Muzungu's Doctor Discoveries

Please don't let me get sick here. Or have an accident. Or have a baby (not sure if that's an option). Please...

I arrived this morning at Bujumbura's public hospital: Hôpital Prince Régent Charles, prepared to translate for Dr. friend Danica McKenzie during her patient visits. Dressed in doctors scrubs and a make shift hair net (a half sheet wrapped around my head: reeeeal professional), I rather enjoyed looking like I knew what I was
doing. Yet I soon found myself standing next to a patient speaking Kurundi, a doctor speaking French and Danica, understanding mostly english and quickly realized that my limited 'doctor vocabulary' made the job much harder than I had expected. Thank goodness the French use many of OUR english words in their medicines. Glucose, Fructose, Nyacine, Ribose... I am pretty sure Wonderbread Canada came up with those.

The outdoor walkways connecting hospital rooms were lined with families eating lunch. Most had come to the city center and had no means to return home until their sick/pregnant family members were also ready for the big trek back up the mountainous hills or to wherever home was. Apparently, if unable to pay for medical fees, they are not allowed to leave the hospital. In my calculations this leaves several options:

A. One family member leaves and tries to quickly find work to pay back the debt
B. The family calls another relative with enough cash to make the trek down to the city center
C. The patient tries escaping through one of the already broken hospital windows with a bed sheet.
D. All wait for the family's food to dissapear and four to ten more bodies require medical assistance

I am not sure Prince Charles would appreciate having a hospital inducing these type of responses named after him.

Anyways, after being stared at by dozens of 'my' newest patients and hallway friends who, I am sure, were very impressed by my African style turban, it was my turn to stare. Maybe I was a phoney doctor, maybe uneducated in french medical terms, but experienced or not, I somehow found myself included in a real life African surgery. I wasn't sure if I had stepped onto an episode of House or whether Discovery Channel had expanded it's filming range. All I knew was that at L'Hôpital Prince Régent Charles my borrowed green medical scrubs and London Drugs underwater camera had somehow verified my legitimate access into the operating room. Sweet.

Several swift slices (no longer talking about Wonderbread here) and a few litres of blood later, I watched as a young woman pried open a woman's belly and wedged out a very large and rather greenish curly haired baby. (In Canada we would call this a ceaserean.) The experience gave me new respect for Danica, who has already performed several of these 'procedures' here, working with dull knives and almost no life saving equippment should something go wrong. I watch the young doctor clean off the bloody knife and reach for a large needle threaded with blue string and I decide not to get sick.

Mzungu meets John de Dieu

I selfishly extend my arms and legs across the bed in my small motel room in Rwanda. Yesterday, the bed looked great. Today, it appears 5 times too big. I know I haven't grown (except maybe in pounds thanks to the amazing ability of palm-oil to coat everything we consume here), yet somehow the bed feels different. Maybe it is just that I am actually appreciating it for what it is.

I met a boy today named John de Dieu. He is 8 years old and has a contagious laugh, one that caught me by suprise. He was painfully shy when I first introduced myself, not that I blame him. His family rarely sees foreign visitors in their remote village, and most certainly has never had one pay a personal visit. I asked John what his favorite sport was, despite already knowing the answer: football. He plays with the other school children, fabricating the sports equippment out of dried bananna leaves. Very resourceful. I think schools in Canada should incorporate similar Maple Leaf craftings into their PE curriculum (as long as kids are warned to leave the nuts on the ground). (I can already picture the headlines: 'Rising Squirrel Attacks on Primary School Children as an Educational Tool?'). Every idea has its downfalls. There are no squirrels in Africa.


John's parents were delightful, especially his dad. He ran to get me a small wooden bench from the bedroom. We sat on it and chatted for a couple of hours, discussing his life here and my life in Canada. Neither himself, his wife nor his three children had ever heard of snow, and I relished the opportunity to describe Vancouver sledding at Christmas time. The family asked a few questions and then started laughing. They explained that they also go 'sledding' here, except they use dirt as snow, and bananna leaves as their sleds! I was astounded. In the short while I have been here, I have witnessed MANY uses of bananna leaves. They serve as footballs, sleds, roof coverings, umbrellas, animals feed, brooms and even mattress stuffers. That puts even ducktape to shame.

