop a sweater on the sidewalk, five people run up to pick it up for you. It’s calm and has a strong sense of civil obedience and structure. Days are very routine and predictable. There are strict laws against corruption; police presence is common; safety and security is exceptional. There are no urban slums. Street sweepers in serial-numbered vests clean the neighborhoods each morning. There are speed bumps, traffic lights, helmets, trash cans. The streets are quiet and empty by 8pm.

In the past five months, I’ve pondered whether Rwandans have always been this calm, reserved, comfortable in this culture of obedience to authority…or if this functional compliance is simply a coping strategy to deal with all they have been through. Regionally, Rwandans have a reputation of being very reserved, often lacking the liveliness and colorful friendliness that is characteristic in other Africans. How much of this reservation is self-protection, a way to build walls in order to feel less insecure, and how much is just the natural tranquility of the Rwandese people? I obviously couldn’t begin to draw conclusions about this. Kagame is both revered and criticized for his authoritarian, strong-handed policies. Most agree that it’s what needs to be done at this time of Rwanda’s history…that there must be some sense of comfort in the limits to expression, deviance, and political freedom. The ethnic hate propaganda that poisoned the nation for decades will be ever-present in people’s minds, particularly older generations, and Kagame’s hope for “One people, one destiny” needs to be closely monitored. National messages remind Rwandans that there is no strength in separation, that reinforcing difference divides us as people. Kagame believes security is the foundation for the growth of the nation, and that only reconciliation can allow this to happen.

So, this goes back to my question about mental health. I’ve been attending meetings recently at USAID, the Ministry of Health, and other organizations. It seems mental health is moving up on the radar screen, which is a wonderful leap. Next year will be the first time the Demographic Health Survey will collect data on depression. So, what is really happening here? How can an event such as the genocide that touched every family in every corner of the nation begin to move forward? One post-genocide policy that’s also been the topic of debate is gacaca, the historical practice of whole populations being involved in the processes of justice and reconciliation. Gacaca allows local communities to hold hearings against genocidaires (leaders and organizers of killings), where both victims and witnesses are encouraged to speak in the community where the crime was committed. There are over 800,000 suspects. It is the grounds for which Kagame hopes people will be able to live together again and find peace. Reconciliation and justice are a difficult balance, yet these community hearings hope to encourage this process. So how does one begin reconciling with someone who has killed your entire family, inviting them back into your community as your neighbor? And to what extent is this reconciliation forced?

My experience has been that the genocide is rarely discussed, or if so, it’s discussed very matter-of-factly. “Yes, I had a brother, but he was killed in the genocide.” “I had eleven children, but seven of them, along with my wife, were murdered in the war in 1994.” It is that direct, that honest, and then the conversation simply moves on. How are individuals encouraged to grieve or mourn after all they have witnessed when the government is pushing for this resolution? Some refer to what is happening right now as a state of “artificial reconciliation”. Rwandans are encouraged not to identify as Hutu or Tutsi, but Rwandan, and move forward in a unified way that facilitates a national identity. But what of all the people that weren’t here during the genocide and returned afterwards? What role do they play in the rebuilding of the nation as opposed to the survivors or perpetrators of the genocide?

I’m also moved by this younger generation of Rwandans, Rwandans that are now beginning to marry and have children, Rwandans that were young adolescents when the genocide occurred, Rwandans that lost their families and parents. Intelligent, strong-willed, functioning adults that are becoming the leaders of this nation. How did they mourn? How did they recover? And how do they have the strength to now put energy into their own families and the future of their country? Is this policy of forced reconciliation working for Rwanda, or is it simply blanketing the wounds of a nation that is not encouraged to mourn, to grieve, to heal? I have no idea. The government is making enormous strides in the region as a leader in IT development, human resource capacity building and education, and other goals mentioned in Kagame’s Vision 2020 (which I also recommend reading). So, I leave Rwanda with only more questions, and a incredible space of admiration in my heart for the resilience and integrity of this country and its people—determined, dedicated, kind, beautiful people. I only hope that the efforts of the current government allow for Rwanda to heal and grow in its own distinct way. It deserves that much.

Muzungu in Musanze

The clock is ticking. I have three weeks left in this country that has become my home for the past five and a half months. Apart from the denial and severely mixed feelings this induces, I’ve also entered that inevitable place where I suffer from thoughts of not having done enough. Much of this I think stems from, you guessed it, impermanence…and the fact that I was initially only supposed to be here for three months. I hesitated to get involved in things I now wish I had—volunteering, visiting rural communities, networking with NGOs to see what type of work they are doing. For many who have done development work or lived overseas, three months is quite literally a blink of an eye. You wake up one morning and realize it’s time to go, and how little you have truly accomplished. And of course, like anywhere and anything, as foreign as a place may appear at first, we naturally find our niche and our groove and things become routine. Work consumes you. Friends stand in for family. And the weeks pass into months and you realize you have spent half a year in a country that has slowly crept into that space in your heart that you call home. It feels kind of like a premature break up. We just need more time to get to know one another! It’s hard not to let my mind go to that place (you know, the completely unproductive, unhealthy, regretful place?) I haven’t seen enough of the country. I should have volunteered. I should have sucked it up and paid the $600 to see the mountain gorillas. I should have asked my Country Director for more work. I should have networked. I should have made a concerted effort to visit more organizations and see what work they do in this complex and beautiful country. I should have read more history and educated myself more.

So, this is roughly where my head is at the current moment. Not entirely awesome but not so bad either. It’s all part of the continuous process that reminds us how human we are. This weekend, I was feeling a bit left in the lurch. My sidekick Karen was out of the country; Luke and his fiancée Sarah had a romantic getaway at the lake; my ever-complicated, part-time squeeze was in Kenya for the week. Ho hum. What to do? My natural tendency was to sleep, which I did for fourteen delicious hours on Friday night. Saturday, I woke up and decided to go to Musanze, the small town two hours north that sits at the foothills of Volcanoes National Park, the home of the infamous mountain gorillas. The bus ride up was spectacular, yet also a harsh reminder of the reality of Rwanda’s food insecurity and population crisis. Rwanda is roughly the size of Maryland, has over 10 million, with a fertility rate of over 6 children per woman. This may not sound like much when thinking about the population of most American cities, but picture the island of Manhattan with everyone living on it requiring land not only to feed their families, but to make some sort of income. The land issues in Rwanda are multi-faceted and incredibly complex, a development issue I will choose not to elaborate on in this entry. But nonetheless, the drive up was filled with terraced mountains, patches of crops, grazing goats, and women, men and children tilling the soil. It’s green as far as the eye can see.

