I feel like I’m on this solitary lifelong path.

No matter who weaves in and out of your life,

regardless of the quality of those deep friendships and familyships,

I’m the only common denominator at this point who’s been with me the whole time.

And there’s this sense of trying to make sense of that ultimate solitude.

It’s not a negative or even a positive.

It’s just a fact.

– Feist (via Lili) 

 

I was nine years old when I became aware. 

My sister and I were both lying on the carpet of the living room. It was a Wednesday night, and we were waiting for our parents to come downstairs to go to the church prayer meeting. As I stared up at the ceiling, I wondered what it would be like to walk on the flat surface. The room reoriented in my mind and I considered its new dimensions. Without the carpet and furniture, the ceiling was really just a square floor – except for the smoke detector in the corner. If I were walking across the room, I’d have to step over that – oh, and bend my head to avoid the window seat and watch out for the branches of the plant and the shades of the two lamps. 

I completed my imaginary stroll and turned to look at my sister. 

“Tina, what are you thinking?” I asked. 

“Huh?” 

“What were you thinking just a moment ago?” 

“Nothing?” 

“Nothing? Really?” I sat up. “Well, what do you think it would be like to walk on the ceiling?” 

“I don’t know? Why does that matter?” 

I frowned. Perplexed, I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. I did another mental walk across the square floor. Then, I looked back at Tina. Her eyes were closed.

Just then, I realized I had had an experience – a life-changing one, at that – that my sister could neither access, share, nor understand. 

All of a sudden, I discovered my sanctity as an individual. 

Here I was, living life as the sole spectator of a one-time performance. An entire orchestra of thoughts, ideas, colors, sounds, smells, tastes, sights performing a symphony just for me – a universe that existed and circulated and overlapped and melded within my being. Only within my being. What a wonderful privilege to have such exclusive access to life! 

I smiled at the thought of all the magical experiences and ideas that I alone could witness.

Then, I looked back at Tina. 

And yet – how lonely. 

I wished my sister could see what I visualized, that she could share my mental experiences and participate in my imaginary adventures. 

But then, I realized that within her physical presence there existed another universe – one to which I did not have access. I felt suddenly envious. I wondered about the trove of gems and treasures in her experience that would never manifest in mine. 

And then a thought – perhaps dreams are the medium in which universes can overlap and merge. If two people dream of the same world, perhaps they can step outside of their individual universes into a shared imagination. 

 

I am an introvert. 

Few people realize that I am not naturally social. For  the first twenty years of my life, I refused to participate in class; I could not look people in the eye; I trembled and whispered when I had to speak in public. 

I was the epitome of “ten awkwards” fused with “insecure loser.” 

I was the girl who stood in the corner of the bar and glowered at everyone else with a don’t-you-dare-approach-me stare. I was the girl who lectured people on stealing food from the dining halls. I was the girl who didn’t know how to dance, the girl who needed multiple lessons in front of the mirror with patient hands to guide awkward hips. I was the girl who did not know how to wear makeup or nail polish, the girl who did not have facebook or texting. 

But then two years ago, my universe collapsed.

 

In the absence of fear, I started to live life with nothing to lose. 

I no longer feared people. I no longer dreaded judgment, criticism, scrutiny. I shrugged off reputation. 

Social interactions remained cumbersome – I am still not a fan of “hanging out” with groups of people, and in these settings, I remain the awkward presence in the corner (often misinterpreted as aloofness and unfriendliness). 

But at the same time, I am driven by an obsessive curiosity about the universes of others. 

I gravitate toward life stories – often accompanied by a cup of coffee or African tea, a Panera bread bowl, samosas, shaved ice, mangoes, noodles, cocktails, Red Mango, steak, bubble tea, tapas, Andy’s Frozen Custard. 

I am what one might call a “serial-dater sans intente romantique.”

 

Pho at Argyle – The actor throws away his last little pink pill and decides to return to medical school. 

Sushi at Ra – The bouncer’s exquisite taste in art rivals his knack for breaking noses. 

Gelato in Nairobi – The athlete still stretches every morning in adamant denial of his career’s end. 

Jamba Juice – The college playboy details careless escapades but cannot erase the memory of the first face. 

Parisian breakfast – The child overflows with love, warmth, and cups of hot chocolate that she never received. 

Salade Nicoise – The filmmaker rejects social life even as his art transforms him into a celebrity. 

Noodles & Co – The musical prodigy hides behind the smoke of cigarettes and luxury cars. 

Shisha in Dubai – The Burberry model celebrates a career that cannot brighten the darkness of his childhood.

Steak sandwiches – The 60-year-old politician confesses his continued search for love six years after the death of his high school sweetheart.

 

And there are so many others – people who have expanded my universe simply by allowing me to dip below the surface of their lives. 

 

I love traveling alone. 

The solitude invites and facilitates countless chance encounters and rare conversations. I find that flights and layovers, in particular, are especially conducive to accessing incredible life stories. 

At Charles de Gaulles airport, an elderly woman gushes to me about her two-year-old grandson in Dubai whom she is afraid might no longer remember her. Then on the flight to Addis Ababa, a young Cantonese professor shares his nostalgia for the comforts of home after experiences of racism in Paris. My four hour layover in Dubai brings me back to the Burj Khalifa for fresh orange juice and muesli with an old friend. Then, an eight-hour layover in Beijing nearly jeopardizes my flight to Hong Kong after a crazy night of flashing lights and pounding beats. 

Often, the journey is more fascinating than the destination. 

I have certainly enjoyed and benefited from the liberties of individual travel. Traveling solo has exposed me to a wide array of universes – a diverse and growing collection of cultures, people, sights, smells, tastes. Traveling has enriched and expanded my universe. 

However, in the midst of all the layovers, transfers, delays, cancellations, security checks, baggage claims – in Addis Ababa, Hangzhou, Dubai, Beijing, etcetc – I’ve started to feel something rather unexpected: 

A sense of displacement. 

At the end of the day, no matter where I go, where I stay, or where I work, the reality remains.

 

I am still living out of a suitcase.

Or rather, multiple suitcases.

 

No matter where I travel, I do not belong anywhere.

 

I have been so caught up in the twists and turns of the journey that I have lost sight of the destination. I have gotten to know so many people that I realize I know nobody at all. I have traveled to so many places that I realize I do not belong anywhere. 

Serial dating and perpetual traveling share one thing in common: An absence of roots. 

All of a sudden, I find myself lost – familiar and well-versed in many types of people and places and cultures in the world – but completely and utterly lost. 

At some point, all journeys come to an end.

 

At some point, I will sit down and share more than just a meal with someone else.

At some point, I will fly into an airport and know that I have returned home.

 

Perhaps it is here that I can finally realize that this is what I have been looking for.

Perhaps it is now that I can finally acknowledge that this is what I want.

Perhaps it is you that can finally be the one I have been waiting for.

 

Only time can tell.

But in the meantime, the self-proclaimed independent woman would like you to know that she has learned that life was not meant to be a solitary journey. 

Yes, there are portions of the path that are designed to be walked alone, but there are also many climbs and spectacular views one is supposed to share and experience with others. 

Join me. Take me by surprise. Let me be a part of your life. 

Take my photo, but then hand me the camera.

 

And let me capture you and make you a part of mine.

 

 

It takes a really great plate of pasta to inspire a smile like that. 

 

A friend once asked me, “Given a choice – would you prefer a life that is stable and relatively uneventful, or a life of drama and extremes?” 

“Well, happiness is defined by sadness,” I said at the time, “I’d rather experience severe depression and be able to feel extreme happiness than never experience either at all.”   

What does it take to make great pasta?

 

Is it the complexity of the sauce?

The blend of the seasoning?

Is it the strength of taste, the richness of flavour?

The unique combination of ingredients?

 

 

 

The past two years, I have embraced lily petals, shattered glass, false eyelashes, and orange peels. 

I’ve climbed over the ledge of the Tribune Tower. I’ve sobbed beside the curved edge of a porcelain chair. I’ve been trapped in a sweltering vehicle with hyenas and leopards prowling outside. I’ve spent seven days filling sacks with cow manure in Guatemala. I’ve floated high above a pulsing dance floor and shivered at the brush of a finger against my arm. I’ve worked as a finance aide, a preschool instructor, a sales associate, a pianist, a model, a sermon editor, a club promoter.

 

My life is a fusion of

screaming fuchsia and cool pine green

rotting spider plants and white lilies

scrambled eggs and still water

needles and grenades

 

I have a love affair with extremes. 

And luckily for me, life – in most cases – is only as extreme and dramatic as one wants it to be. 

 

In December, I spent two days in Rome with my parents and – with the help of an amazing friend – we saw and did every possible touristy thing there was to do: Piazza del Popolo, Castel S. Angelo, Piazza di Spagna, Fontana di Trevi, Pantheon, Piazza S. Pietro, Colosseo, Circo Massimo, Bocca della verità, Terme di Caracalla, Foro Romano. 

“Rome, above all else, Rome.”

Audrey was absolutely right: Rome is an unparalleled city of sights and sounds and smells. 

But for me – above all else – Rome was a gem of Tastes.

 

Ever since I left Rome, I have struggled to find a plate of pasta that even compares to what I tasted in the Eternal City. But no matter where I go or how much money I spend, nothing comes close to the profound greatness of a simple plate of Pasta Arrabbiata in the Campo di Fiore. 

There isn’t really anything complicated or particularly special about Pasta Arrabbiata. It is essentially pasta accompanied by a tomato base with garlic and chili. 

But that plate of pasta in the Campo di Fiore was really something. 

I tasted the full richness of a tomato more than I ever have in my life. I felt the harmony of firmness and elasticity in the texture of the linguine. 

No Parmesan cheese needed for this plate of pasta. 

And perhaps that is the magic of Rome – that one can catch the bus where Caesar was stabbed, one can stroll through the ruins of one of the greatest civilizations in history, one can essentially live in a city-sized museum. 

NBD. 

 

And that’s precisely it.

 

In my life of extremes, 

I’ve been ecstatic. 

I’ve been depressed. 

I’ve been in love. 

I’ve been brokenhearted.

 

But there’s one thing that I’ve never been:

 

At peace.

 

I thought embracing extremes meant living a life inclusive of the full spectrum of experiences. But what I failed to realize is that a life of extremes is a life without true contentment, peace, and satisfaction. 