Before leaving John's house, I told him I was going to be his sponsor sister. I wanted him to know that the letters he would receive from Canada, the stickers, the pictures etc. came from someone who really cared about his life. I was happy that I had been able to see him here. That when I returned home I could picture him living life in Rwanda, chasing around a leafy ball at recess, sliding down muddy hills on a green sled... After several hugs and photos, John's father asked if I would like to see inside their house before leaving. I nodded. We entered a dark room. The coals on the floor told me it was the kitchen. The single photo hung by a frayed string told me it was the family room. The straw mat on the floor told me it was the bedroom. I thanked him for the visit. He insisted I take their sole family photo with me- to remember them.

As I think back over my day in Rwanda, I can picture my little brother giggling as I take his photo and even more so as I hug him goodbye. I know he will like the new picture of his family that I will soon send from Canada. It will most likely be hung on the small string beside their kitchen, in their family room and over the small mat shared by 5 people. I think about this for a while and curl up on my bed. Suddenly I wish my bed were a little bit smaller.

Mzungu Dances in Rwanda

Just as I realized that my flowing 'traditional' white gauze dress was fully sticking to my legs, glued, in fact, I was called up to dance.

Celebrating the end of a 10 year partenership with Food for the Hungry, children of Cubi village, Rwanda were in the mood to party, and they wanted me to join in. What could be funnier than inviting their foreign visitor to participate in a well practiced dance routine. No one was watching, only the entire village, FH staff from around the country, and, unfortunately, a professional photographer, Jonty Wilde, flown in from the UK (he assured me, he only takes pictures of feet).

Somehow, I managed to peel off the layers of fabric clinging to my salty skin, enough to walk, and attempted to make an appearance. I would like to think that I appeared rather swan-like, resembling a dancer on the nutcracker. Graceful. Flowing. In control of her body. However, unaccustomed to the beating drums and chant-like song structure, I found my body doing rather strange things. Things that impressed even myself. This was no Mzungu appeasing the crowd with small side steps and a sympathetic grin. This village was celebrating 10 years of hard work and the support of Canadians on the other side of the globe. I was a representative of that support, and so... I gave them a Canadian Mzungu... I gave them a Canadian Mzungu dance.

I am sorry if I falsely represented some of you with my boisterous displays of enthousiasm, but I think we can all agree that to celebrate in Africa, we Canadians must lose some of our Canadian-ness. No need for golf etiquette or indoor skytrain voices. This was a Stanley Cup Final for the village of Cubi. This was a moment where I was tempted to shout: I Am Canadian (but then realized no one else would find that funny, and they were already laughing enough).

I thought that the dance would quickly be forgotten, yet I discovered that Jonty had lied to me. He actually photographs two things: feet and Canadian Mzugunu Dancers. The following day I visited families of the Cubi hills. I was greeted by many, who, similar to Jonty, betrayed me with their photographic memories of my dance. It made for many great conversations about what my friends in Canada are like.

They cannot wait for you to come visit.

Muzungu visits the villages

I have not -cut- been able to blog - cut- as much as -cut- I would like.
This is thanks -cut- to the electricity cutting on and off -cut. But here I am. Sitting in eastern Burundi contemplating what a day I had and wondering how to even start.

Today, I was a visitor, a photographer, a journalist, a celebrity, a stranger, a crazy white Mzungu and an FH spokesperson. In the hills of Ruyigi, we visited several of Food for the Hungry's most remote projects sites, seeing first hand how donors from abroad have impacted lives in Burundi. Beve (an agronomist with FH) and I headed out this morning, accompanied by driver, Wilson (Weelson, as he emphasized, none of that Canadian accent), who drove us from project site to project site... and slept most of the day in the car, very cat like.

Our first stop was to visit a small cooperative of people just outside the city limits of Ruigi. When I say 'just outside the city limits,' I mean
an hour car ride over the bumpiest, most pot-hole filled road I have ever seen in my life. W'ee'lson just grinned and said that I had finally arrived in Africa.

After spending an hour with members of a small microfinanced chicken farm we moved on to visit the neighbouring village: Village de Paix de Nyakiga.
It was a small settlement filled with displaced persons from Tanzania. As we wandered around the small village, curious faces began to peer out from the muddy huts lining the pathway. I must have looked strange. I think I still had feathers in my hair from the several fluttering hens that were thrust inches from the camera at our last stop (apparently 'zoom' option on the camera has not yet been discovered here). Nevertheless, I was quickly greeted with extended hands and toothless grins from those in the village. Beve graciously translated my French into Kurundi, the local dialect. He explained that I was working with FH, the organization that had helped them buy several goats, bean seeds and planting tools. Instantly their faces warmed and a dozen more hands were extended.
Amoroho. Peace.