I arrived in Musanze around 11, took a quick moto ride to the next village over, Kinigi, which rests at the entrance of the park. I had no idea what I was actually planning to do up there, I just wanted to see the volcanoes, hike around a bit, and create some mental space in which to reflect over my final weeks in Kigali. Within moments, the sky opened up in a bucketing downpour. Well, I guess I’ll eat lunch. I sat, reading my book, watching CNN, in a lovely little guesthouse and ate quite possibly the most delicious fish brochettes I’ve had since I arrived in East Africa. Yum. So, I start to wander. I have no idea where the park entrance is, whether I will need to pay an entrance fee, how long the hikes are, and if I’ll be able to make it back in time for my 4:30 bus. After approximately three minutes, a very chatty and inquisitive teen named Chris approaches me. He speaks exceptional English. His friends Elize and Jack arrive. We start cruising around, wandering through farms and talking about soccer, snapping pix here and there with the volcanoes in the backdrop. It is a cool, beautiful day. Other friends surface. The soccer championships are coming up. It’s a huge deal. They are pumped. They will call me on Tuesday to give me the results of their match. I spend two hours with this motley crew of Rwandan teens. We talk chemistry, geography, reggae, soccer. I am quizzed on high school course-related facts (Do you know anything about the periodic table of elements…or Mt. Everest?) I answer compulsory questions about myself and America. (Do you have goats in your town? Are you married? Do Americans grow corn?) They are a blast. As we near another small village, the sky reopens and we run to the market, where they shuttle me onto a bus to take me back to Musanze and finally, Kigali. I am a bit saddened that my day is cut short due to the weather, but I’m really happy I came. It’s nice to be reminded how breathtaking Rwanda is, as the months here can slowly head one down a “taking-this-beauty-for-granted” type path.

I get on an earlier bus, and saddle up between two Rwandan women. The ride is winding…and the woman next to me is in the unfortunate, aisle flip up, small enough for an 8 year old child seat and is holding her head in her hands. Hmm. Ending the day with a woman vomiting on the bus in the rain doesn’t particularly suit me. I quickly offer to change seats with her. It’s at this time that I befriend an 80 year old man named Andre who is sitting behind me. It wasn’t until we started talking that I realized how few elderly people I have come across in Rwanda. He shares with me that he had 11 children, 7 of whom were killed in the genocide, along with his first wife. He has outlived the majority of his family. Despite this, he was a sassy, inquisitive, adorable personality who was basically obsessed with me within five minutes. He posed for pictures with his pipe and his sailor hat. He repeatedly informed me how beautiful I was. He had half the bus engaged in our conversation. He giggled uncontrollably at his posed photos. It was the perfect ending to the day. It’s these random encounters that remind me how lucky I am to be where I am, how engaging people can be, how such small events can teach us so much and connect us as humans. It was lovely, truly. So, I’m back in Kigali, gearing up for a crazy week at work, applying for jobs, drinking locally grown coffee, and trying to appreciate what remains for me in these remaining three weeks.

The Booj Part Deux

“To me, travel was not about rest and relaxation. It was action, exertion, motion, and the built-in delays were longueurs necessitated by the inevitable problem-solving of forward movement: waiting for buses and trains, enduring breakdowns that you tried to make the best of.” Paul Theroux

I finally started Dark Star Safari this weekend…Paul Theroux’s documented journey overland from Cairo to Cape Town. It was the perfect book to begin while making the trek back to Bujumbura, Burundi for round two of beach time, Lake Tanganyika, and the general debauchery that is lacking in Kigali. In the true spirit of travelling, Karen and I set off on Friday morning with no plan, two bus tickets, and a bag full of random Indian snacks. Karen and I travel well together. We’re both just anal enough to compulsively check a few things off the old list before being able to truly unwind and relax. We share similar attitudes about a few essentials when finding a trusty travelling side kick: we’re both seemingly responsible about money but don’t let it stand in the way of having a good time; we both wake up thinking about dinner; we appreciate and revel in the unpredictability and randomness of African travel; and finally and most importantly perhaps, we love the beach. We’re essentially a match made in heaven.

So, the weekend was more or less serendipitous from the moment we left the bus station. We stumbled upon some Dutch military at the money exchange who suggested we were ladies conveying “cheap and quick” recommendations. Um, thank you very much. We are indeed. Next we met Jean Claude sur la route, a 60 year old French Canadian who had been doing development work throughout Africa for over 20 years and just opened a new restaurant. He draws us a map on the back of a receipt and mentions ribs. Done and done. We head to the beach. No room at the inn. Wuh wa. The bubbly and overly-helpful staff person escorts us to the hotel next door. No dice. She suggests another place in town that’s in our price range. And by our price range, we’re talking under $40 a night for the two of us. We hitchhike into town with a friendly couple heading home from work on Friday evening. Strike three at Amohoro hotel. Again, friendly and helpful Burundians lead us to the next possible lodging possibility. We arrive to find the manager waiting for us. He escorts us to a very small, albeit clean room with private bathroom…and a FAN! 30 bucks for the night. Parfait.

Next stop, La Cervoise de Gaulois….the restaurant run by Jean Claude. Turns out he has rooms for rent. Information that may have proved useful roughly four hours ago. We meet a handful of gregarious expats. Quite possibly, my two new favorite expats in East Africa. Ekin-a Turkish, global operations manager that has been stationed at all the recent hotspots: Gaza, Darfur (to name a few) who is endearingly engaging, shares hysterical personal tidbits surfacing as complete and utter comfort with himself, and unbelievably humble. He invites us dancing. Karen and I simultaneously place him on his international development pedestal in the sky and accept without hesitation. And then there’s Pierre Olivier, a Frenchman who rivals Rick Moranis, circa “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids” years. He’s comical, has a fantastic accent, and a mane of crazy, mad-scientist hair.

Saturday we sleep in after some late night dancing at Havana Club, and make our way back out to the beach via yet another free ride from the fancy Hotel du Lac employee minivan. It is random and much-appreciated. Burundi is lively and loud, disorderly, chaotic, unpredictable. We love everything about it. The beach is filled with locals swimming in the lake and expats lounging on the Bora Bora beach chairs poolside. Cold beers, breeze, sunshine, cold beers, sunsets, clouds, dreamy expats. It is the perfect day.

After a delectable post-beach nap, Karen and clean ourselves up and head back into town for dinner and dancing. It was the night of the annual Marine ball, so all our newfound friends were occupied until at least 1 am. Karen and I sought solace in Havana’s disco lights, techno music, and sweaty Burundian men gyrating to today’s hottest hits. The Turk texts us about an after-ball party. Again, we graciously accept and find ourselves dancing until the wee hours of the morning among Bujumbura's finest.

In addition to the amazing Turk and the peculiar Frenchman, we also meet Mohamed, a Tunisian George Clooney at first glance…a completely chivalrous, sweet, generous North African who is completely adoring of Karen and willingly escorting us around town in his UN vehicle while keeping us steadily supplied with cold Amstels and pizza. Could this weekend honestly get any better?

