French Lessons

The sun beats down on the hard, black lava rock outside HEAL Africa. The dust billows in the air as the motos and chukudus fly by. My new French teacher, Stuart, meets me in the Jubilee Center and we start our short walk to his school.

Stuart is a self-taught translator/interpreter, who has been contracted by my NGOs in the Goma area to interpret meetings. As we mosey through the dusty streets he asks me about what life is like in Vancouver and excitement moves across his face as we discuss the Olympics.

We arrive at our destination, a small storefront on a side street. The windows are barred and the door locked. With a turn of a key we enter the small, cool room. The cement walls are painted turquoise and white plastic deck chairs are neatly ordered in the room. The small chalkboard is commandingly situated at the front of the class with old lessons smudged and smeared across it.

I smile as I hear Michael Jackson playing in the background. Stuart introduces me to the others in the classroom as they vacate from my private tutoring lesson. He switches off Michael and we get to work.

Kigali

Uggghhh

There are always hiccups along the way. No matter how hard you may try to plan something out something small will make you need to change your plan. This happened today.

I woke up this morning to the sound of my stomach, grumbling and groaning. Not good. I am only in Kigali for a short period of time and it is supposed to be my time for adventure. I attempted to shake of the sickness and tell myself I can go on.

I made it downtown Kigali via moto and met up with Loran and Desiree. We ended up going to a bookshop and a handy craft store. I was clutching on to my water bottle as if I was hanging off a cliff and it is the one thing that can save me. First water bottle drained so I cracked the seal on the second.

As a moved through the handy craft store I couldn't hold back the dreaded feeling that I would not be able to continue on with my day. I forced a smile and tried to laugh it off but who was I kidding. I reluctantly walked to edge of the curb to begin the routine of bargaining with a moto driver; I was going home. I stopped by a grocery store and picked up something to nibble on. I chucked my back pack onto the couch and an opened another water bottle. This was my vacation?

I had gone a month without incident. I guess it was bound to happen at some point. I need to be prepared to adapt to the situation no matter what it may be. Couldn’t this have waited until a day I didn’t want to go into work? Oh well. Moving on.

Thinking about Ethiopian food tonight. Gonna tough it out and go for the experience. Tomorrow is a new day, and a new adventure.

Bring The Rain

The dark, grey clouds loom over the Rwandan hills before charging across Lake Kivu. The rain here can only be described as stealthy, you never know when it’s going to hit and before you know it you are soaked to the bone.

This morning as I was walking back to the HEAL Hospital after having coffee a couple minutes down the road I was brutally attacked by the wet beast, and the worst part was I could see it coming. Harper and I were casually strolling when we noticed cars a block away switch on their windshield wipers. Harper, a seasoned expat resident of Goma, whipped out her rain jacket, it might as well have been in a holster. I felt as though we were under fire as she said, “go on without me!” Being the rookie that I am I thought that I could out run the gnarly squall.

I rounded the corner and I could see HEAL Africa's logo guiding me like the North Star only a block away. I could make it! Man oh man was I ever wrong. I splashed through the growing puddles with my flip-flops spraying the back of my jeans. It was as if Mother Nature decided turn on her pressure washer. I was instantly soaked through and quickly found shelter under a tree across the street.

Harper joined me soon after and all we could do was laugh and worry about our laptops. We waited under the tree, getting dripped on for several minutes before we decided to bite the bullet and make a run for it. When we finally arrived at our destination my shirt was see through.

As we entered the room we were greeted by snickers of the dry people hunkered down inside. The rain sounded like hail on the tin roof above us as I watched a mini waterfall explode out of the gutter overhead.

Next time I will not be so naive.

Night Moves

Last night was a first. It was the first time that I had gone for a drive at night in Goma. Now you might say, “driving at night is no different than driving during the day, it is just darker.” And I would respond “you are wrong, sir!”

The city of Goma changes when the sun goes down. Suddenly the armed soldiers you ignore during the day become menacing and sketchy. The cars drive faster on the roads and there isn’t as much foot traffic along the makeshift sidewalks.

Although getting ice cream was not our soul reason for going out, it was a very important mission. Weaving through the streets of Goma and coming to a quick stop in front of the Lebanese owned “Shoppers” grocery store was a contradiction in itself.

Walking through the doors of Shoppers is like walking into a grocery store at home. Pringles, Hershey’s chocolate bars and even Kellogg’s cereal grace the shelves at this wondrous place. We make a b-line for the freezer where a large assortment of ice cream is waiting. After a few minutes of deliberation we finally decide to buy two flavors.