In a life of extremes, there is always something needed – another extremity to reconcile and balance out the other. 

If Paris taught me to see beauty in living, Rome taught me to find contentment in simplicity. 

A lesson in great pasta: The richest, most eclectic, most expensive variety and combination of ingredients can still not rival the greatness of a single good tomato.

 

Thank you to Naina, Lauren, and Angelo for being the Gregory Pecks of my Roman Holiday.

 

“Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are.”

– Anais Nin, Henry and June.

 

Paris is a lover – an experienced lover. 

She knows her attributes well and does not flaunt them; instead, she allows you to marvel and she veils her eyes demurely when you approach. She looks up from beneath long lashes with the glance of one well-seasoned in the art of love. Her beauty requires no introduction, no explanation; she needs no novelty, no glitter, no games to attract her suitors. 

Paris knows her charm. 

And it is her charm – that magical je ne sais quoi – that is her beauty. 

“Come,” she murmurs and beckons, “Come and know me.” 

You approach. 

You take the metro line 4 at Mouton Duvernet and get off at Châtelet. You walk down the cobblestone streets of Le Marais, dart in and out of eclectic vintage stores. 

On Rue des Roisiers, you discover L’As du Fallafel. 

The owner ushers you away from the long line and welcomes you into the warmth of his restaurant. He proudly displays a clipped article from the New York Times. “This is the falafel destination in Paris, indeed in Europe” proclaim the confident letters.

He stuffs six falafels into the pita, followed by creamy hummus, crispy chickpea fritters, fried eggplant, and then he balances four more of the precious morsels on top. 

“Never done before!” he declares with a wink, “Only for special VIP customers.” 

Over the next ten minutes, you float away into a dreamy falafel heaven – interrupted only by one stranger, with whom you share part of the dream – and then floating, floating, still. 

Just across the bridge, past Nôtre Dame, is “Shakespeare & Company” – a small bookstore that hides an English major’s paradise behind its unassuming doors. Here, the greats – Ezra Pound, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Allen Ginsberg, Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin – once mingled and found inspiration.

You weave your way through piles and rows and shelves and boxes and cases of books, and find an unoccupied armchair. Here you sit and think, perhaps Anaïs Nin once sat upon this faded velvet – the very thought thrills you and you shut your eyes, clear your mind in the hope of receiving some sort of spiritual revelation. 

A soprano soars and her voice carries you up, up, up to the top of the Opéra Bastille. From row 16 seat 53, you absorb the tremors of Verdi’s grand opera, La Force du Destin.

The plot, the stage, the singers, the audience, the opera house fade away in the symphony of sound that reaches deep inside your core and explodes. The impact leaves you only a trembling shell, a frail frame that continues to crack and flake away in submission to impassioned intensity.

During those three hours, you feel more than you know: This is Truth. This is Beauty. This is Meaning.

Your conviction crescendos past the resounding final chord, into the applause, into the closing bows, into the lobby, and back out into the night.

 

 

 

Outside, Paris is ablaze.

 

People are everywhere, shopping from stall to stall, walking, strolling, hand-in-hand, arms around waists, paused on the sidewalk, intertwined in the shadows. 

“Dried strawberries, please.” 

You munch and stroll past the Christmas market down the Champs-Elysées and stop at a curious sight: fifty people standing in a long queue outside of a tall black gate. A party?!?!! You ask the bouncer what they’re waiting for, and he tells you, “This is Abercrombie & Fitch.”

 

Ah. 

Ten minutes later: A modeling job offer? Check. Four new gorgeous friends? Check. A VIP night out on the town? Check. 

Downstairs in Harry’s New York Bar, people tap their feet to live jazz. Upstairs, you order a hot dog (they did make the first ones in France, after all), and try to decide on a drink. Harry’s New York Bar invented the Bloody Mary, and the White Lady, and the Sidecar, but … you’ll let the bartender concoct a new creation. 

“Something sweet, please.” 

Two new friends, a one hour conversation, and a half-finished drink (it was too strong) later, you are on your way to the Opéra metro station. 

But wait – people from across the street are beckoning. No, it’s too late, you say. A free drink? Oh, and they say this is Footsie’s? That famous stock market bar where drink prices rise up and down throughout the night?

Well then, a detour doesn’t sound so bad after all. 

Laughter and frolicking into the night concludes with an exchange of life stories over milk and muesli. In the gentle cadences of your friend’s voice, you find iron strength and courage. She laughs about life’s struggles and shrugs aside pain and suffering.

You bask in the glow that is her life.

 

Another evening beneath the stars, you wander past Cadolle on Rue Saint-Honoré to the counter of Café Angelina on Rue de Rivoli. As you wait for your cup of hot chocolate, the rosy-cheeked girl at the register asks coyly if you are single. You nod, puzzled.

She laughs and nudges the tall young man beside her. “He thinks you are very pretty!” she says. The young man turns a deep shade of red, and quickly calls up the next customer. 

Outside, the small cup provides a comforting warmth for your fingers, but oh – that rich nectar, that velvety brown ambrosia that slides so smoothly down – chocolat chaud that nourishes something far deeper and far more essential, satiates an innate thirst and longing of the soul.

 

You are drunk. 

Inebriated, tipsy, buzzing. 

Intoxicated not from alcohol but from this – the lights, the tall glasses of red, the crisp air, the murmured “Pardon” on the trains, the browned edges of crepes, the intricate lace of lingerie, the curtained rooms of Palais Opera.

 

Paris. 

 

She invites you to discover her treasures and her secrets. 

But to know Paris is to know that you cannot know her. 

Yes, you can see all of her masterpieces, visit all of her historical treasures, taste all of her cuisines; you can stroll down the Champs-Elysées, shop in Galéries Lafayette, get off at every metro stop, explore every street and shop and museum and restaurant –

 

And still, there is always something. 

Something just inexplicable. 

When you walk with her at night, you wonder sometimes if maybe – yes, this must be it, now this is truly Paris – for a moment the air becomes heavy and saturated, you touch the thin glass of a whisper and hold a dreamy wisp between your fingers – high above in a circle of lights, you gaze down upon a glowing city, pulsing, shimmering, throbbing in all its splendor. 

But the moment quickly fades, and the magic vanishes into the night.

 

You are drunk from Paris, intoxicated by her beauty and her charm. She is a city where you need only eyes to see her beauty. Her architecture, her fashion, her food, her ballet, her street corners – beauty is everywhere. 

But because you are surrounded by such obvious beauty, Paris teaches you to see beauty where you would expect it least.

 

Beauty is a peeling lock clamped to a bridge.

Beauty is the first gray hair on a young man’s head.

Beauty is the remains of a half-eaten waffle.

 

And you realize – yes, Beauty is everywhere – not just in Paris, not just in other cities and locations around the world – but in Living Life. 

Paris teaches you to be drunk off of life.

Life is not always beautiful. 

But to live life to the brim and burst with living – now that, is Beautiful.

 

“It’s not that,” said Magnus. “There are some people —

people the universe seems to have singled out for special destinies.

Special favors and special torments.

God knows we’re all drawn toward what’s beautiful and broken;

I have been, but some people cannot be fixed.

Or if they can be, it’s only by love and sacrifice so great it destroys the giver.”

– City of Lost Souls

 

Brokenness has a strange obsession with perfection. 

Reach for perfection – press your nose against the glass of the snow globe, gaze at the swirling softness within, lose yourself in dreams of a wonderland beneath eternal heavens. If you shut your eyes from the reality of your surroundings; if you turn away from the pain, the suffering, the misfortune; if you forget the oppressive weight and the brokenness, and fill your existence with dreams of splendor — then one day when you open your eyes you will find yourself before a new threshold. 

You are walking in the air. 

Below is the sleeping village, clusters of small cottages illuminated by the soft glow of internal lanterns. Overhead, you embrace never-ending skies with open arms and let the flakes rest upon your skin – their split-second lives stimulate you, envelop you, wrap you in utter perfection.

The burden of reality vanishes and, without pain, suffering, and misfortune to ground you, you are suddenly afloat and skating along swirling paths in the sky. You walk through snow without leaving footprints. You are the butterfly – simplified, weightless, beautiful, perfect – the organic frame reduced to its most basic elements. You have been baptized in holiness, purity white as snow. 

The snow falls silently and you close your eyes. Whiteness accumulates on your skin, the blanket thickens and wraps you in its perfect crystal network. When you open your eyes, you see only dazzling whiteness. You no longer feel your limbs. You no longer exist.

 

This is perfection. 

But your baptism is your burial. Too late you realize the snowy veil is a shroud and the white hills below are a vast graveyard. You are frozen into a perfect world where beauty is forever – but also where creation is forbidden, progress is impossible, and individuality is lost. 

Where is the threshold? 

 

Return me to my broken world where children cry and the rich squander their wealth on clothing for poodles while men collapse in deserts and the innocent perish on indifferent streets. 

Return me to a world where I see suffering, a cruel world where I can feel and experience and learn and grow. 

Give me back my brokenness. 

Give me back my imperfections. 

I am not a Ferrari. I am not a diamond. I am not a goddess.

 

 

“Perfection is static, and I am in full progress” – Anais Nin. 

I need to feel – to laugh, to cry, to scream, to despair, to hope, to barely contain every tingling nerve inside of me that declares: I am alive! 

For a while now, I have been trapped in a snow globe. A snow globe of perpetual sunlight, a world of juicy yellow mangoes and rich avocados, looping radio broadcasts of “Sawa sawa” and late nights at Sundowner/Golemi/KBC/White Horse. 

I have what I want – I am living in the dream of my college years at Northwestern; I am working and living and pursuing meaning in Kigali, Rwanda.

 

But why do I feel like I cannot breathe? 

Why do I feel like I am waning away, vanishing into an oblivion that should be bliss? 

 

Four weeks ago, I left Kigali and embarked on an adventure to refresh my mind with new sights and experiences. 

It was November 29, 2011 when I boarded my first Ethiopian Airlines flight to Paris.

Today it is January 5, 2012, and I am on my final Ethiopian Airlines flight back to Kigali. 

9 cities, 3 continents, 12 flights, 4 train rides, 1 lost (and found) suitcase, 4 hotels, 3 home-stays, 6 languages, and 1 canceled flight later – I am returning to Kigali with an extra suitcase, a new wardrobe, a significantly lighter wallet, a significantly expanded waistline, and more sights and experiences than I could have ever hoped for. 