It was a sad moment to walk away from that beach, I have to say. For all the beauty, quiet, and peacefulness that Rwanda brings, there is something energizing about the spontaneity and heightening of the senses that Bujumbura offers to a traveler. It’s intoxicating in a way that just encourages more travelling. So, I’m back at the office, and sadly counting down my remaining month in Kigali, conflicted about leaving this region of the world that has been so inspiring and welcoming and beautiful and kind. Big, big sigh.

When it rains, it pours

A few nights ago, I discovered that it rains in my apartment. I'm not sure what most of you picture when I describe Patel and my little one bedroom high rise in the center of town. It’s got great views of the city, with huge, 5 x 8 ft picture windows overlooking the bus station, and we are comfortably situated on the fifth floor (walk up, of course. No elevator in these swanky digs). So, imagine my surprise when I get home from a restless day at the office to discover that, while the windows provide glorious natural sunlight and a variety of dream-disrupting, old school tunes from the early 90’s blasting from the streets below (this morning-Lady in Red and an old favorite from the Pretty Woman soundtrack), the windows also aren’t sealed. Like at all. Here I am, laying in bed, journaling about the trials and tribulations of my week, when I hear rain pouring in through not one, not two, but count ‘em, all three windows in the apartment. With appalling speed, a puddle of water forms on the floor, and the next thing I know, I’m wringing out towels and wading through ankle deep rain water that’s collecting in my bedroom. Troublesome. The irony is that we haven’t had running water in the apartment for over two days.

I know, I know. For those of you that have had the fortunate pleasure of reading my emails since my old Peace Corps days in Togo and my last semester in Ethiopia, this water issue is becoming old news. Africa has water problems, blah blah blah. Aimee never showers. Yada yada yada. Ok, fine. This is true. It seems worth mentioning though (just to put things in perspective) that I also have a third eye growing out of my head from some newly acquired thirtysomething acne problem. Not only does this growth merit a good face scrubbing, but quite possibly a warm compress to expel whatever it is that is taking over my face. I’m expecting to wake up tomorrow with blurred vision in my left eye. It’s remarkable, really.

Not only do I have the ol’ acne concern, but my feet have been traipsing through the streets of Kigali for two days in my trusty Tevas (yes, the same pair the freaky foot fetish man in NYC asked to sniff way back when)…and I’m almost 100% certain that my foot abscess is rearing its ugly head again. Is that even physiologically possible? Maybe I should see this ankle deep water issue in my bedroom as a blessing. I just saved myself the use of a minimum of three, much-coveted wet wipes that I can save for, ahhh, yes…a rainy day. I’m not entirely clear what to do with my room at the current moment. I called Patel. He was solution-less as to how to remedy a few, unwanted gallons of rain water on the fifth floor of an office building. He was encouraged that I would have something to do to occupy my time on a rainy Thurday evening. Thanks, roomie. There is no maintenance man to speak of. I’m not even entirely sure anyone knows that people live here. So, while Patel is at the restaurant, serving Kigali’s elite chicken tika masala and lentils and drinking fine wine, I’m laying in a puddle (pun intended. Please.) of my own sweat in a puddle of rainwater in my random room on the top of Ecobank. Awesome.

31st birdle

I was walking to work this morning amidst the bustling, (relentlessly) hilly streets of Kigali, and couldn’t help but reflect on my birthday yesterday, and the fact that I seem to have spent more birdles in recent years on the continent of Africa than in my own country. Birthdays away from home always provide a distinct combination of adaptation to the long-standing traditions of birthdays past, coupled with the efforts of exploring new ways to celebrate in the culture you are currently embedded in. Yesterday was no exception. Not surprisingly, the 5th of October, 2009 seemed to echo this persistent theme of permanence (or lack thereof) in my existence as a young adult. A year ago, I celebrated my 30th birthday in an archaic bowling alley in Addis Ababa, drinking cheap beers among dear friends old and new, desperately attempting to accomplish my thesis work in rural Ethiopia. Here I am, a year later-yes, still in Africa, albeit a completely different experience—in a complicated yet beautiful nation struggling to grow and reconcile; a technically unemployed graduate of Tulane University wondering what’s next.

The efforts from new friends and colleagues to make me feel special and honored were well-appreciated. I had a fabulous dinner Saturday night with a small group of friends at one of my favorite restaurants in Kigali, followed by a completely random night of clubbing with Kigali’s finest youth showing off their dance moves and surveying the wonderful world of late night expat life. Yesterday, I was presented with a cake from my adorable Rwandese colleagues at Tulane, had lunch with my incredibly supportive classmate and colleague Bridget, and shared a romantic dinner with my latest and greatest love interest. I had a steady stream of emails, gchats, phone calls, and Facebook messages up the wazoo throughout the day. I truly felt loved and appreciated.

So, here I am, a day into my thirty-first year on this earth, and trying to examine what the take home message could be for the year ahead. Quite obviously, I need to continue to grow—professionally, personally…continue to seek love and goodness, live with intention, live presently. But more obvious to me in recent months (thanks universe!) is this idea of how to best navigate and utilize my energy. I have heard from numerous sources (hopefully reliable) lately that I have an energy that people are drawn to, that’s engaging, that people open up to and find positive (yay). While this often lends itself to intense emotional connection and genuine discourse, I also find myself exhausted much of the time. I have begun to question that maybe I’m too quick to offer myself up to others, that I crave that human authenticity so much that I propel myself boundary-less into space…not a very protective way for me to function in such a complicated world. Maybe I’ve been burned one too many times by not creating a shield to the outside world, being too emotionally available, and in turn, attracting people that are desperately needing that space to share in. Maybe I’m the one that’s drawn to people that seem to need that sort of energy. Who knows? But then I think back to yesterday…the sentiments people shared with me, the love I felt; the efforts from friends and family to remind me what I mean to them and the role I play in their lives. And I realize that maybe that’s the only permanence I need in my life. To know that if I continue to give of myself and live with honesty and goodness, it will come back to me ten-fold through consistently amazing people that come in and out of my life, people that continuously challenge me to live freely and grow. Maybe that’s all anybody needs. I don’t know. But I can guarantee that by this time next year, I will feel as blessed and loved as I did yesterday…and that is something permanent that I can certainly live with. Thanks for the gifts, y’all. Missing you from across the ocean…

Move around Mabel

I’m beginning to realize that no matter how long I remain in Rwanda, there is very little about the expat lifestyle that is not fleeting, momentary. Since I last wrote, I have moved twice, started a new project, welcomed two MSW/MPH interns from Tulane to Rwanda, said goodbye to new acquaintances, and even met a seemingly incredible companion. Overall, I’m really happy I decided to stay in Kigali. I continue to greatly enjoy my colleagues and learn a great deal from them on a daily basis. Not only is the work challenging me to gain new skills, but I have been lucky enough to do some field work bringing me out into rural communities which is always such a great lesson in humility and survival. It has truly been a great gift to try to comprehend the people here, their culture, and what makes them Rwandese. I focus much of my daily intention on staying aware, staying open, allowing for a continuous learning curve that only seems to offer more questions.