I asked the villagers many questions about their lives, how they lived, what they ate. etc. They were excited to show me their goats tethered to tree stumps and the grain they were sorting on the ground. They also described the kilometers of distance separating them from fresh water and the difficulty of finding buyers for their small portions of grain. I asked if I could take a picture before I left. A tiny, frail old woman bodly pushed out from the crowd and hobbled towards me (I am certain she would dominate if placed in a busy supermarket on Christmas eve). She grabbed my hand exclaiming that she wanted the first photo, just me and her.
Soon, I had a line of people waiting for individual photos with the crazy white lady who talked with her hands and made silly gestures. I am laughing now as I look at the photos. Not only do I look extreemly white, I also look like a giant in almost every picture.

The children clung to my side and as I walked back to the car so I asked them to teach me a song. In moments their were dozens of voices singing with gusto. Those that had never seen a Muzungu before were now relaxed and no longer worried that I was going to eat them (yes, that is what children are told here... and I had wondered why all the babies cried when they saw me). They chased our car all the way down the bumpy dirt road as though they were scared to lose us. I don't think I will ever forget those dark, singing faces, although I know I will not remember their unique names. When asked, they replied one at a time, imitating eachother. "My mame eez ____."

Next, we went to a small market shop to speak with a microfinance beneficiary. The owner was the recipient of funds used to buy palm oil which he resold in the market for a profit. He was thrilled to have us look into his shop. It consisted of a shelf, a small dirty weighing device, little oily measuring cups and a few plastic bags into which he measured the oil that was to be sold. He explained to me how this oil is used to cook vegetables, chicken or whatever edible items one came across (I didn't make him specify what he meant by 'whatever could be cooked'). I stirred the heavy wooden spoon in the half barrel of dense yellow grease and took a picture of him standing in front of the product. We left the market and two minutes later my translator, Bede, received a call from him. "Was she impressed by the business?" He was certain that I would never forget his stand in the market. I dont' think I will.

The more I spend time here, the more I realize how blessed I am. I can no longer complain about the stiff pink toilet because at least I have some. I am starting to appreciate the death roads which make my palms sweaty and my back sore as I watch people walking miles to get water. I don't find it strange to drive around for half an hour looking for a misplaced 10inch note book (despite the fact that gas is expensive) because they do not have a Wallmart nearby to purchase another.

I spoke with a lady who, until yesterday, had taken in 8 orphans. Today she has nine in her care and she still doesn't have a house.
I am so blessed.

Mzungu in the Market Place

Today I went to the market. It was no IGA, Safeway or Superstore experience. I did not run into 20 people I know, nor did I find myself buying chocolate, yogurt or bulk candies. Instead, I found myself wandering down rows of chaos, overwhelmed by the number of hanging fruit baskets, piles of dried sardines and floating flies. All this was accentuated by the diverse smell of spices. I barley even noticed the piles of crunchy vegetable peeling and fruit pits that I was stepping on until I tripped over a mound of avocado shells the local vendors were tossing out in front of them. And while i tried not to stare, I quickly realized that it was I who was under scrutiny. Eyes from every stairstep, booth corner, and isle in the crowded covered market place watched in anticipation. Only the youngest ones were daring enough to point at me and shout "Mzungu" (white foreigner). I maintained a smile,whether it was met by toothy grins or suspicious glares. Burundi is a small country with only 10,216,190 habitants, yet here in the market, it seemed like they were all gathered. And all were watching what the Mzungu would do.

I must have shocked everyone when I stopped to use the market bathrooms. You pay to go inside. The fee differs depending on whether or not your stop requires the use of toilet paper. Once I found my way inside the ladies section I was met by shrieks of laughing women who were apparently hsyterical to have a Mzungu share their toilet facilities. They grabbed my hand and told me to wait while they doused the stall with buckets of water, cleaning the plastic foot steps which framed a large hole in the ground. Once I was shoved inside and left to do my business the shrieking continued. I must have shook ten hands before leaving. Too bad there was no soap in the bathroom.