But in the midst of learning and stepping into the lives of other people and their worlds, I have rediscovered the threshold back into my own world. 

My travels revealed the true nature of the snow globe – its static perfection, its frozen ugliness, its unhappiness.

 

Now that I am back at the threshold, I realize that what I really want is an imperfect life – an unpredictable life, a life where disasters become unexpected blessings, where beauty can be found in the towering splendor of Burj Khalifa but also in the ruins of Rome, where happiness arises from the least expected of circumstances, where true love is messy, inconvenient, but – without a doubt – worthwhile. 

Let me spill hot chocolate and watch brown stains balloon across the white table cloth. Let me squirm and laugh uncontrollably in the massage chair of a department store. Let me skip past imperial guards with their stiff uniforms and guns. Let me live and I’ll let you do the staring and the talking and the judging and the rebuking. 

Just let me live. 

Over the next few days and weeks, I want to share with you the stories from my travels. God knows I haven’t even begun to process the bulk of my experiences, but perhaps if I take you with me through Paris, Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan, Dubai, Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Beijing – you can live your own adventures through the lens of my words. 

Here’s to living a perfectly imperfect life of beautiful brokenness. 

 

Oh, how I’ve missed the hustle and bustle of moving crowds, the never-ending spectrum of lights, and the warm glow of life that bursts from the hearts of big cities!

After the longest duration of time that I’ve ever spent away from the States (almost three months), the sight of the Dubai International Airport immediately brought tears to my eyes. I clung to the moving handrails of the escalators and stared at the colorful shops and throngs of people that hustled past me – stared as if I had never seen such things in my life.

As the impatient crowd pushed past me and moved me forward, I felt oddly shy and timid. Nothing around me was new, but the sights, the smells, and the noises conjured memories of a world I had once known before I came to Kigali. Something seemed strange and unsettling about the lavish displays of extravagance around me, but I couldn’t process the conflicting emotions that I felt. Fear. Relief. Sadness. Happiness. Displacement. Wonder.

 

If the airport almost made me cry, the Dubai skyline certainly made the tears flow. I had my nose pressed to the window of the car as I gazed open-mouthed at the wide expanse of Dubai’s towering, magnificent splendor. 

I only spent three days in Dubai, but I did everything a person could possibly do in 72 hours.

 

Lydia’s Recipe for an Incredible 3 Days in Dubai:

1. Obtain a free round-trip plane ticket from Rwandair to go to Dubai.
2. Stay with a friend of a friend (who actually turns out to be an old acquaintance) in an apartment with a $3 million view of the city.
3. Shop for shoes at the largest mall in the world and meet an Egyptian Burberry model who insists on being your tour guide for the next 2.5 days.

Yeah. So maybe I was a little lucky.

 

 

 

You must be wondering how I scored that free ticket.

Context: Solid’Africa had 150 t-shirts stuck in Dubai, which we desperately needed in order to sell and raise enough money to serve food to hospital patients the following week. Nobody seemed to be making any breakthroughs with the situation, so I figured I’d see what I could do.

Remember that incident with the netbook charger way back in December? [Here’s the link to that post to refresh your memory: http://blog.undergradresearch.northwestern.edu/worldisabook/2010/12/05/%E2%80%9Cyou-will-fall%E2%80%9D-a-lesson-about-limitations-and-perspective/]

 

Well, I decided that if United Airlines could check-in a box for me from Chicago to D.C. for free, then Rwandair should be able to do so too. I made a couple phone calls, pushed Solid’Africa’s mission in public hospitals, stressed urgency – and, voila, Rwandair agreed to airlift the two boxes for free!

BUT BUT BUT … A Rwanda Revenue Authority (Customs) rep claimed that I would have to pay 50% of the value of the t-shirts for import fees. *Rolls eyes* Absolutely ridiculous. I went directly to the Kigali offices of the RRA and spent an entire day speaking with the directors who assured me that the import duties should only be 25% for non-profit organizations. I connected THESE directors with the conniving rep who had told me 50%, and … Yes, the RRA fees shrank from 50% to 25%.

BUT THEN … a cargo company in Dubai insisted that I would have to pay over 60% of the value of the boxes which were already designated as a FOC (free of charge) shipment. Basically, they wanted to charge me $213 for “labeling” and “handling.”

… Seriously?

In a rapid exchange of over twenty-five emails between myself, three Rwandair representatives, RRA, and this ridiculous Dubai cargo company, I expressed my incredulity and suggested that Rwandair either: 1) book a one-way flight for the boxes, OR 2) have one of their flight attendants check-in the boxes to evade the “labeling and handling” fees.

Of course, the Dubai cargo company had problems with my proposal. The rep stated: “Due to security reasons, we cannot label [the boxes] as Crew baggage or Company mail and unaccompanied baggage is not permitted.”

Really annoyed at this point, I wrote the following email:

 

Hi [Rwandair rep],

If this is the case, would it be possible to book a round-trip flight for me (or another member of Solid’Africa) to pick-up the two boxes and accompany them back to Kigali on Saturday morning?

Or do you have other suggestions on the most efficient way to proceed?

Best,

Lydia

And Rwandair said … YES!

12 hours later, I was buckling my seat belt on a complimentary round-trip flight to Dubai. The earliest flight back to Kigali was in three days, so I had arranged accommodations with a friend of a friend and packed half a suitcase knowing that I would have to bring 40 kilos of t-shirts back with me.

Isn’t it nice to look back and see how that misadventure in December ended up teaching me some very valuable lessons? 🙂

 

Dubai: City of Perks … and Elitism, Prostitution, and Racism?

After two months in Rwanda, I’ve learned to accept that waiters may take one hour to bring me a cup of tea. I’ve become accustomed to being ignored and dismissed as a customer and a hospital patient. I’ve grown used to repeatedly reminding waiters about my order only to still receive the wrong dish and wait another half hour while two waiters dance in the corner (clearly high). I’ve given up trying to get restaurants to change the three clubbing songs that keep looping over and over while customers try to converse over red wine at dinner.

Boy, was Dubai a shock in customer service.

My first stop in Dubai: The largest mall in the world! I was so excited about shopping at The Dubai Mall that I couldn’t sleep the night before and I got up one hour before the stores opened in the morning. I probably walked around the building for two hours gaping at the sheer enormity of the complex before I realized I hadn’t eaten, and then decided to stop by the Dean & Deluca Cafe (based in NYC).

The moment I entered, the waiter greeted me and gave me a tour of the terrace, and asked if I would like him to take pictures – YES. Then, when I couldn’t decide what to order, he winked and offered me items that were not listed on the menu AND sent me an additional meal on the house! I was so blown away by his kindness and generosity.

As I sipped my fresh strawberry juice and peeled away at the most sinfully sumptuously almond croissant ever, I suddenly realized that living in Kigali had conditioned me to view customer service as a rare extravagance instead of a necessary component of one’s dining experience.

 

After brunch, I wandered around the mall some more. The Dubai Mall is, in reality, a city within a city – I mean, come on, the mall has 1,200 shops, the largest aquarium in the world, the largest candy store in the world, an indoor ski slope, an indoor hockey rink, a runway arena, a cinema, a kids’ amusement park, a gold market, etc. I allowed myself to drift near the windows of shoe stores, but would then quickly back away with a stern reminder: No shopping, Lydia. There’s no room in your suitcase with those 150 t-shirts.

But … I couldn’t resist Kurt Geiger.

Those mirrored reflections of four-inch platform heels were too irresistible. I decided to take a quick look, and immediately told the sales associate (at least I thought he was a sales associate): “I can’t buy any shoes, but I just wanted to take a look.” A half hour later, I left with two complimentary pairs of Kurt Geiger heels plus a new best friend/Dubai city expert – the sales associate, who was actually a manager of Kurt Geiger’s UK, Italy, and UAE branches (and also happened to be a former Burberry model).

 

The next 2.5 days flew by quickly – dinner accompanied by a beautiful evening fountain show (definitely beats Vegas!), a desert safari followed by Arabic dancing and camel-riding, a boat tour along the creek, a trip to the top of Burj Khalifa (tallest building in the world!), a visit to the Dubai Museum, a walk through the silk and tapestry market in Old Dubai, a night out at Dubai’s poshest clubs – not to mention amazing Lebanese and Egyptian food!

 

It was an incredible experience.

And yet – I have mixed feelings about Dubai.

Dubai is a city of extremes, an adult Disneyland of sorts where dreams are not merely conceived but physically realized and constructed. There’s this constant pulse in the heavy heat that demands the city and its citizens to exhibit the best – the tallest, the fastest, the newest, the biggest, the costliest, the fanciest, etc. I was astonished by the deliberate and, oftentimes, ridiculous displays of wealth and extravagance that were paraded on the streets (i.e. a hot pink Ferrari further embellished with precious jewels), displayed in buildings (i.e. gold ATMS that dispense gold), and masqueraded in public (how is that woman able to stand up with all that gold around her neck???).

Elitism in Dubai was a given. Here was a place where people had more money than they really knew how to spend, so all they did was … spend it.

But I was surprised and very disturbed by the extreme racism and racial profiling that I witnessed – and eventually, even experienced.

 

Let’s first talk about prostitution.

Prostitution is rampant in Dubai. And, according to my friends, it is the very people who run Dubai – the Sheikhs – who are also the facilitators of prostitution. Apparently, the Sheikhs regularly import attractive young women from Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia, keep them for two or three months, and then pimp them out to the rest of the city. Most of the hotspots in Dubai are filled with prostitutes, and at some of the more exclusive clubs (like Armani or Cavalli), prostitutes can charge as much as $1000 a night. I didn’t realize (or believe) at first that the beautiful young women around me were prostitutes, but as my friend narrated hypothetical dialogues, I watched an entire transaction occur right across the bar:

 

1. Man approaches woman and stands next to her but doesn’t look at her.
2. Man sips drink and slides money under Woman’s drink.
3. Woman lifts drink to lips and spreads out the money with one finger.
4. Woman turns and walks away, drink in hand.
5. Man puts money back into wallet.

[For more on the irony of prostitution in Dubai, read: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/may/16/dubai-sex-tourism-prostitution]

 

That same night, I was denied entrance to a club for the first time in my life.

The bouncer coldly refused to let me enter, and when I told him my friends were in the club, he said that they would just have to join me outside.