Two weekends ago, Karen (one of the new interns) and I went back to Lake Kivu, only this time to the sleepy town of Kibuye. You can walk the entire circuit of the village in under 2 hours, with the lake serving as a calm and peaceful backdrop amidst small islands, jutting cliffs, and trees growing along the mountainside. We stayed at a guest house on the edge of a cliff, with spectacular views of the lake on both sides. Up the road sits a church with stained glass and a tall steeple…the site of one of the worst massacres of the genocide. Over 4,000 people gathered there seeking refuge…and were later killed. It is a hauntingly beautiful spot, with mass graves and memorials…difficult to believe what took place there. It’s hard not to imagine the trauma this community endured…an alarming 9 of every 10 Tutsis were killed in this small lakeside town. It really makes me wonder how little I truly comprehend of Rwandan people, and how they continue to grow and strengthen as a country…the resilience they must have to lead the lives they do. I found Kibuye to be an ironically peaceful place—filled with friendly, calm inhabitants greeting us all day, small children running up to give us hugs, inquisitive yet shy school children wanting to practice their English with the mzungus. Again, words can’t really describe how humbling it was to walk through town and not think about what occurred. I’m beginning to think the longer I’m here, the less I’ll truly understand.

On a much, much lighter note, I am not sure how much I’ve shared about my living situations since I’ve gotten to town. My first month here, I rented from a couple who I knew indirectly through friends of friends from Peace Corps Togo. While a gorgeous house and a relatively nice location in town, it lacked furniture. Like any furniture. I had a bed to sleep in, of course, but with the exception of a very small bookshelf housing my journal and three month supply of sunscreen, the house was empty. Month two I was offered a free place to stay for an American couple who was heading home for annual leave. I was asked to housesit, dog sit, cat sit. I realized during this month that there is no such thing as free lunch. The dog is 4 months, and two days into August, I find myself assisting the local veterinarian in a spay surgery on the dining room table. Um, not the best day I’ve ever had. The cat is 15, and a curmudgeonly old soul—has not yet adapted to the puppy (or the children for that matter). The pets kept me and Lila on our toes and we spent endless hours watching The Office and 30 Rock on the delicious Apple TV until our eyeballs popped out. Then I move in with a 40 year old Indian bachelor and restaurant owner. He literally lives next door to the Tulane office. I open his gate, take about 10 paces to my right, and I’m at work. With rainy season on the way…absolute perfection. I moved in August 28.

Saturday morning I wake up to the sound of packaging tape. I emerge from my room to have Patel inform me that we are indeed moving…the Belgian owner of the house is back in Kigali and wants to move in. Um, huh? Patel assures me that he doesn’t want to disrupt my weekend in any way, but after a few careful minutes of observation, I realize bachelors are not the best movers. Patel was basically taking curtains off the windows, emptying his closet in a huge pile on the floor, and bundling the curtains up to be transported to the new location. Um, do you not have any luggage? Don’t worry dear, he says. Um, ok. I’ll be at the coffee shop. Call me when you’re at the other end and need a woman’s touch. I must say, the new apartment is beautiful…right in the center of town behind the bus station and within walking distance to just about anywhere (although a much longer commute to work…wuh wa). Who cares that it’s technically an office building and everyone else is working for Ecobank, Western Union, or the local radio station? Do I find it odd that I’m sharing an apartment (and a closet!) with an Indian man I barely met two weeks ago? Not at all! Please pass the naan. Only in Africa.

Jesse Grace

It was a hard week to be away. My sister gave birth to her third daughter on Tuesday—Jesse Grace. There I was, at a party at the Marine house behind the US embassy, drinking white wine and chatting with friends when my cell rang. How unbelievably different our lives have become. It’s moments such as these that I really question my decision to continue living so far away from my family, and if the void it creates can be filled by doing challenging work or living in beautiful and complicated countries. And maybe I’m cracking my own case…that for the simple fact that my life IS so different from my sister’s—no partner, no stability, no children…I continue to choose a path that doesn’t allow me to be even remotely settled or sedentary. I persist in the belief that there must be something more, something superior to my current reality, something more gratifying elsewhere that will slowly begin to fill that emptiness, eliminate that doubt. That as long as I’m doing work that drives me to regularly step outside my boundaries of comfort and work with populations that have greater needs than anything I will ever experience in my privileged life, it’s okay that I’m alone. It’s okay that I feel slightly disconnected from my family. It’s ok to change my address every two years. It’s okay to not know what’s next.

Some old colleagues from the Population Council were in Kigali this week for a UN workshop. It was such a wonderful treat to see them and get caught up. I had forgotten how wonderful that organization is, and how important and inspiring their work. Of course, within two days, Judith in all her amazingness had passed my email around to half the workshop, connecting me to projects and work consulting on adolescent girls programs. It made me question my decision to leave New York…wondering how different my life would have been if I had worked through some of the unhappiness and anxiety I felt there…where I would be if I had stayed at the Council and gone to Columbia part time and built a career for myself. Why do I allow my mind to go to these places? I don’t know. It’s a totally futile exercise and is only contributing to my mental instability…as if I need the additional fuel.

And what is it I’m searching for exactly? I’m not entirely clear. I’m pretty sure it’s nothing quite as simple as a light bulb going off in my head and begging me to stay put. Maybe I’m not meant to settle in or settle down anywhere. Perhaps I haven’t met the right person or the right job to convince me to do so. Maybe I never will. But I have to believe that it’s all part of my path that I’m intended to take. That my life wasn’t meant to turn out any other way.

I also don’t find it ironic that I finally received the go-ahead from my Country Director to stick around through December on the weekend of the 4th anniversary of Hurricane Katrina. Last year I had just arrived in Ethiopia. Now here I am in Rwanda. And the longer I’m away, the more I’m convinced that I am not ready to walk away from that city just yet. It feels like home in ways no other place has felt in years. There’s so much work I want to accomplish there. So many more things I need to experience and see and comprehend. It saddened me to be so far away from New Orleans on a weekend that stresses the resiliency of such a troubled yet proud community; remembering and paying respect to the tragedies of the storm; bringing people together to share in the struggles that continue. Reminding us that there is no strength in separation. That there is much work to be done. Ok, so good. Maybe I did answer that question about New York after all.