We joke about how much we are going to enjoy our ice cream as we walk to the cashier. I slide my box onto the cashier’s counter and take out my wallet. I am not paying attention as she “beeps” me through until she tells me how much it costs, 17 American dollars!!! Ya I know its freakin’ crazy. I look at the other box of ice cream Loran is holding and without words we both decide that one will be enough. Despite what anyone may say, it was the best ice cream I have ever had and was worth every penny.

We were not proud of our expensive ice cream purchase. Especially since 17 dollars could help feed some patients at the HEAL Africa hospital who are without food. But we guiltily chose to indulge our selves tonight with a treat that we will not be a habit.

The comforts of home come at a cost when you are thousands of miles away. I am going to make an effort to learn about the comforts and treats of the local ‘Gomatricien’. I have a feeling they may be cheaper.

Good Night

The sun slowly migrates to the horizon as I wait to make the half-hour drive back to Maji. We pile into the car, packing as many people as we can in the back seat to avoid bouncing around on the pothole filled roads of Goma.

At the one intersection we have to stop at I hear the routine tap on my driver’s side window by a persistent boy of around 10 years old asking for some money or a cookie. I respond with the rehearsed Swahili dialogue that I tell him every day. “hakuna pesa, pole” “I have no money, sorry.” His smile turns into disappointment as he walks away, but I know that tomorrow we will do the dance again.

Once back at Maji, I grab my book and head for the water’s edge. I sit and try to read as the sights and sounds of the fisherman returning home distract me. I read until the sun drops behind the Congolese mountains and I can no longer withstand the constant swatting of mosquitoes.

After dinner and tea I dodge up to the apartment upstairs. I am met at the door by a smile and simple question, “can I grab you a beer?” We rehash the day’s events, the good and the bad, as my bottle becomes dry. Our eyelids become heavy and the generator shuts off leaving us in complete darkness. It’s time for the small trek back to my room.

I pass by a dark, silent figure with a large machine and a straight face, one of our three night guards. He apologizes if he startled me and continues on his loop of the property. By flashlight I organize my room and make sure my mosquito net is tucked away. I lay my head back on the pillow and look at my watch, its 9:45 pm and I am exhausted. Another day is done.

Driving

I am no longer a measly pollywog in Goma, DR Congo. I have crossed the metaphorical equator of driving its crazy streets. I am now a shellback!
This morning started like any other idle Thursday: breakfast lakeside coupled with discussion of the day’s events. I did not expect that today would be the day that I lose my African driving virginity. As we piled into the car I took my usual squished place in the back seat. Once I had settled in, I heard faint jingle of keys, like the sound of Tinkerbelle sprinkling fairy dust on Peter Pan. I had been selected to drive the team into town today! I immediately jumped to my feet and rushed to assume my new position in the cockpit situated on the right side of the car. With the turn of the key, my noble steed roared to life and after a quick turn to orient myself I was out into the madness of the volcanic Goma streets. My heart pumped as I zigged and zagged through the minefield of potholes. Moto taxis (motorcycles) zipped by me, I felt like Han Solo and the Pajero, my Millenium Falcon. As I gained confidence I used the horn passing trucks full of empty beer bottles. When it came time for my first right turn I was directed by a policewoman to bust through a crowd of people. I overrode my safety mechanism and dove in horn blaring.
As quick as it started it all came to an end. With the ritual two horn blasts the mighty gates of HEAL Africa opened. We had made it to our destination unscathed. Today I conquered the task of driving through the littered streets of Goma, my pink driver’s license is my badge of honour. Who knows what I will face tomorrow.

Treasure or Garbage?

The big metal doors open and the dry dusty air meets my nostrils. Boxes fill the shipping container to the brim. The frustrating sound of hundreds of individually packed syringes falling through the bottom of the broken box I hold in my hands is all too familiar. This has become my daily routine this past week at HEAL Africa.

The shipping container, that now acts as the keystone in the technical department structure at HEAL Africa, is full of medical supplies sent from Canada. My initial response to hearing that Canada was responsible for the medical supplies was pride. However now that I have had the responsibility of sifting and sorting through it all I am less than impressed, and actually more embarrassed. The supply consists of broken, outdated machines, and materials that have been expired for 10 years.

I would like to be the first person to say that I am being very harsh with my observation. There is a lot of great stuff that came in the container: orthopedic equipment and surgical gloves being the majority. Unfortunately the amount of expired, unusable goods, has cast a large shadow over the usable equipment.

Why do people think that our garbage can be some other person's treasure. This is not always the case, especially when equipment labeled "Unsafe!" or "Recall!" is in the mix. Something is not always better than nothing! In 2000, the WHO released 'Guidelines For Health Care Equipment Donations', one point jumped off the page to me, “if the quality of an item is unacceptable in the donor country, it is also unacceptable as a donation.”