…

Fortunately, my friend’s friendship with the manager resulted in a rather awkward resolution when the manager ushered me into the building and apologized for the bouncer’s “mistake.”

His “mistake,” as it turns out, was that he had thought I was a prostitute.

Yikes.

That was a first as well.

Turns out some clubs are designated only for Eastern European prostitutes whereas others have a more Filipino demographic. Unless you are extremely well-connected or with someone well-connected, it can be difficult to get into some clubs if you are Asian or your skin is dark. It’s not that I haven’t experienced racial profiling before, but … I guess it’s been a while, and I definitely did not expect it in Dubai where 85% of the population is ex-pat.

 

Dubai took my breath away.

Half the time I was there, I was asking “How is this possible?” But I suppose that is the point of Dubai; after all, it is a booming city with everything you could possibly imagine and more in the middle of a barren desert. I gaped at the man-made islands and sprawling beaches, the grandiose architecture, the extremities of wealth that adorned cars, clothing, restaurants, and night life.

But in the end, it was a relief to return to Kigali where life does not exactly take your breath away, but it gives you air to breathe.

It was Dubai that served as a catalyst for my post about beauty and superficiality – the obsession with physical appearance and, especially, material possessions, go to whole new extremes in Dubai. Whereas all that is “beautiful” in Dubai correlates with cost, in Kigali, you can find beauty in the natural sloping and fertility of the hills, the diversity and abundance of its wildlife, the large wedding gatherings on Saturday afternoons, and the small town charm of good local food.

Here, in Kigali, social status and physical appearance matter too, but the culture does not link a person’s value to the car he drives or the clothing brands she wears – instead, there is greater emphasis on one’s place in society, the role one serves in the community and the personal connections one maintains with others.

And so I call Dubai a “city of extremes” – a city where one can experience the greatest highs and lows of wealth and grandeur, but a city where one will not easily find the steady, calm pace of breathing that belongs to a life of moderation.

 

 

Apparently I am “not thick enough” for American R&B pop-star, Sean Kingston.

[For those of you who do not know what “thick” means, you can look up the definition at www.urbandictionary.com]

On September 17, Kingston performed at Amahoro Stadium with Rwandan singer, Tom Close.

Despite all the anticipation and hype about the event, even a Saturday night could not draw me out of the house for the concert. It had been raining all day and, in Kigali, rain is a perfectly legitimate excuse to not go out. Think about it – many of the roads in Kigali are still unpaved, and most people walk or take motos to get around town. Unless you want to get completely soaked riding a moto or throw away yet another pair of shoes from walking in the muddy red soil, you’d do better to stay indoors.

So I stayed at home and watched Star Dust instead.

Fortunately, I didn’t miss much – later reports of a “lame” concert in which Kingston only performed four songs while the entire audience got progressively soaked in the rain didn’t sound nearly as exhilarating as a film about witches who want to carve out and eat the heart of Claire Danes.

But after the concert ended at 10 PM and the weather cleared up, my phone started to go berserk with all the incoming calls and texts about “The Official After-party” with … dun-dun-dun: Mr. Sean Kingston himself.

Hours later, I found myself in a car with friends driving from Sundowner to Legacy, and then from Legacy to Cadillac where – yes, we finally ran into Kingston.

 

Having previously worked in Chicago night life, I’ll give you a brief run-down of night life in Kigali.

I guess you could say that clubs in Kigali are chill?The DJs play a mix of your Top 40s infused with African pop, but the songs are sometimes played in the exact same sequence as they were last summer. The clubs are small single-story buildings and not particularly well-ventilated. The “dress code” standards are relatively conservative (mid-thigh dresses and heels over 3” are still rather scandalous here) and there are few female bartenders (much less go-go dancers), but the bigger clubs are filled with prostitutes who have no qualms about directly, and sometimes aggressively, soliciting male ex-pats. The drinks are strong, the service is slow, and the night life culture in Kigali still serves the interests of men (so if you get harassed, the club isn’t going to throw the guy out).

But, not surprisingly, many aspects of Kigali night life operate in exactly the same way as they do in Chicago. You see the same crowd moving around all the popular hotspots in Kigali. This consistent crowd of club-goers (which one of my night life partners in Chi has fondly termed “The Degenerates”) serve as the backbone of Kigali’s social scene. In this crowd, money flows easily for drinks and V.I.P. access to networking events where one mingles with other known members of the same crowd. Your ability to ease into these hotspots depends on your position in society, your connections, your wealth, your appearance – any or all of the above.

Sounds like night life in the States, right?

 

Let’s talk about appearance.

When I walked into Cadillac and entered the V.I.P. area where Mr. Kingston had sprawled himself across a couch, I was told by his producer that I was “not thick enough for Sean” but I was “cute enough” to enter. Not to worry, I wasn’t terribly offended. In fact, I took the statement as a mild compliment (since I am quite confident that I would not want to be “thick enough” for Mr. Kingston). However, I was greatly amused and fascinated about the concept of “beauty” – not only as it is perceived by Kingston, but also by Rwandans, and, well, by everyone, really.

 

Beauty is a funny thing.

Last summer, one of my Rwandan friends proudly told me that sometimes people mistake her for being Ethiopian. She explained to me that in Eastern Africa, Rwandese women are well-known for their beauty but many women still aspire to look like Ethiopian women. Her statement was affirmed by numerous conversations I’ve overheard among men (Rwandese and ex-pat) who will eagerly share their admiration for Ethiopian female beauty. While I was in Nairobi, my male friends excitedly shared their enthusiasm for an Ethiopian New Year event where many Ethiopian women would be present. Ethiopian Airlines, in particular, has a well-known reputation for its beautiful flight attendants —  and, as a frequent customer of the airline, I would have to agree that the attendants are remarkably beautiful.

When I took “Human Sexuality” in January 2009, Professor Michael Bailey discussed the basis of beauty in physical symmetry, the 0.7 waist-to-hip ratio, the health of skin and hair, the “ideal” weight (which differs in various communities and societies), the scent of pheromones. The biological explanations for perceived beauty make sense when you recognize that men want to disseminate their seed in healthy vessels that will continue their genes, and women want to produce healthy offspring to loyal caretakers/providers who will ensure the survival of their offspring. The perceived notion of what is desirable and what is beautiful emerges from the biological drive to perpetuate the species.

 

In Kigali, people often tell me that I am “smart” (well-dressed) or “beautiful.” They also tend to guess that I am Korean or Japanese or Filipino or Thai or of mixed Asian heritage – basically anything except Chinese. [I’ll forgive them for not guessing Taiwanese – which is what I actually am – because of Taiwan’s relative obscurity and controversy as a country to many Rwandans (apologies to my Taiwanese readers)].

Essentially what I’ve realized over time is that many Rwandese people assume that I am not Chinese because they have this notion that Chinese women are unattractive based off of the population of Chinese women they have seen in Kigali. On the other hand, many guess that I am Korean because they firmly believe that “Korean women are the most beautiful women in the world” – which is very flattering but also always makes me think of my grandmother’s assertion that “Chinese parents save up money for their children to go to college, Korean parents save up money for their children to have plastic surgery.” (Harsh, I realize, but also part of the discussion on beauty).

*[10/10/2011: In trying to present different perspectives, I have unintentionally granted power to the statement above  instead of demonstrating the extremity of its generalizations. Yes, plastic surgery is a widespread phenomenon in Korea, but Korean parents are also very zealous about the education their children receive. The very existence of these statements underscores how sensitive people are about beauty, especially how they compare to others.

A good friend forwarded me a fascinating article on this subject, in which China’s vice health minister asserts that “Chinese make up 30 percent of cosmetic surgery patients in Seoul.” Ironic, huh? Here it is: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/04/24/world/asia/24beijing.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all].

I suppose it is ironic that I have often felt unattractive as an Asian woman. While my weight is normal and perhaps even on the slimmer side in Kigali, I feel overweight among many of my female Asian counterparts. I always feel discouraged when I go from a size 0/XS in the States to a size M or even L in Asia. I am also acutely aware that my skin is much darker than the porcelain white complexion that is so prized in many Asian communities. In high school, many of my female Asian friends wore sweaters to outdoor gym classes and brought umbrellas to protect their skin from the sun. At home, they applied a variety of cosmetic solutions every day to further lighten their skin. Historically, Asian aristocrats have prized their pale complexion over the rough sun-tanned skin of famers so I guess it makes sense that, even while tanned skin has become more acceptable over the years, most models and actresses cast in Asian sitcoms continue to be fair and pale.

The preoccupation with beauty that I observed in high school evolved into an almost crazed obsession in college. The diversity of interests and talents among Northwestern’s students paralleled the range of eating disorders and physical insecurities that I witnessed on campus. I knew girls who were insecure about their weight, about their noses, about their height, about their skin, about their chests, about their eyebrows, about their voices, about their teeth. Then, there were also the girls who were concerned about not owning a North Face fleece or coat, a pair of Tori Burch flats, Burberry earmuffs and rain boots. I watched girls pinch their arms and stomachs in disappointment in front of mirrors, I saw girls starve themselves and faint mid-conversation, I listened to girls crying while they retched in dormitory bathrooms, I observed the rows of girls running desperately every day on treadmills in the gyms.

I would be lying if I did not acknowledge that I was also one of these girls.

It is a tragedy. And the worst part is that while women will often blame men for instigating their obsession with beauty, I honestly believe that women are equally responsible for projecting their insecurities on others and, in doing so, perpetuating their own demons through the judgment and criticism of other women. Yes, college gossip websites such as CollegeACB often served the interests of men (particularly those in fraternities and athletics) who mercilessly dissected and categorized female students on campus. However, much of the ruthless gossip was also fueled by women who participated in spreading vicious lies and cruel criticism of the bodies of other women. 

Last summer when I went to Goma (in the DRC) I was shocked and dismayed by how many Congolese women applied lightening products to their skin. I had, of course, fallen into the trap of thinking that the problems I had witnessed in the United States and in Asia wouldn’t exist in the Congo. But in all of my travels to the Dominican Republic, Guatemala, Rwanda, the Congo, Kenya, China, Taiwan, the UK – I have yet to find a society where women aren’t crippled by their physical insecurities. Why can’t our apparent “flaws” be unique sources of beauty? Why must we look Ethiopian, or Brazilian, or half-Asian in order to be beautiful?