So, here I am. A new auntie. A semi-temporary, semi-permanent resident of Rwanda. A soon-to-be 31 year old single woman who is kind of employed. Not too shabby I guess. The journey continues…

Cause I gotta have faith, faith, faith

Lila and I just returned from a four day excursion to Uganda. She’s leaving for the states tomorrow to finish up her degree at Tulane (enter stage left: Aims loses her entire social network and becomes a huge loser), so she convinced me to tag along for her final hoorah in East Africa. We left Kigali at 5am on Saturday morning in a horrible rain storm and the pitch dark to board the bus to Kampala, Uganda. It goes without mentioning that I was awake roughly 25 minutes of the 9 hour trip…long enough to gracefully accept a cookie from my Kenyan seat mates, watch two Michael Jackson videos on the bus TV, and get in an argument with a rude face (no cuts, no buts, no coconuts) at the Rwandan/Ugandan border.

We got to Kampala at around 6pm. I felt instantly at home…much more the African city scene I’m familiar with—oncoming traffic dodging the same monstrous potholes; people throwing litter out of bushtaxis; mud; men peeing on walls; streetfood chapatis; mud; oversized billboards promoting HIV testing (or cell phones); loud music; traffic, traffic, traffic; flip flops; mud. We were greeted by two very bubbly Ugandans named Julius and Michael. Julius is the nephew of our Tulane colleague who graciously hooked us up with a free place to stay. Evidently, they took their hospitality very seriously in showing Lila and I around town. We had a blast! Ugandans are incredibly lively, friendly folks. Loads of great restaurants, bars, clubs, music. We spent the evening shuttling around all the hot spots in town, meeting Julius and Michael’s friends from law school and dancing the night away. It was fantastic. Also, I just have to mention that Julius and Michael really restored my faith in men. Two well-educated, attractive, compassionate, thoughtful, hilariously funny men who were giving up their weekend to host Lila and me around town? Maybe there is hope for me after all.

Sunday, we headed out to Jinja in late afternoon…a small town about an hour outside of Kampala world-renowned for its rafting down the Nile River. We arrived after dark at the Nile River Explorers hostel. I always love getting thrown back into the backpacker’s scene…gritty, adventurous, adrenaline junkies seeking out their next thrill and global wanderers hoping to experience Uganda in an authentic, down-to-earth sort of way. Within moments, I questioned my decision to pursue two Master’s degrees and amass an ungodly amount of debt when I could essentially be an extreme sports fanatic with ripped arms, a great tan, and cheap beers at my disposal. Damn.

Rafting was ridiculously fun. The most extreme sporting activity I’ve participated in in recent adult years was learning how to simultaneously hold a can of Bud Light while playing beach volleyball. I had forgotten how exhilarating it is! Our raft consisted of three Brits and a South African, Lila and I, and our Australian guide, Jesse. Obviously, Jesse informed us within moments that Americans complained the most and when Lila suggested we come up with a team name, Joel from the rural UK muttered, “How bloody American of you.” Totally weak sauce. We had some serious moments of extreme sports, I am proud to say. Although we dubbed our raft the “super sloths” (for obvious reasons), we actually did quite an impressive job of battling the raging rapids. We flipped the raft twice. Not only did I miraculously manage to hold on both times, but managed to keep both my contact lenses and come out unscathed (minus the loss of a perfectly manicured pedicure and almost my bathing suit bottoms). It was five hours of hilarious conversation, beautiful scenery, and swimming. With the small exception of the torrential downpour which clearly resulted in an outbreak of hives and Jesse yelling for our sloth asses to paddle harder, it was a perfect day. Totally extreme. Totally awesome.

We really lucked out with our raft mates (I’m not entirely sure they feel the same about us). The two couples were both on an overland journey from London to Capetown…Angela and Andrew in a Land Rover, and Joel and Hannah on a motorbike. Not only was I unbelievably envious of this voyage, but was almost instantly pummeled with questions challenging my current place in life. My self-esteem plummeted by the sheer fact that I could not conjure up one soul that I could take such a trip with and not want to murder after 3 days, not to mention how the hell would I ever be able to afford such a thing? Additionally, my three chronic health afflictions: being allergic to the cold, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and travel narcolepsy, would essentially make me the worst travel partner in the universe. I have to say, it was unbelievably refreshing to be around them and listen to their experiences and stories up to this point of their journey…and even more inspiring to see how affectionate, loving, sweet, and playful they still were. Ahhh, the perfect partner. The flexibility and freedom (and money!) to travel through the continent of my dreams! Why oh why is my life so hard?

All in all, the weekend recharged the batteries (as Vince Vaughan so aptly states in Wedding Crashers) in numerous ways. It was a break from the stresses of work and Kigali. It reminded me of the goodness and joy in meeting new people. It reinforced that being 30 is not, in fact, the beginning of the end as I sometimes think it is…and most of all, encouraged me to continue to believe in living my life with intention and purpose…and from this, only good things can come.

I don't limbo at parties

You know, I’m the first to admit. I don’t “limbo” well. I’m an incredibly OCD-type personality who spends countless hours making lists and thinking too far ahead about endless possibilities impacting my existence on this planet—what some like to refer to as an “over-thinker”. I have attempted many times before to be more mindful; awaken to the present; open myself to the universe and allow things to happen. It’s incredibly difficult for someone like me. And the irony is that “people like me” are often self-aware enough to recognize that the mental gymnastics are nothing more than a futile exercise that never truly gets us anywhere, nor do we gain much by exhausting all the possibilities our little brain can conjure up. Does it present some sense of calm in a very delusional way? Dare I say peace of mind? Not in my wildest dreams.

The source of all this newfound anxiety you ask? A potential extension of my time in Rwanda. Oh god, the mental energy I’ve expended. Abandoning the geriatric poodle and imposing on friends; missing the birth of my third niece (or first nephew =); missing family, missing friends, missing out on life in the Big Sleeze. It’s exhausting. Honestly. My guilt is a full-time job. I won’t bore you with details, but in a nutshell, I have been offered a research position through December here in Kigali. It’s a great opportunity, one I really shouldn’t pass up. When it comes down to it, it’s really kind of a no-brainer…once I clear out all the clutter and guilt and loneliness.
So, here I am again-the dreaded limbiosis. (Please acknowledge that I’m completely aware that this is a made up word, yet somehow perfectly articulates my current state). No matter how much I persuade myself that the transient lifestyle is totally my bag, I’m not entirely convinced that I’m very good at the actual act. Ironically, I’m pretty sure this is stemming from my deep-rooted fear of permanence. I am uncompromising in my state of dissatisfaction. There’s too much to see, explore, experience. The thought of sticking around any place for too long gives me the heeby-jeebies. This is most likely why at the ripe old age of 30, I still don’t have a couch, a car, or a matching set of dinner plates to call my own. That’s just too much stuff. It is also a reflection of my guttural response to becoming a parent. Dang. Now THAT’s permanent. I can’t even date someone longer than a month.