The children outside the market place swarmed me with their hanging bags of popcorn. Even once I climbed into the bus, they pushed bags up against the smeared window by my seat hoping I might change my mind and buy at least two of the forty bags swinging off the stick in front of me. As soon as the bus started they quickly dissapeared.

The roads are no place for pedestrians here. I fear even for the helmut-free doubled up scooter riders who line the busy streets of Burundi's capital, Bujumburu. There are no traffic lights on the roads here, neither do there seem to be any rules. Bumper to bumper traffic filled with aggressive bus cabs, quick moving cars and bikers slow down only when forced to. This means many jammed intersections with drivers forcefully manuvering their way through the crazy packed road. I started to feel crazy myself after just a short drive of about 15 minutes. Today I was asked when I want to start driving. I just smiled.

Seasons

It's officially fall, and everything is changing. Today I sadly pushed my shorts aside and opted for pants. I find myself at Starbucks, back on the drink that has every Vancouverite convinced of some sort of health benefit. I am convinced it's Vitamin D. Why else would you pay 4$ for a small latte? As students walk past me, I reach for my lens-less glasses, which quickly slide down my nose and I refocus on my laptop screen. For all they know, I am working on a thesis for the masters programs I had entertained attending. Nice.

But while many are settling back into the routines of work, school and gumboots, I am packing my bags in preparations for a trip to Africa. Most of my close friends argue that this is me, returning to normal life after forcing myself to finish school and thereby isolating my passport to travels within North America. It does, however, feel like the start of something new.

Working with FH Canada in Burundi and Rwanda for the next three months is an opportunity that I am certain will stretch my capacities as an individual, as well as my appreciation for God and others. I have already experienced an overwhelming amount of encouragement and support from family and friends and I am so excited that we can share in the adventure! So THANK YOU to everyone who has come alongside me (including those of you who have put black hair dye in my shampoo and offered to wear my clothes while I am away). I will keep you posted on my travels as well as some of the funny mishaps that are sure to happen :)
Talk to you soon, from Burundi.

PS. You may want to stock up on Starbucks Ready-Brew packets before I hit the Lower Mainland locations...

A True Vancouver Summer

Well, summer has finally arrived in Vancouver. Definition: It’s time to throw on a swimsuit, grab a towel and grease up with baby oil… then allow all the grease to soak into your winter layers of tights and sweaters before heading off to work. It’s amazing how realistic the scent of Hawaiian Tropics 35 can seem, even if it is just the reaction of your lotion saturated thermal stockings to the space heater hidden below your desk. This summer, I think more rain cheques have been handed out by Wal-Mart employees for the oversold and under stocked rainbow toe socks than for the disappointingly disregarded cooling fans and boogie boards.

But nevertheless, anyone who has survived a Vancouver winter knows that it is very hard to leave the city in summer. Despite the occasional drizzle or even weeks of overcast skies, in the moments when the sun peaks over Mount Baker and shoots beams of light onto the Lion’s Gate Bridge, Vancouver is highlighted as one of the most beautiful places on Earth. And it is just enough to keep us hanging around.

Yes, we are occasionally deceived by the appearance of sunny days. I would like to thank the shirtless tanned muscle men of Kitsilano, (capable of conveying a rising temperature of 30 degrees on a realistic 5), because even their panting 2 pound dogs and sun-kissed streakless tans succeed in drawing us to the beach. And the beach in summer is where it’s at. Despite the fact that few swim in the crisp waters of English Bay and Spanish Banks, the sandy shores provide entertainment for all. Bird watchers, babe watchers, metal detector professionals and even reality T.V. fans, occasionally lucky enough to view the quadding VPD drain beers and remove unwanted individuals.

And the water is never truly TOO cold. Those of us who prepare ahead of time, participating in the January 1st Polar Bear swim with all the other crazy white pasty bodies (the ‘lucky’ ones gracing the cover of the Vancouver My-Body-Needs Sun) have all the more chance of enjoying summer laps to the Kitsilano dock. Just remember, with limited days of sun left, we cannot waste time waiting for the perfect hot sunny days, we must compromise. You may not need the sunscreen, but the tights can be forgotten too. Show Vancouver that there are some locals on the beach. Stop playing Waldo and give the Vancouver summer a real go. And hey, maybe taking the plunge is just what you need to appreciate how warm it really is on the beach.