 

“LEARN TO TOLERATE DISAPPROVAL” has become one of the most liberating mantras in my life.

Ultimately, it was a realization that there will always be people who disapprove of you, and the best thing you can do for yourself is to accept it and move forward.

Does beauty matter in society? Yes, it does – and arguably more than it should.

Is beauty the only thing that matters in society? No, it is not.

Everything in life has its pros and cons – and beauty is one of those things. Beauty can make your life easier in some ways and more difficult in others. Beauty may grant access to VIP treatment and earn perks – free drinks, expedited service, complimentary meals, favoritism – but it may also deny access to respect and genuine valuation as an individual with more than what is immediately realized on the outside. In Chicago, beauty may mean that you can cut past the crowd and enter every club without paying for cover or a single drink all night; in Dubai, beauty may mean that you are refused entrance to a club based on suspicions that you may be a prostitute. (True story).

Many of the cliches turn out to be true: “Beauty is skin-deep.” It can be here today and gone tomorrow.

For nearly two years, I participated in fashion shows and photo shoots where modeling and walking down runways was a source of healing and escape. But over time, the destructive pressure from the industry began to outweigh the therapeutic benefits. It became more and more difficult to shrink a body that no longer had the same speedy metabolism, and desperate measures to reach the ever evasive Size 0 only resulted in even more damaging and permanent consequences. It hurt to read comments from others about having a “massive pooch” or hear people comment on how much weight I had gained. Finally – the last straw – a show where I found myself surrounded by “real” models who were pencil-thin and towered over my 5’3” frame. In the midst of crumbling from physical comparisons to these goddesses, I realized this: The moment that I stepped on that runway, I was asking for an entire auditorium to evaluate me based on my physical appearance. I wanted people to see me for more than what was on the outside and I complained about the superficiality of society, but I was the one who was placing myself in environments where my entire value was skin-deep.

 

Audrey Hepburn is one of my childhood heroes, and even now that I’m twenty-two, I still think that she is one of the most beautiful women to ever grace this earth. I want to share one of her famous sayings:

 

“For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others,

For beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness,

And for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.”

 

We can recognize the significance and influence of external beauty but – whether Sean Kingston thinks we are “thick” or not – it is always more valuable and worthwhile to invest in beauty that comes from within.

Sending my love to all the beautiful women out there!

 

 

 

“Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs;

he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter” – Nietzsche

 

Last Friday, September 9, I flew to Mombasa, Kenya to meet with X and reach an agreement about his contribution to Solid’Africa.

The trip was a gamble in several ways.

First of all, you should know that I already doubted that the chicken farm would be feasible within the remaining two-week time frame of my grant (I have to submit a final report by Sept 26).

The farm, while ideal in terms of sustainability, is something that would require much more time and maneuvering to realize. In addition, X’s business is based in Mombasa, so his ability to help me set up the farm in Kigali would be very limited. So (after speaking to my wonderful friend in government) I developed a back-up plan – I figured if X really wanted to help out, it would be much more realistic and practical for him to first construct the soup kitchen for Solid’Africa before working with me to develop the chicken farm. The construction of the soup kitchen – which Solid’Africa estimated would cost about $100,000 – would be ideal for both parties, because it is the more immediate need for Solid’Africa and it is entirely within the domain of X’s construction business. I planned to push the chicken farm but then suggest the (donated) construction of the soup kitchen as a more realistic alternative.

Second, this was my first time attempting to negotiate a business arrangement and I was very nervous. I have no experience in business and my inexperience was compounded by an extreme dread of failure. I was worried about spending five days in Mombasa and returning to Kigali empty-handed. And with the looming “final report” date for my grant over my head, I felt immense pressure to deliver results.

Third, as a young woman, I was worried about traveling alone to a city I had never been to and staying with a man I barely knew. I had met with X four or five times in Kigali and found him to be genuine and sincere – still, in my ultra-paranoia and distrust of strangers, I wanted to proceed with caution. I reached out to my two other contacts in Kenya (based in Nairobi) and also made sure all my closest friends and family in Rwanda and the States knew where I would be. I was encouraged by the fact that I would meet his wife and children, but still very much aware of my vulnerability in going on this trip.

 

“Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face” ~Victor Hugo

 

I will reflect more on my experience in Mombasa later, but for now, I want you to know the main circumstances and events of this trip.

As soon as I arrived in Mombasa (Tangent: I actually fell asleep on the one-hour ride and almost ended up in Dubai, but the Kenyan police managed to find me on board – I can’t imagine it was very difficult to find the one passenger who could possible be “Lydia Hsu”), one of X’s drivers took me directly to X’s construction company.

There, X showed me all the components of his construction business. I saw the compression of the raw material, the cutting of the metal beams, the assembly of walls, molding of sinks and toilets, carpentry of doors and furniture, and the final finishing touches in paint and design.

I was very impressed by how X had essentially ensured that he produced, manufactured, and delivered ALL of the components of his construction business.

We then went to this office to talk business.

When I spoke to X earlier in Kigali, I was under the impression that his chicken farm was already well underway. However, I quickly discovered that – while yes, he had secured all of the land and the hatching machines from China and the construction of the house – he was far from being IN business with the farm.

X still wanted to help me to develop a chicken farm in Kigali and insisted that it was a sure investment, but I began to develop my pitch and move toward the idea of first constructing the soup kitchen before working on the chicken farm.

Fortunately, X liked the idea.

We immediately called one of the leaders of Solid’Africa and exchanged emails to facilitate the arrangement. X agreed to donate all of the materials for the construction of the kitchen as well as the services of his construction team in Kigali to assemble the building. All he asked was for me/Solid’Africa to cover the cost of shipment, which he assured me would be no more than $5,500.

Now, all that remained was the paperwork.

Even though X was beaming and strutting around his office as if everything was signed and sealed, I was still bent on pushing the agreement further toward the shipment of the materials. X, however, told me repeatedly to “relax” and “trust” and that we would continue the process on Monday.

I did not want to compromise the positive rapport and jeopardize the arrangement, so I conceded and proceeded to “be relaxed” and “happy.”

This was, I realize now, a mistake.

 

ACT I: The Mombasa Malady

I will not go into detail (because I know sometimes my posts can be tmi), but over the next day and a half, my anxiety and discomfort escalated and began to take a serious toll on my health. As you may recall, I had just barely recovered from “organ dysfunction” due to extreme stress, and this trip was quickly plunging me into even greater levels of stress. Not to worry – I was not physically harmed in any way – but I did endure a very emotionally and mentally strenuous stay in Mombasa that ultimately culminated in illness. On Saturday night, I threw up at X’s restaurant and quickly returned to the house. I spent the next few hours on the phone with loved ones who insisted that I fly back to Kigali immediately.

I need to think on this more – but perhaps business is not the right calling for me.

In those moments of hysteria, I began to put my desire to help and do good over my personal well-being. I prioritized the security of the business arrangement and the need to deliver results, and in doing so, trapped myself in Mombasa where I was miserable, sick, and frightened.

Looking back, I hope that I will never again be in a situation where I value business over personal comfort and security.

I know now that it was not worth it.

 

The next morning, I tried to “manage” the situation and arrange an earlier flight home to Kigali. X was displeased and said, “But that is bad because you are leaving without finishing anything.”

However, I tried to be firm and insist that I needed to see my doctor. I also emphasized that if he was truly committed to building this kitchen, I should not have to remain in Mombasa to see through the rest of the arrangement. Right?

Truth is though – I was already checked out and, kitchen or no kitchen, I really just needed to go home.

 

ACT II: RwandAir “Refund”

I called RwandAir to change my return flight.

You won’t believe what they told me.

“Sorry, miss, but our system shows that your ticket has been refunded.”

…

I tried unsuccessfully to explain that my round-trip ticket could not possibly have been refunded because “Yes, sir, I flew to Mombasa. I am here right now. Would you like to see my visa?” and “How could you possibly refund my round-trip ticket if I already took the first flight to Mombasa?” and “I don’t know who you could have refunded because I haven’t received a refund.”

RwandAir would not let me change my flight.

Go. Figure.

You can imagine the escalating stress.

Fortunately, X arranged for me to fly to Nairobi with his business partner, who would give me a place to stay and also take care of my flight to Rwanda in the morning. The JetLink airlines representative told us over the phone that I could pick up and pay for my ticket when I arrived at Mombasa International Airport.

Whew.

Or so I thought.

(By the way, I hope you’re getting the gist of this story).

 

X’s partner was having so much fun at the pool that she decided to postpone her flight, but promised that she would arrange for her driver to pick me up from the airport. I decide that, just in case, I would let my friend in Nairobi know that I was arriving at the airport at 9:30 PM. I figured at the rate things were going – who knew what else could happen?

At least I did that much right.

 

ACT III: JetLink “Cancellation”

I arrived at Mombasa International Airport with one of X’s workers and went to the JetLink counter.

“Hi, my name is Lydia and I’m here to pick up my ticket. Here’s the cash and the ticket number.”

“Ma’am, I am sorry but your ticket has been canceled and the flight is full.”

…

Yes, I had another “what did she just say?” moment. And this time, I definitely lost my cool. “Excuse me? What do you mean my ticket was canceled? I booked it two hours ago.”

“Yes but you did not pay for it on time.”

No matter how I tried to explain that the JetLink representative had told me to pay for the ticket at the counter and how many times I gestured angrily at the “Customer Service” poster behind her, the poor woman obviously could not change the fact that the 8:30 PM flight was full. Completely defeated, I consented to the 9:30 PM flight, but made sure that I was on stand-by for 8:30.

At least I got on stand-by at 8:30 PM.

I had this small rising hope that perhaps the wost was over.

(Yeah, you know where this is going).

 

I arrived in Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta International Airport at 9:30 PM and proceeded to wait for contact from X’s business partner. But I could not reach X and his partner’s number wasn’t working either so, after two hours, I called my friend and he swung by and picked me up from the airport.

I had the wonderful opportunity to celebrate the Ethiopian New Year (did you know that it’s only 2004 according to the Ethiopian calendar?) in Nairobi and quickly became a fan of the “Ethiopian twist.” (Bear in mind, this was also on September 11 – more on that later).

After a night of dancing and relaxing with old friends and new, I went back to Mimosa Villa and finally slept – really slept – safe and secure and happy and relaxed.

