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.

The Passage

It continuously amazes me that someone who self-admittedly has issues transitioning chooses to do so on such a regular basis. It’s as though my body has a 24 month internal timer, alerting me that life is becoming too mundane, too settled, convinced that there is too much to discover, experience, explore. I haven’t lived anywhere longer than two years in the past decade-possibly something to explore with my next therapist? So, off I go again…this time to Rwanda…to intern for Tulane for three months in Kigali. What I will be doing particularly, I’m not entirely certain…I only know that I’m anxious to return to Africa—a place that has inexplicably made me feel more at home than most places I’ve lived in my own country.

I’ve certainly entered that head space of change: losing sleep, feeling anxious, expending serious emotional energy about leaving my little world in New Orleans. The last few weeks, I’ve been questioning whether the abundance I’ve been feeling lately is my mind’s way of challenging my decision to leave, or if I truly feel this happy and dare I say content in my life. The shift from being a full-time, dual degree grad student to having all the free time in the world to spend with friends, engage in community, and celebrate spring festival season is most likely not coincidental in this mood shift. There’s something so engaging and authentic about New Orleans that makes it unlike any other place. It’s gritty and determined and organic. It’s a city that’s constantly evolving while holding tightly to the roots that make it the unique and spontaneous place that it is. It’s full of beauty and pain and history, and welcomes a space for you if you so choose. It’s a place that believes in the strength of community. It’s a place I picture myself staying for a while…yet I am drawn back to the continent of Africa as I always seem to be—to listen, engage, experience, learn, appreciate, practice patience and tolerance, and open myself up to the beauty of the world and its people.

Some of you may be wondering where the title of my blog came from. It’s from Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, a book that has held great significance in my life. If you have not yet read it, I strongly recommend it. Essentially, he argues that from personal tragedy comes triumph; that suffering allows man the opportunity to grow spiritually beyond himself; that if there is a meaning to life at all, there must also be meaning in suffering. A message that struck me was one of his ideas behind being human—that if energy is directed toward something or someone other than oneself—by simply giving to a cause or another person, the more human that person becomes. Man can discover this meaning by experiencing truth and beauty—by experiencing nature and culture, or by experiencing a human being in his uniqueness and loving him, allowing us to see our own potential not yet actualized while also reaching salvation through love—what Frankl believes to be the ultimate and highest goal to which a man can aspire. Being overseas challenges me to be present in this mindset…seeking commonality and exploring what connects us as human beings, attempting to improve the human condition in some way, while simultaneously gaining more insight into myself and the person I am.

Stay tuned for more….hoping Rwandan internet is up to the blogging challenge…much love and abundance from the Big Easy….