It takes time and money in order to go through everything. Time and money that is valuable to an NGO.

There needs to be more thought put into what is sent overseas. I understand that it is time and cost consuming, but please take the time to thoughtfully fill it. I don't think I am the only one who would rather have to wait a long time for a full, useful container rather than having several semi-useful containers sitting on the already cramped HEAL Africa property. The useful equipment that has been collected will change how the hospital runs day to day, I just wish that the whole container could have had the same impact.

Sorting with my team.

Da Fashionista

Why should a sense of fashion be limited to those people who live in the west?

Walking down a main street in Vancouver you will come across some pretty elaborate clothing styles. Without even speaking with the people you can make an educated guess of what they are like based on the clothes they wear. People don’t wear the clothes they do purely out of necessity back at home; they wear them out of style.

The Congolese have their own clothing that is, with the lack of a better word, ‘traditional’. Bright, complex designs cover the garment weather it is a skirt, headscarf, or men’s blazer. However there are those people that are unable to purchase such ‘stylish’ clothes. These are the people that rely on donated clothing.

It is not uncommon to see kids and adults alike, walking to school and work sporting a Canucks t-shirt or Calgary Flames jersey. Not to say that die-hard NHL fans are non-existent in Goma, DR Congo, it's just that the people here do not wear the hockey jersey for the same reason someone in Vancouver would.

We, westerners, wear clothes in an attempt to make some sort of social statement or to fit in with certain crowd. That one t-shirt that we just had to have, the one that we really wanted is quickly converted into a garment that someone needs.

For instance, this is the last place I thought I would see this pair of footwear.



I thought I had chosen a lake water shower over thrashing powder this year, but, who knows, I may have just found my new ski partner for this season (sorry dad).

Good Morning

In the morning I am met outside the gates of Maji by Safari, my tennis partner. He passes me my tennis racket and we start a slow 2km jog down the lakeside road to the Karibu Hotel. Motos zip by us with a ritual honk as I try to dodge the potholes. Just five houses down from Maji there is public lake access.

The public lake access is not like the public beach access we are used to back in Vancouver. When I jog by at 6am the road and lake are teeming with activity. Families are filling up the jerry cans for the day, while others are doing a week’s worth of laundry. Moto drivers slip into the spaces at the water’s edge to wash their bikes as the fisherman sing their songs as they head out to drop their nets.

A diverse community gathers everyday at this one spot out of necessity. I receive the blank stares and the odd smile as I brush through the crowds with Safari. Boys run beside us asking for cookies and money unable to keep up under the weight of their water cans.

When we reach the red clay courts of the Karibu Hotel we are met by two armed Congolese soldiers; their general is playing on the court beside us. Just when I think I can’t chase the ball anymore Dr. Jo arrives ready for his swimming lesson. After doing our stretches and getting up to date one the local news, we slip into the pool for half an hour.

I arrive back at Maji to be met by a table full of people down by the water’s edge, fresh, clean fruit and homemade bread at my fingertips. I quickly eat and rush to get changed as the car horn honks to remind me that I still need to go to work today. Another day has begun.

A Comfortable Adventure

I have now been on the Africa continent for close to 3 weeks. I have been away from the comfort of Canada for longer than this before, like when I was on Class Afloat, but for some reason my stay in Africa has been different than my first few weeks on the Concordia. The most notable difference being that I am on my own. I am someone who likes to be surrounded by close friends; it is rare that I am given a blank slate to work with. Being alone in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language is a dangerous combo. It’s an uphill battle.

Now all that being said, I do have to remind myself that I am only 3 weeks into my African adventure, and I have to accept that "adventures" are not easy. However they do provide excitement. For example, today I had some time to kill before driving back to Maji from HEAL so I decided to research flights to Zanzibar. Where else could I just casually toy with the idea of taking a few days, hop on a plane and chill off of the east coast of Tanzania?

So after I got home i listened to some music that reminded me of home and i started to see my “hardships” in a new light. Living in Goma has opened so many doors for me. The opportunities are endless. Sure its going to be hard, but at the end of the day i have to ask myself where do you really want to be right now? And more times than not the answer is going to be, “RIGHT HERE!”

flying uncertainty

Goma is definitely not a quiet city. From the crowing roosters in the morning to the crashing thunder at night there is nonstop noise. However one sound is prominent through out the day, planes. Goma has a small airstrip that doesn’t ever seem to rest. Planes pass over the city approximately every 15 minutes.