 

ACT IV: RwandAir “Refund” Revisited

The next morning, I attempted to get in touch again with X and his business partner. After several rather unpleasant phone calls (in which I was accused of deception and fraud … yeah, I’m not even going to bother explaining), I once again had to negotiate the original “refunded” ticket with RwandAir.

“Hello – yes, this is Lydia. Yes, I am calling again about my ticket. I am in Nairobi now – I would like you to transfer my original ticket and arrange for me a flight from Nairobi to Kigali this evening.”

“Ma’am, it is not possible, the flights from Mombasa to Kigali cannot be – ”

“No sir, I was never refunded for my flight, so RwandAir is responsible for arranging my ticket home. I came to Nairobi because I know there are more flights from here to Kigali. Please find a solution and call me back in ten minutes.”

After all of my efforts to be patient and sweet and relaxed for the past three days, my inner “good girl” had finally crumbled and I did not have the resolve to deal with anymore B.S. and unprofessionalism.

And voila – ten minutes later, I finally had a ticket back to Kigali for that same evening.

Gosh, you should have seen the smile on my face.

I spent my remaining hours in Nairobi driving around the city with my friend. I’ve missed Chi-town terribly, so you can imagine my giddy excitement at discovering one of the gigantic malls downtown! I ran around like a five-year-old taking the escalators up and down and sampling two gelato stands on different floors.

 

ACT V: Android Angst

Finally, it was time to leave and we started driving from downtown Nairobi to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.

We were at a traffic light ten minutes away from the airport when I received an email from my dad about the pipe explosion in Nairobi. I started to respond and texted “Hi Daddy I am in Nairobi but I am safe – ”

All I saw were two huge black hands in my face and, before I could even scream, my phone was wrestled out of my hands.

 

Then I screamed. Oh yes, I screamed hard out of that window into the darkness.

 

My friend, when he finally realized what had happened from my spastic sputtering incoherence, turned the car around.

But, of course, it was too late.

 

The next five minutes were silent.

My friend called my phone. “He hung up.”

My friend called my phone again. “Damn, he already turned it off.”

I was nauseous.

All I could manage to say was: “Can you please close my window?”

We arrived at the airport.

My friend, well-acquainted with my business and traveling woes in Kenya thus far, did not know what to say.

I did not know what to say either. So, as with all other unfortunate events in my life, I did the only thing I could.

 

“With the fearful strain that is on me night and day,

if I did not laugh I should die” ~Abraham Lincoln

“Can you imagine I was only ten minutes away from finally going home? Just ten minutes?”

I laughed. I cried. I gasped. I giggled.

“Dammit. Oh gosh, my phone. I was so close.”

My friend: “It’s really not very funny.”

Me: giggle, giggle. “Oh, dammit.”

 

ACT VI: (More) Airport (Mis)Adventures

 I used my friend’s phone to email my father and my friends in Kigali to arrange for a ride home from the airport.

My ticket number and confirmation were in my email account, so I needed my friend to come in with me. I figured he could just tell the security guards the truth, but he chose to lie about also “picking up his ticket at the counter.” We both made it in.

At this point, each step of getting closer to Kigali felt like a blessing. I was so relieved when I finally had a plane ticket in my hand. I said good bye to my friend, but right before I went through security I called him back and scrawled his number and my friends’ numbers on my right wrist. Then, I went through Customs and finally got to my gate.

“Don’t ruminate,” I muttered to myself, “Work through, work through.”

I reached into my purse to make sure I had my ATM card for the next morning.

 

My wallet wasn’t there.

“Ohhhhhhhh shit.”

 

When my phone was stolen, I didn’t just scream – I also jumped in my seat, and in the process, my wallet must have fallen to the car floor.

I begged so many people in the waiting room to lend me their phones to make one emergency call, but they all refused. Finally, a kind Ethiopian man handed me his phone and I called my friend.

Then, I dashed back to Customs where the two sweet Kenyan ladies sympathetically let me pass (but held my passport hostage) and I went back to security.

I explained the situation to the two guards, but the stockier one gruffly said, “You are the one with the friend that lied to us.”

“I’m really very, very sorry. He shouldn’t have, but I explained to you why that happened,” I said. “He is coming back to the airport with my wallet and I need to go outside to wait for him.”

“He breached security. He needs to pay.”

It was all I could do to not roll my eyes. “Seriously? You want me to pay you?” I shook my head, “I have to go outside.”

I went outside. My friend came by with my wallet and said, “I don’t even know what to say.”

I went back inside. “Listen,” I said to the two guards, “I am probably never coming back to Kenya again so you might as well take what I have.” As I opened my purse, the smaller guard said, “No, no, you already lost your phone Keep your money.”

I handed 400 shillings (~$4) to the stocky guard, who took it and grinned.

Then, I went back through Customs, where the two ladies returned my passport and expressed condolences again for what happened. “Thank you so much for your understanding,” I said, “But you should know I also just paid off your security.”

I left both women with shocked and upset faces and saw one of them head for security as I made my way back to the gate.

 

ACT VII:

 I finally made it back to Kigali twelve hours ago, and I am planning to stay in my room indefinitely to write and reflect on all that has happened.

Here are a couple vignettes that I am still processing:

 

When I was about to board my flight to Kigali, I saw a man who had just arrived from Uganda. He was a quiet and gentle-looking man with a bowed back and a gray beard. As cameras flashed and reporters surrounded him with microphones, I saw him smile and nod silently. Turns out this was Al-Amin Kimathi, a Kenyan human rights activist, who was detained on September 21, 2010 in connection with the July bomb attacks in Kampala, which killed 76 people who were watching the 2010 World Cup final. He had traveled to Uganda to observe the court hearing of six terror suspects charged and was subsequently detained for a year in pre-trial detention without any evidence provided against him. During that time, Ugandan prison authorities refused to allow Amnesty International delegates to access Kimathi on four occasions. (Article: http://www.amnesty.org/en/news-and-updates/freedom-kenyan-activist-charged-over-uganda-bombing-2011-09-12)

My friend in Nairobi is a professional soccer player who has played with teams from countries all over the world (including DC United). Several months ago, he sustained a knee injury that has not only prevented him from playing but has also threatened his career. As I tried to process everything that happened to me this weekend, he told me: “The only thing that I truly love in life is football. I spent ten years of my life practicing and playing my sport and now I cannot do the thing I love most for ten months, maybe longer. But am I sitting in my room and complaining and being sad? No, because that’s life and I will not give up.” He also told me about his experience during the 1994 genocide. He was in the DRC at the time and only ten years old. “There were bodies everywhere. You know, sometimes people don’t even know what to do with them and they throw them on top of each other. Everywhere, dead bodies. That’s life – there are wars. All you can do is try to live and be safe and happy.”

This morning when I got up, I looked up the news about the pipe explosion in Nairobi. (Here is an article: http://allafrica.com/stories/201109121428.html)

You know what?

The explosion, which killed over one hundred people, happened only ten minutes (8 km) from the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport where I was driving to yesterday. (Flashback to last summer when I was in downtown Kigali just half an hour before the bombings).

 

I am lucky to be alive.

My roommate just told me “Trusting people is good. But there is a line between trust and plain stupidity. I think you were flirting with that line.”

“No,” I said to him, “I definitely crossed it.”

 

I am still not exactly sure to make of all of this. I know that I was an idiot. I know that I should have never made the trip to Kenya (even if I did secure the kitchen).

But in the midst of all the disaster and stress, at least one thing is very clear – I am so blessed. I am grateful, not just for the obvious – for security and financial resources (however limited they may be) and food and clothes and electricity, etc – but I am so especially grateful for my friends and my family.

 

This was a particularly big fish this time, God, but thank you for watching over my safety and helping me to learn in the process – I clearly still have a lot of growing to do. 

Yes, I am back at King Faisal Hospital, and I am sitting in a waiting room.

It is 11:40 AM and my appointment with the specialist is at 12:15 PM. I’ve already watched the receptionist hand the nurse my file, and seen him place it in the doctor’s office.

So far, so good.

As I look at all the miserable people around me, especially the crying babies, I sigh and hope that I’ll be out of here by 1.

Thank goodness my parents never wanted me to go to medical school.

I really hate everything about hospitals – the gloomy faces, the shots, the pills, the white coats, the bad handwriting, the smell of disease – but unfortunately, when extreme discomfort starts to inhibit my ability to perform daily functions, I know I have to see a doctor.

I pass the time and try to drown out the crying and sniffling by listening to music (Stereo Love was on the the play-list, of course!), and I chat with everyone who is online – on facebook chat, on gchat, on whatsapp.

12:15 passes. Then 12:30.

That’s when I start noticing something fishy.

 

Every time the doctor’s door opens, someone in the waiting room makes a dash for the door and shuts it before you can even count to three. The woman sitting across from me has also been waiting for an hour and progressively inching closer to the door, chair-by-chair. So far, the two patients who have been in and out of the office were people who arrived after me.

Hmm.

1:00 PM passes.

The door opens. Another patient zooms for it and nearly collides with another, but makes it in first. The door closes.

The woman across from me sighs. But she’s moved closer by yet another chair.

Rather suspicious at this point, I stand up and walk back to the receptionist.

“Hi ma’am. Hello. I’ve been waiting here for an hour and my appointment was at 12:15.”

“Yes,” she says, “The doctor has your file. He will see patients as they come.”

Ah, so is it first come, first serve?

“I know he has my file, but I’ve been waiting here for an hour and people who came after me have already seen the doctor.”

“Please wait.”

She smiles at me, but her voice signals an end to the conversation. I hesitate. But then decide to go back to the waiting room.

1:30 passes. Another patient makes it in before the woman across from me even stands up.

2:00 passes. This time, the woman makes it.

But by this time, I am also really annoyed. I go back to the receptionist.

“Hi ma’am – sorry to bother you again. But I’ve waited more than two hours now and I still haven’t seen the doctor. Is there no order or structure here?”

“The doctor has your file – ”

“I know that. But people who came after me keep going in the door. This is getting ridiculous.”

The receptionist can hear the anxiety in my voice, and she calls the nurse over. He frowns at me as he listens to her explain the situation in kinyarwanda. Then, he heads back toward the doctor’s office, and I follow, hoping that yes, it would finally be my turn.

He goes into the office and comes back out with all of the files. Immediately, the patients in the waiting room start clamoring at him in kinyarwanda and he silently begins to flip through the files and rearrange the order. Finally, after a couple minutes, he signals for the room to be quiet and starts reading out the names.