So, I’ve come to terms with sticking around a bit longer…I think. It feels good to have some clarity and make a decision. I think the hardest thing to accept is that while my life is in a constant state of change, the people surrounding me are, too. My best friend leaves NOLA this Thursday. Never crossed my mind when saying goodbye in June that I would come home to an Eddie-less New Orleans. Not even an option. Or meeting amazing people in Rwanda that are just as transient as I am, leaving just as I am getting used to having them in my life. It’s painful. It’s expected. And yet there I am again—finding new ways to transition out of one life into another. Adjusting. Adapting. Recreating a life for myself in a city I love or redefining myself in a new country altogether. I guess it’s part of the impermanence I cling to so strongly. I guess it’s simply just life. And that IS something I can be mindful of.

Now…if only I can convince the next Tulane interns coming this fall to bring a 12 year old poodle as their carry-on?

Paradise Lost

Travelling brings out the best and worst in people, particularly international travel. I have learned this the hard way on numerous occasion, yet am always astonished when I find myself on a weekend where we’re leaning much towards the latter. Coupled with the somewhat inevitability of the artificial, superficial expat world, one typically finds it completely acceptable to by-pass niceties, jump in with both feet, and force oneself into a level of closeness that would otherwise simply not jive in most other settings. It’s part of the transient lifestyle, the adventure, the attitude. Therefore, it didn’t require second thought when planning a weekend trip to Burundi (a short, five hour drive to the small country south of Rwanda) with four other people I have barely known a shade over a month.

There is also something to be said about expectations when travelling, personal perceptions of culture, and overall cohesiveness of groups. My travel companions in a nutshell: a 50-something Indian man who has spent the majority of the last two decades shuttling around East Africa for business. He is more Kenyan than he is Indian…and a complete wild man. Add his silent counterpart: a shy, 20-something, non-drinking Indian Muslim; a 24 year-old sassy Dominicana Americana who also attends Tulane; and a Pittsburgh native and fellow-RPCV from Togo. We were a regular old Benetton advertisement.

I learned quickly that my own expectations were being challenged before we even left Kigali. Evidently Indian time is not a far stretch from African time. Leaving at 10 am really meant 12:30…and that was pushing it. Breathe. The drive was gorgeous as we climbed hills and fell into lush valleys, watching the vegetation become more tropical as we drove farther south. Indian Punjabi music blaring on the semi-functional stereo system; escaping into novels; Ipod salvation; resentful silence; napping…ahhhhh; polite chitchat.

We arrived in bustling Bujumbura just around sundown. At first glance, Burundians are a bit more of a lively bunch that the peaceful calm the Rwandese project. Outgoing, lovers-of-life, energetic, colorful, welcoming. These were my first impressions.

Hindi, Kiswahili, French, English (and I assume some well-warranted choice words in Spanish muttered under the breath)…Burundian francs, US dollars, Rwandan francs. And I wonder why we’re not getting along? It was pure mayhem across the board. Utter confusion every step of the way. Wait, you don’t eat ANYTHING but Indian food? Really? I thought YOU had enough Burundian francs to pay for dinner! Alcoholics socializing with non-alcoholics. Workaholics frustrated with pending deadlines and lack of internet access. Pasty white gals needing too much sunscreen. Disastrous.

I have to say overall, against all odds, I really did enjoy myself. We stayed on the beach at a lively joint which had a dance party going at all times and an amazing view of the mountains and Lake Tanganyika, Africa’s deepest freshwater lake. I spent much of Saturday hopping waves with some Burundian teens, who asked me endless questions about hip hop and Michael Jackson. I fell in love with a four year old named Ritchie, who basically shuffled between my beach towel and my lap all afternoon and giggled uncontrollably while drinking his Fanta and hiding bottle caps in the sand. Magical.

Saturday night, we somehow ended up at the Indian restaurant (again) and got swindled into attending the expat party of all expat parties…karaoke night at the Marine Corps house. Now THIS is what I call cross-cultural exchange. Seriously? I have to say, my Bobby McGee rendition was a bit weak due to the small crowd (and lack of cocktails consumed) but overall, it was interesting to see the expat scene in Bujumbura compared to Kigali. Shocker to discover that it was basically the same. A bunch of Westerners over-indulging in their beverage of choice, chain smoking cheap African cigarettes, and listening to their favorite MJ tunes while figuring out how to score for the night. Pretty standard.

Sunday I stayed on the beach all morning, laying around on day beds plush with pillows and sparkling pools and fruit smoothies and small, inquisitive toddlers wanting to befriend the very pale American in her bandanna and tankini. (Please don’t judge me about the hairy legs. I haven’t had hot water for days). It was a really beautiful day. I started reading a fabulous book. I was consumed with sunshine and music and breeze. It was lovely.

Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the drive home. Bickering. Fighting over where to eat lunch. Hindi. English. Hindi. English. KiSwahili. Go. To. Hell. Stupid. Ass. Face. Racing to the border before it closed. Mommy and Daddy are fighting again! Oh dear Lord, was I happy to reach Kigali and peace out to my travel companions. I’m not entirely sure I’ve processed the weekend entirely, if I will ever subject myself to such social turmoil again. Maybe there’s something to be said for riding solo…at least to the restaurant of your choice =)

Truth and Beauty

There is a moment when travelling when your mind shifts from initial perceptions of a new place, filled with questions and shock and interest into the next layer of complexity—where suddenly what you observe begins to enter a certain realm of normalcy and routine, yet you begin to gain a deeper understanding of what is going on around you, or at least make valid attempts to.

I just spent the last few days in the countryside-partially doing field work and also to celebrate Liberation Day. Getting away from the organized, regimented, structured world of Kigali and heading out into the rural areas (where the majority of Rwanda’s 10 million people live) both simplifies and magnifies the complexity that is Rwanda. In one sense, rural living highlights simplicity; it is red dirt, hand-washed laundry drying in the sun, mud houses, jerry cans strung to the back of bicycles, groups of men hovering around a radio. It is small children wearing ill-fitting clothing, waving at the mzungus in the white SUV. It’s the livelihoods of farmers and village woman selling and weaving and chopping. It is the commonality that is Africa. It is beauty in its purest form.

While this lifestyle is simplistic by our standards, impressions are challenged by the complexity of comprehending this type of poverty and recent history—the daily survival and struggle faced by people that have most likely never visited Kigali, where a President makes decisions for a nation based on progress and forward-movement that the majority of Rwandese will never directly benefit from. It’s almost impossible to watch the gentle-natured Rwandese and picture their lives fifteen years ago during the genocide—the terror and fear they felt; the loss they continue to endure; the violence they witnessed and the loss of trust in their neighbors, communities and the rest of the world as we sat back and watched. And while their government strives towards “One people, one destiny”, there is an unmistakable sadness for that part of their history, and the pain is still very fresh.