With all of the air traffic going on it is hard not to ask the question, what is in those planes? They can’t possibly be all passenger jets flying people in for a weekend getaway in the eastern Congo, can they?

Today, a woman from Canada, a victim of a chimpanzee attack, dropped into critical condition. There was an imperative need for some sort of air evacuation, yet despite the constant buzz of planes overhead it was surprisingly inaccessible. Unfortunately we were unable to organize a flight and she had to travel 3 hours by land accompanied by an expat doctor to Kigali.

My imagination runs wild when the planes fly overhead. Are they full of diamonds? gold? coltan? UN VIPs? The list goes on and on.

In a region that lives in the shadow of social and governmental uncertainty it is hard to accept that it has a constant, efficient link to the outside world; maybe it is the air travel that creates the uncertainty. Even when presented with a medical emergency, other, more “important”, things take precedent. The airstrip in Goma seems to provide more questions than answers. I hope I am able to answer a few of them in the next several months.

Dinner Discussion

There is something about eating and conversation that just go well together. My family has always been a fan of the family dinners as I was growing up. Dinner was more than just shoving food in our mouths, it was a time to decompress, catch up on the day’s events, laugh and argue. The dinner table helped to facilitate a sense of community. I was fortunate enough to have the same luxury with my roommates last year at school.

I am privileged to have a similar community around the table at Maji in Goma. Unlike my family’s table and my roommate’s table, the table at Maji constantly has people coming and going. On one hand this is a negative because I am not able to really develop relationships when they are only in Goma for a short period of time. However, on the positive side, I have met civil rights lawyers, businessman, doctors, pastors, nurses and logisticians. There is no shortage of new stories, point of views and jokes.

I came to Goma looking to learn as much as I possibly could about the developing world and how I could operate in the development field. And I have learned a lot so far, I just never thought I would learn as much as I have from just sitting around the dinner table in the evening.

Lake Kivu

When I first saw Lake Kivu my first thought was “WOW!!” The lake is amazingly beautiful. In the morning, its dead calm and in the distance you can see fisherman paddling in their dug out canoes. In the early afternoon it sparkles as the high sun reflects off of its surface. As the afternoon changes into evening the large clouds roll off the Rwandan mountains showering Lake Kivu in heavy rain. The clouds move further south where lightening cracks over the rolling hills followed by and echoing boom of thunder.
On the weekend wake boards and jet skis fly across the surface accompanied by woops of laughter coming from the expats that ride them. Lake Kivu also acts as a highway for trade and transportation. However that is not the whole story of the magnificent lake.
As well as fostering fun the lake also fosters life. Thousands of people use the lake as their primary water source everyday. Although life may seem is easy for those living within walking distance from the lake, it comes at a price. As well as fish, the lake is also home to Cholera. Cholera is bacteria found in fresh water that can cause serious gastrointestinal problems. So... every jerry can of water pulled out of the lake needs to be treated with chlorine in order to insure that the water is truly clean. Chlorine costs money, money that not everyone has. This is where complications happen. The lake goes from being a life source to a source of disease and hardship.
After a long, hot day I am able to come home to Maji, flip of my shoes and plunge into the lake to cool off. For me Lake Kivu is a luxury, for others it is a hard earned necessity.

Crossing the border

The Rwandan-Congo border sits on the shore of mighty Lake Kivu bustling with energy. People cross everyday to sell their goods either in Goma, DR Congo or in Geyseni, Rwanda. UN vehicles drive across full of troops and refugee supplies accompanied by the odd Mercedes with a Dubai license plate. We hopped into the Land Cruiser flying the HEAL Africa flag and head into town. At first DR Congo seems no different from Rwanda, until we enter the city center. The smell of burning garbage and car exhaust hit us like a brick wall. The streets teemed with activity as the moto drivers (taxi motorbikes) weave in and out of traffic like ants in a uniform line. Goma is a sensory overload. The noise, smells and sights are overwhelming. We were definitely not in Kansas anymore. After a quick stop at the HEAL Africa office we jumped back out on the bumpy road to our final destination of the day, Maji Matulivu, the HEAL Africa guesthouse. Just a short distance away from the city center Maji sits right on Lake Kivu. Just a few doors down lay one of Mobutu’s many palaces, which now acts as a government office. Tired and hungry we enter the gates of Maji; we were met by the striking view of lake Kivu bordered both by Rwanda and DR Congo. Maji is an oasis in the volcanic desert that is Goma. Maji is a place of rest and relaxation amongst the business and stress that lie just outside the gates. While my days will be spent in the madness of Goma I will be able to sit back and decompress from it all comforted by the warm hug of Maji.