As each name is read, and each anxious patient sits back more comfortably in his or her seat, my heart begins to sink lower and lower as he reaches the end of the pile.

No, it couldn’t be possible. I’ve already complained to him several times in the past two hours.

But he reaches the last file, and looks at me with a smirk, “Lydia.”

“What?” I burst out, “Now, I’m last? Are you serious?”

He seems stunned at first by my reaction, but then starts laughing at me. Then, all the patients in the room start to laugh.

Unable to handle the situation anymore, I grab all my things and leave the waiting room.

I break down as I make my way back into the lobby and out of the hospital doors.

 

 

Yes, I left King Faisal Hospital in tears.

 

It wasn’t just this incident that finally pushed me over the edge. It was everything – the failed project, the illness, the disappointment, the homesickness – all of a sudden everything just compounded and culminated with this: public humiliation.

It was just too much.

But once again, I have to thank the angels in my life.

Far, far away in a still-dark home in Pennsylvania, someone answered my call and groggily listened to my sobbing and hysterics. And far, far away on the other side of the world in Beijing, another friend called me just as he was about to board a flight and listened to more sobbing and hysterics.

“Call out the big guns,” said my friend in Philly.

So I dialed the number – the same number that got me research clearance to all of Rwanda’s primary schools, the same number that cut through all of the red tape at the Ministry of Education and jeopardized a secretary’s job last summer.

I called my friend in government.

And boy was he furious.

In less than twenty minutes, I had a new appointment at the same hospital. So I went back to King Faisal Hospital, my eyes still red and swollen from crying, and called the contact that my friend gave me.

Almost immediately, a huge man in a military uniform showed up and escorted me to the CEO’s office. There, he went directly to the fridge and offered me drinks and listened as I explained my story.

He shook his head. “That is bad. Very bad. So sorry.”

The door opened and the CEO stepped in. Then, the door opened again, and the Head of Nurses and the doctor I was supposed to have seen also entered.

One by one, they apologized profusely to me and gave me their business cards. They claimed that it had all just been a “miscommunication” and that the nurse and receptionist did not feel comfortable enough with English to explain to me that the doctor sees emergency cases in between appointments, so appointments often get pushed back.

Of course, I knew they were just giving me an excuse. It was very clear that there was no system in place to track appointment times and patient visits.

Still, I was reminded once again about how important connections are in Rwanda. Here, you are only worth so much time and attention as how important and well-connected you are in society.

Because of my friend, I am now on some sort of “VIP list” at King Faisal Hospital, and the CEO continually reminded me to call him directly next time if I feel ill.

As for my medical “condition” – The doctor ultrasounded me three times (I got to see my liver, kidneys, and spleen! – oh, and I also confirmed that I am not pregnant … ) and determined that, very likely due to extreme stress, my organs had started to malfunction. And the doctor decided to prescribe for me – wait for this –

 

Alpha blockers (usually prescribed to men with prostate cancer).

 

Do you ever feel like sometimes life is some sort of twisted comedy where everything falls apart but things become so progressively ridiculous that all you can do is laugh?

After having spent an entire day at the hospital, it felt so good to finally leave and breathe fresh air and eat brochettes and fries with friends at Chez Lando.

Of course, I had no idea during dinner that I would end up spending the next four days in bed with a bad cold/flu (probably due to the extreme stress from the entire ordeal). But at least this made for a good story, huh?

 

Family and friends, just wanted to let you know that I am feeling MUCH better now — and if I ever have the slightest headache or cold, I know who to call!

Thank you so much to my two angels.

And thank you all for the many prayers and all the love and support you’ve given me throughout this journey.

 

PART I

It all started with Mama ZuZu.

Here is a woman whose smile never stops.

Mama ZuZu is thirty-eight years old, unemployed, and a mother of eight. She handles the affairs of her household, regularly attends church, and prepares meals for her children. However, starting two years ago, Mama ZuZu also began to incorporate regular trips to the local hospital in her schedule. At first, she gave from what was left over – the unfinished porridge from her own table went directly to feed the stomachs of hungry hospital patients. Mama ZuZu trusted in the Lord’s provision and gave from her limited means knowing that God would bless her even more abundantly in return. But over time, each visit and each newly adopted patient began to increasingly demonstrate the magnitude and urgency of the need.

 

[Brief tangent]

Two weeks ago, August 26, I attended a forum by the Institute of Research and Dialogue for Peace (IRDP) titled:

The state of peace in Rwanda as perceived by Rwandans:17 years after the genocide against the Tutsi

At this forum, IRDP examined the achievements and challenges Rwanda faces in rebuilding sustainable peace and presented the conclusions and recommendations from its research.

It focused on three important categories: good governance, social cohesion, and economic prosperity. 

 

“A society which does not focus its future on economic strategies which meet the needs of its citizens in such a way that there is justice in the distribution of wealth and entrepreneurship fails in its effort to build sustainable peace.” (IRDP)

 

Since 1994, the Rwandan government has taken significant strides to improve the standard of living for its citizens. Among these initiatives is “Mutuelles de Sante” — universal health insurance coverage implemented by the Ministry of Health to ensure access to quality healthcare for every Rwandan.

Depending on income and financial means, each Rwandan belongs in a category in which he or she contributes between RWF1000 ($2) and RWF7000 ($12) a year, which covers the minimum package of services provided.

IRDP claims that citizens believe “Mutuelles de Sante” is a good policy that contributes to the social welfare. However, the Ministry of Health’s decision to increase annual contributions in July 2011 has faced great backlash considering the low income of the majority of citizens.

From 1995 to 2010, the annual income per capita has increased 192% from 185,6 USD to 541 USD. While the figure is encouraging, it does not reveal the real standard of living of the people. As IRDP says, “The average does not help to measure the inequalities.”

In other words, even though the standard of living may have risen dramatically for some, this does not mean the gap has decreased between the poor and the rich.

As such, poverty continues to inhibit sustainable peace, and IRDP recommends the implementation of mechanisms that “monitor the effectiveness of poverty reduction programmes and their impact on the living conditions of vulnerable populations.”

Initiatives such as “Mutuelles de Sante” guide Rwanda toward peace. But even these initiatives continue to have flaws that contribute to the wide (and growing) disparities in wealth which make it dificult for Rwanda to achieve sustainable peace.

 

ALSO: There is one thing IRDP overlooked with regard to “Mutuelles de Sante”:

Hospitals do not provide food to patients.

Although public hospitals do have private restaurants where patients can purchase food at roughly RWF500 (~$1) per meal, many patients ultimately rely on the care and support of friends and relatives for daily sustenance. However, for the most vulnerable patients who come from outside of Kigali and can barely afford to even pay the RWF1000 per year for health insurance, meals becomes a near impossibility.

As a result, many patients receive medical treatment but then suffer from hunger, which inevitably worsens their condition. Add to this the already overwhelmed and overcrowded public hospitals where much needed space and beds are occupied by patients who cannot pay their medical bills, patients whose conditions are prolonged due to hunger or unavailable medication, and patients who have recovered but cannot even afford the cost of transportation to return home.

This became Mama Zuzu’s mission – to feed the hungry and to care for the vulnerable in Kigali’s public hospitals.

But she could not do it alone.

 

PART II

Bring in Isabelle Kamariza.

Here is a young woman whose heart and generosity have no limits.

Two years ago, Isabelle was attending a law school in Belgium and she was taking the train back home when she saw something.

She saw a man huddled in the corner of the train dressed in shabby clothing, his unwashed hair draped over bony knees hugged to his chest.

But that was not all she saw.

She turned around and looked at the other passengers on the train – women dressed in the latest styles from the most fashionable boutiques, businessmen on their blackberries and iphones, teenagers flirting and teetering on sky-high heels, students like herself with heavy backpacks filled with laptops and books.

She saw people who had been conditioned not to see – not to see the man in the corner, not to see poverty and hunger, not to see human misery even when it was sitting right in front of them.

She saw herself.

 

She saw her own discomfort and guilt and shame. And she felt herself turning away, just like all the others – but then she stopped, and wondered why.

That day launched Isabelle’s first organization – a program that started with a dozen home-made bagged meals and evolved into a widespread mission to feed the homeless and the hungry on Belgium’s streets and subways. Her compassion and generosity instigated a movement among Belgium’s youth to see and address the issues within their own communities.

 

Last year, Isabelle’s parents asked her to come home for a brief vacation. Although she was reluctant to leave her work in Belgium, Isabelle agreed to return to Rwanda.

She met Mama ZuZu (whose real name is Donatila Mukashalangabo) at church. As they were praying together, Isabelle prayed – as she always did – for the “sick, and the poor, and the hungry.”

But mid-prayer, Mama ZuZu interrupted and said: “Do not pray for the sick and the poor and the hungry. Meet them, know them, and pray with them.”

Mama ZuZu took Isabelle to CHUK. There, Isabelle saw patients who were stranded at the hospital because they could not afford to pay their bills. She met the sick and the poor and the hungry, and she prayed with them.

“There were sick people outside, mostly children and women; some of them had spent two weeks outside without treatment and it was raining,” says Isabelle, “I asked myself, how can we people go back and sleep in our comfortable beds on a soft mattress and just chill out, wake up and spend Rwf1000 for a coke when there are all these sick people sleeping in the cold, right in our neighborhoods?”

Using her own resources and connections, Isabelle, then 25, began to raise money and ask for food donations.

“I began begging people to help. I would go to mama and say ‘Please give me 5000 francs and I will do this… please give me milk and I will do this…’and I begun like that,” Isabelle said. Isabelle shared her concerns with the Rotaract Club Rwanda, which contributed Rwf160,000 and released several patients from CHUK hospital in March 2010.

Isabelle never left.

With just one more year remaining of law school in Belgium, Isabelle chose to remain in Rwanda and commit herself full-time to addressing hunger and poverty in Kigali’s public hospitals. Mama ZuZu’s heart coupled with Isabelle’s passion and leadership gave birth to “Solid’Africa” in Fall 2010 – a youth-driven non-profit organization dedicated to serving the most vulnerable patients in public health facilities through providing food, medication, basic sanitation, and the means to return home.

Over time, Mama ZuZu’s initial family of eight has steadily increased to a still-growing family of over three hundred.