Liberation Day commemorates the official end of the genocide when the RFP took over power in 1994. I spent the weekend at Lake Kivu with some friends, appreciating the quiet and also trying to wrap my head around what this nation was like 15 years ago. It’s devastating to think about. Truly. And even more perplexing as I watched the calming sunset over the lake, and how different Rwanda now is, realizing that on the other side, the Congo continues over a decade of suffering similar atrocities…and the chaos and horror faced by the Congolese due to corruption, greed, natural resources, tribal conflict, a breakdown in infrastructure and government–an enormously divided country in the heart of Africa awaiting any sort of rescue. And yet they wait…

For being such a tiny country, Rwanda boasts about its biodiversity…lakes, mountains, forest, volcanoes, plains…as it rightly deserves to. It is magnificent. So, I guess it’s a natural tendency to reflect on one’s own existence when surrounded by such a backdrop. It helped that the village we stayed in was well-lit by the full moon—Africa’s flashlight paving the way. As a dear friend mentioned before I left, this type of work awakens something in me that typically lies dormant in the States. I believe this to be true, and why I’m continuously drawn back to the continent of Africa. It allows me to see my own life with clarity and invites questions that are otherwise dismissed or ignored at home. In that sense, it’s a great privilege to seek that kind of meaning in my life. So yes, after a month in this deeply gorgeous yet pained nation, the cobwebs are once again beginning to clear…and I am opening myself up to the truth and beauty that is Rwanda.

Beautious Butare

Well, here I am in Butare, a beautiful university town three hours south of Kigali. I’m here with my Tulane professor who’s in town for the week overseeing a Social Work training dealing mainly with psychosocial care for people living with HIV/AIDS. Social Work appears to be an up-and-coming profession in Rwanda. In general, my initial impressions of Rwanda are that it is incredibly progressive and becoming a great model for this region of Africa, if not the whole continent. President Kagame appears to be quite the visionary, seeing the benefits of development, accountability, and the acknowledgement of wanting to move forward as a strong country. I was with some fellow expats the other night and there was a sobriety checkpoint (that alone was mind-blowing…in Togo, if there were sobriety checkpoints, there would be no taxis. Ever.) Even more surprising was when the guard gave the driver back his identification without a bribe! I mean, seriously…where AM I?

But it’s been nice to see another part of Rwanda. The entire country is so beautiful—rolling hills, lush mountains, coffee farms and gorgeous horizons. Butare seems a bit more “African”: women walking barefoot carrying things on their heads and babies on their backs; men with their bicycles toting jerry cans; older ladies in traditional African dress from head to toe. Everyone is very kind and fun and much more westernized than I always expect. Everyone has cell phones. Everyone knows who T.I. and Young Jeezy and Ciara are (sorry Mom and Dad-totally hip-hoppin’ it up).

Basically my week has consisted of attending this training five hours a day with Dr. G. and attempting to translate for her from French. Unfortunately for me, the majority of the participants prefer to speak in Kinyarwanda, so I spend the majority of my morning looking at my planner (as only I can do for endless hours) and attempt to look interested. It’s a very motivated and engaging group, though, and exciting to think of where Social Work could go as a profession in a country like Rwanda with so much recent trauma and history.

After the training, I go to town to pick up my “lunch”, which today consisted of a warm juice box, two samosas, a half tin of Pringles (once you pop, you really, really can’t stop), and some shortbread cookies. I’ve basically decided to boycott eating out in Rwanda. It’s ridiculously expensive and I can’t seem to find local food (which is my favorite thing in the world) so until I come across the deliciousness of homemade beans and rice on the side of the road, snack shack it is. After consuming my delectably nutritious lunch, I go to my hotel room (which of course has no water. For those of you who remember my emails from Ethiopia last fall, this is ALSO becoming a sick curse that is following me around the globe.) I nap. My foot continues to heal, but I haven’t been able to really walk around much, and I am now fighting off a bad cold/sinus infection which I’m pretty sure is my immune system’s way of saying a big old screw you after the events of last week and attempting four different antibiotics in a ten day span). So, I sleep…and sleep, and wake up in an enormous puddle of my own drool because I can’t breathe through my nose, and head to the hotel of Dr. G. to steal her wireless internet at the fancy mzungu hotel.

Today, I paid to use the pool as a shower substitute. Obviously, the temperature was hive-activating, and I spent like 40 seconds in the pool, only to have a very sweet Rwandese girl tell me I needed to expend some energy to warm up. Little did she know I was simply rinsing off in hopes of not getting scabies or head lice.

I have no idea why I haven’t taken any pictures yet. It’s a stunning country. Well, I do know. Last week I was hospitalized for a foot abscess and my battery died in my camera. So there. I promise they are coming soon. Or I’ll just post my friend’s pix and pretend they’re mine like I usually do =)

Missing you all madly. xoxoxoxo

The $75 foot

I have to question my continued decision to travel overseas, as I appear to have bad luck hovering around me no matter what corner of the globe I’m on. Basically, I’ve been in Rwanda for five days. It’s glorious weather, unbelievably beautiful hills, helpful and humorous people, sunshine…loveliness all around, really. Kigali is very un-African in many ways. It’s the most organized, law-abiding, regimented African country I have ever been to. There are smooth roads, speed bumps, cross walks, matching outfits, lunch buffets, helmets for the motorcycle taxis. There is no garbage littering the streets. There is no street food; there are no mangy dogs wandering the streets in search of food. There is no need to bargain for taxi prices. The city is covered with social media campaigns discouraging sugar mamas and sugar daddies (my favorite billboards by far). It is beautiful here.

It’s been fantastic being able to communicate again after my three months in Ethiopia, never mastering more than ten Amharic words. Interestingly, Rwanda is shifting from French-speaking to English speaking, so it never fails that if I address someone in French, they speak English and vice versa. I’m hoping to get a grasp on Kinyarwanda while I’m here, but so far, I have failed miserably at directing the moto taxis to the Tulane office.

Everyone at the office is wonderful—incredibly kind, dedicated, friendly people determined to make some positive change in a progressive country. I’ll be working mainly on the malaria projects here, as well as dabbling a bit in the Social Work training program that is being developed a few hours south at a local university. The other interns are great. I’ve managed to hook up with some Return Peace Corps volunteers from Togo also doing graduate school work, so it’s always nice to have that community. Through my friend Joan, I have landed a gorgeous house to rent for the summer (through a friend of a friend of a friend through Peace Corps), with a veranda overlooking the entire city from above. Looking forward to moving out of the guest house and making some space for myself that feels a bit more permanent.

I wish I could say more about my work week, but alas, it has been consumed by the $75 foot. Now, as a brief reminder, I arrived in Kigali Saturday evening. I wake up Sunday to find a very small red dot on the ball of my foot, which I assume is a spider bite or something of the sort that attacked me during the night. Well, by Tuesday, I am barely able to walk and am wondering why my foot has its own heartbeat. Hmmm. I get to the office and Josh (my supervisor) suggests I go to the clinic. It costs $27 just to get a consultation with a doctor. Rwanda is expensive, folks. Like $4 cup of coffee expensive. I don’t get it. It just don’t seem right y’all! The French comes in handy as I argue with two doctors—one who believes I have an abscess and the other who thinks I just have an infection and need antibiotics. I leave with a prescription and a phone call from my boss, Laura. Lucky me—Tulane’s infectious disease specialist is in Kigali teaching a two-week course. I head to her hotel. She takes one look and says, “Yeah, it’s an abscess.” She proceeds to boil a sewing needle in her hotel room and puncture this massive growth on the bottom of my foot. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. If only I knew the half of it. She advises me on some better antibiotics and I’m off.

So, two days later and Gimpy Gertrude has not slept a wink and can barely walk. While a self-admitted hypochondriac, I like to pretend I have a pretty high pain tolerance. As I have mentioned to a few friends and family already, if I had a worst enemy, I would wish they got an abscess on the ball of their foot. It’s unbearably painful. So, I call Dr. McLellan today and she is not thrilled with my progress. I make plans to meet up with her and show her the infamous foot. “Damn. Damn. Damn.” Comforting Dr. Susan. Very comforting. She is worried I have a raging infection that has possibly spread to my bone, assures me I’m on the wrong antibiotics, and rapidly rearranges her day’s schedule to accompany me to the hospital. Awesome Thursday. A minor procedure and some cultures are needed. Fantastic. Luckily, we bargained for some localized antiseptic to numb my foot before the scalpel went to work. Not the best 15 minutes of my life. I am proud to say that I didn’t cry, but was basically pounding my fists on the table and biting my arm in agony before begging Dr. Rwanda to take a break so I could catch my breath. Not super fun…not fun at all…and another 50 bucks. Wuh wa.

So, I am now back at the hotel, drinking a very large beer and ordered by the Tulane staff to stay home tomorrow and rest, as I am intended to head south on Monday morning for a Social Work training for the week. Pictures are on their way. I haven’t had much opportunity to explore and photograph due to the crazy foot, unless of course, you are all interested in the progression of the dreaded abscess, which I doubt you are.

Alas, I am convinced I’m on the up and up…and hoping to experience Kigali without hobbling around like a first class dork. Lots and lots of love to all…and more from Butare next week. =)

Mr. Lyons Aime and Lemon-lime Gatorade

I should have sensed it…the black cloud of travel hovering over my head as I walked through the doors of the NOLA airport. My initial attempts at self-check in failed miserably. No reservation for a Ms. Aimee Lyons. Chicago? Nope. Brussels then? Nada. Uh, Kigali? Sorry, darlin’. Um, awesome. It’s not the most settling feeling to have the gate agent shaking her head as she types frantically into the computer as you are about to embark on a two day journey. But wait…we DO have a reservation for a Mr. Lyons Aime. Score. Now about your luggage. It’s 6 lbs overweight…that will be $50. Eek. Hmmm, maybe this In Touch weekly magazine will lighten my load? After a few futile moments of shuffling around my Tevas and tank tops, the woman says, “It’s alright, baby. Go ahead.” Gotta love NOLA. I get to Chicago uneventfully, carefully planning my last American meal during my three hour layover in the mecca of food options in O’Hare. I settle on a steak sandwich, fries, and a strawberry margarita (with an excessive side order of dill pickles) and spend my remaining time endlessly saying my goodbyes over the telephone.

Now, it’s worth mentioning that airplanes are the only location on the planet that I do NOT suffer from Social Boundary Disorder. Rarely am I awake long enough to engage anyone in meaningful conversation, and if I am, I prefer to catch up on celebrity gossip, listen to music, or dive into a book. Yet, alas, I found myself chatting it up with an adorable newlywed couple from Michigan headed to Ireland for their honeymoon. And time continues to pass…and we wait, and wait…and the pilot comes over the intercom and hour after sitting on the runway, alerting us to some “cargo issues”. Wuh wa. I immediately shift my thoughts to the storage bin of technological equipment I agreed to take to Kigali for Tulane. Is it my fault we are sitting here, resorting luggage? “Sorry folks. We need to taxi back to the next available gate and sort out this cargo issue. Five to seven minutes max.” And that is a direct quote. 2.5 hours later, every person on the jumbo jet has missed their international connection. Glug! I sleep it off, hoping that during my six hour nap we will miraculously make up time due to some forgiving wind patterns and gain back an hour of our lives. I wake up as we land in Brussels. It’s 10:12 am. My flight to Kigali leaves at 10:40.

I’m 44D. This is not my bra size people-this is my seat assignment. I am literally the second to last row in the airplane, and by the time we all deplane, I am sprinting to the gate. I arrive at my terminal only to find another security checkpoint, and am in a line behind 15 people with no fewer than 30 pieces of carry-on luggage, all assuring me they are also on my flight and I can’t go ahead of them in line. They are liars. My bag goes through the x-ray machine. It’s flagged. The very deliberate and delicate Belgian man starts removing every item out of my backpack, inquiring innocently about each and every object. And what is this? That is 3 months worth of tampons that I would appreciate you returning to their rightful place. And this? My Gatorade powder mix. Anyone who has done any travel in a developing country understands the essential nature of Gatorade. It serves numerous functions: curing horrible hangovers on account of cheap, locally made brews and liquors; rehydration nation after days of traveler’s diarrhea. It’s no joke…and it’s a necessity. I’d rather lose a finger than give up my Gatorade. I grow impatient, muttering, “Seriously, dude? My plane leaves in like 3.5 seconds.” Very culturally appropriate. He allows me to go and I sprint down the ramp to the gate door, only to have a Belgian woman radio over her walkie talkie, shake her head, and apologize that I am too late to board. I look longingly at my plane that sits at the gate and walk away defeated and depressed. To be fair, it was literally 10:38.

Next flight to Kigali? Saturday morning. It is Thursday at 11am. Poop. Sooo, I accept that I am now in Brussels for two unexpected days, a European vacation of incredible circumstance yet welcomed at the same time. I meet a few other Africa-bound late-comers, and we spend the next two days gallivanting around Brussels like regular old tourists: Belgian draft beer, french fries, cobblestone streets, cathedrals, chocolates. Maybe I could get an internship here? It’s been a while since I had been to Europe. I had forgotten how wonderful it is…the outside cafes, the laissez-faire attitudes, the style, the romance. It was no irony that I went to see live music last night, only to discover an incredible African band that tore the roof off the café. I’m anxious to get to Kigali, but grateful that I was able to have a taste of Europe before returning to the continent of my dreams…

Hopefully the next time you hear from me, I will have successfully arrived in Rwanda, and will be eating french fries and drinking draft beer on the streets of Kigali.