 

“People need to know that they do not have to give a million to make a difference in people’s lives…anything small can make a huge difference,” says Isabelle.

 

 

PART III

So how do I fit in?

For those of you who follow my blog, you will remember that I am supposed to be developing a program in Kigali that pairs students with part-time business internships.

 

I am not doing that.

 

It would take too long to go into detail – but suffice it to say that this has been one of the most difficult months of my life.

My original project did not happen for a number of reasons.

For one thing, my most important contact and project partner decided to leave the project, but did not inform me until two weeks after I had already arrived in Kigali. Then, I learned that the fortunes of the Rwanda Multi-Learning Centre (where I taught last summer) had changed, and now more and more students are able to attend universities through external funding – which is wonderful news, but also means that my project has significantly less import and urgency than before.

So here I was in Kigali with two weeks already wasted and unsure of what to do. I felt guilty for wasting time and grant money, I felt shame for my inadequacy and apparent failure, and I felt disappointment for not having a back-up plan and for trusting so naively that things would work out.

And then, in the midst of the stress and anxiety, I got very sick and spent two days in the hospital.

In almost every respect – physically, mentally, emotionally, and even financially – I felt I had reached my limits.

At the IRDP forum, IRDP specified that, in addition to poverty, challenges in education and employment (my original focus) remain “threats to peace.” However, without my original partner organization and project partner, I already had to start from scratch and I was no longer certain whether starting anew with another school would be the best approach.

But somehow, some way, things tend to work out. It turns out my roommate was one of Solid’Africa’s first members, and when he heard about my frustration and struggle to design a new project – he immediately pushed me to attend one of Solid’Africa’s weekly meetings.

At this point, I was extremely paranoid and disillusioned about working with others, and I was worried that I would not find people as equally invested or committed to whatever issue I chose to tackle.

Fortunately, Isabelle and the members of Solid’Africa convinced me otherwise.

At the meeting, I found a large and growing number of dedicated individuals who had all, in some way, committed to the cause. Some offered the services of their own businesses, others dedicated their skills in marketing and advertising, others used their connections to secure audiences with the President and important political figures at forums and conferences, and still others donated time and money to serving food to hospital patients. Even though Solid’Africa only officially launched in April 2011, they have a rapidly growing membership among Rwanda’s youth, and have also started quite the fashion trend with their popular t-shirts!

Their mission statement: Solid Africa is a mindset and a movement of people that believe that it is possible to channel individual efforts towards helping those in need; and that through a strong social structure, we can all help solve most social constraints in public hospitals.

I listened to Solid’Africa’s current projects and spoke with Isabelle and the other central leaders about their ideas and future projections for Solid’Africa. Currently, Solid’Africa has four main projects:

 

Gemura Food For All: “Gemura” means “to bring food [to someone who needs it]” in kinyarwanda. This is Solid’Africa’s original and most developed project – to ensure food delivery to hospital patients. Solid’Africa serves breakfast to 300 patients at CHUK (Centre Hospitalier Universitaire de Kigali) every day, and lunch every Monday (“Solid’Monday”) and every last Sunday of the month (“Solid’Sunday”).

Kiza – Medicine For All:“Kiza” means “to heal.” This project aims to provide patients with medication that is unavailable (often because it is too expensive) in public health facilities.

Sukura – Hygiene and Well-Being: “Sukura” means “to clean something [hygiene].” This project focuses on ensuring that patients have basic sanitary supplies: plastic cups, plastic plates,tooth brush, tooth paste, toilet paper, female pads, etc.

Gombora – Hospital Release and Transportation:“Gombora” means “hospital release and transportation.” Solid’Africa covers the cost for treated patients to return home.

 

 

Solid’Africa’s biggest and most pressing goal is to build a “Gemura Kitchen” – or, essentially, the FIRST SOUP KITCHEN IN RWANDA dedicated to serving the most vulnerable patients in hospitals.

Right now, all of the food is cooked in two volunteer kitchens of limited capacities which inhibit maximal food production. In order to reach their goal of providing two meals every day to 700-1000 vulnerable patients in Kigali’s public hospitals, Solid’Africa needs a kitchen with the capacity to cook enough food. So far, the land has already been secured and building materials donated; now, all that is left is paperwork and construction.

 

Doesn’t Solid’Africa sound perfect? Here was a dedicated group tackling an important and urgent issue. I could not have found a better partner organization to work with.

However, I had one major concern.

 

Sustainability.

 

Currently, two Solid’Africa members provide all of the milk and there is one sponsor who supplies all of the maize. The structure of Solid’Africa and its planned kitchen rely entirely on donations – which may be fine for the long run, but on any given day, something could happen and the food for the patients could be jeopardized.

In addition, I posed this question to Solid’Africa: “Guaranteeing sustainability for Solid’Africa is one thing, but how do you ensure a sustainable reality for the patients that you are serving?”

I proposed to complement food aid with educational programs that tap into Solid’Africa’s volunteer base to help hospital patients resume their lives after treatment – for instance, a program that works with patients to gain technical skills, write their CVs, apply for jobs, learn English, etc. Vocational learning, especially, would align with IRDP’s recommendations to address unemployment, and specifically the “lack of qualified technicians on the labour market.” 

Another possibility would be to start an educational campaign in secondary schools and universities to engage and mobilize more youth in the issues within their communities. This latter project has made more headway, and I am overseeing the launch of a “Solid’Africa Honor Society” that will model our American “National Honor Society” which selects the best and the brightest high school students and requires 50 hours of community service work. The hope is that changing community service from a punishment to a privilege and duty will help to create a movement that shifts mentalities.

However, one of the members of Solid’Africa put it best: “Educational programs are wonderful and important, but when we cannot even address the hunger, our first priority must be to serve food. People need to eat before they can learn.”

 

 

PART IV

With questions of sustainability on my mind, I spent the next two weeks familiarizing myself with Solid’Africa. I started by editing all of their documents and attending all of their general and committee meetings, then gradually moving up to become their newly appointed secretary and designing an internal structure for the organization. I was moved by the energy and commitment of the members, but also aware of the lack of structure and cohesion within the group. I went to CHUK and met some of the patients; when it was time to serve lunch, I was dismayed by the chaos and disorder, and worked afterward with one of Solid’Africa’s leaders to come up with a more efficient and structured procedure (think assembly line, instead of patients crowding in toward the food and shoving bowls toward us).

But still, I had not found an answer to sustainability.

At first, I suggested that they could partner with organizations that focused solely on food aid, or perhaps apply for external funding to give them an extra financial cushion. However, I admire the group’s insistence on Solid’Africa’s identity as a “mind-set” – and their push to change mentalities and tap the resources of the community to directly channel individual efforts toward social issues.

“We want to instill into Rwandans the desire to help the most vulnerable people in our communities without involving foreign assistance,” says Patrick, a Solid’Africa leader.

Solid’Africa’s goal is to spread their mind-set and start a movement in Kigali, because they recognize that changed mentalities within the community are much more powerful and long-standing than external funding and support. After two years, they hope that their efforts will lead to advocacy and the Rwandan government will begin to require public hospitals to serve food to patients.

As I continued to try to find my place in Solid’Africa and figure out a project that would ensure sustainability, I also began to tell more and more people about Solid’Africa.

 

Bring in X.

X is a fifty-four year old business man who recently signed a $142 million contract with the Rwandan Development Bank to build 1000 houses in Kigali.

He is one of those people who has the rare problem of having more money than he knows how to use.

X made his fortune long ago in construction and built up a business empire that spanned continents and led him to accumulate a net worth of over $200 million (which apparently includes two islands). He retired ten years ago, but apparently he and his wife started quarreling when they were cooped up in their vacation resort and she told him to go back to work.

So he did.

He tells me that business is like playing chess. “You win, or I win. I am happy if I win. You are happy if you win. But the result does not change anything for either of us.”

Clearly, X is not in business for the money. (Otherwise, I think $142 million certainly constitutes a significant “change” for whoever loses it).

X is in business because he enjoys the feeling of success and accomplishment – like winning a chess game.

When I told him about my “business” in Rwanda and my struggle to find a sustainable answer to Solid’Africa, he chuckled.

“Darling,” he said, “I like you. You have a clean heart. You want to help. But you need to think about yourself – you need to think about your future. I can build you a kitchen – that is no problem. But what about you? You need to think about yourself before you think about others.”

I explained that I was not in Rwanda to make a profit, and that I have more than enough to sustain myself (especially once Fulbright funding arrives in December). My goal here is to make a difference – and a sustainable one.

However, X insisted: “If you want to make a difference, you need to start your own business. Don’t work with Solid’Africa. Start your own and donate 10% to Solid’Africa or the hospitals, and invest the rest to build your own future.”

It turns out X already had a business plan that fit perfectly with Solid’Africa and my questions of sustainability. He just hadn’t implemented it yet because he didn’t have a project manager to oversee it.

Ta-da.

Bring in … ME!

 

So, dear Readers, my project has transformed from a program that unites students with business internships to…

*Drum roll*

 

BUILDING A CHICKEN FARM

 

Yes, I am building a chicken farm.

We have the land. We have the construction company. The hatching machine for 200,000 eggs is on its way from China, and we are importing the eggs from either Turkey or Israel.

Why a chicken farm?

Because chicken is high in demand in Rwanda but scarce and poor in quality. If you go to any restaurant in Kigali, steak costs significantly less than chicken (which is FANTASTIC, in my opinion, because I love steak – but also means that people here WANT chicken) and the chicken that is served is dry and stringy. Restaurants that choose not to use the local chicken often have to obtain their chicken from external suppliers.

Thus, from a business perspective, constructing a chicken farm in Rwanda is a very good investment. And I seem to have found the person who has the resources and experience to do it! Now, all that is left for me to do is learn, implement, and eventually manage.

Right now, the plan is for X to first make the arrangements to build a large-scale chicken farm in Mombasa, Kenya (where most of his business is based), and I will watch and observe. Then, we will return to Rwanda and I will manage the construction of a smaller chicken farm in Kigali.

Our hope is that the farm will be constructed by the end of September. It takes 40 days for eggs to hatch, so we should be in business by November. Solid’Africa’s Gemura Kitchen will probably not be completed until December or January, but by then, I should have the means to start supplying chicken in a sustainable manner and use the profit from the business to fuel other sustainable ventures that can also support the provision of food to the hospitals.

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