Ok, I lied.


Sorry. I did. In my defence, it was only a part lie. Yes, I get up, go to work and come home. Often that’s just how it is. But actually, there are not many times I go to work back in Britain and you’re in front of 300 villagers in the middle of nowhere who have been waiting for you for days, give them health info (‘disseminating’ being the development operative term – I’m learning so much jargon), receive questions, and then be treated to several cow-dances. These guys were great, I’m sure I’ve described the dance before, but it’s basically where the guys wrapped in bright cloth stomp their bell-adorned feet both joyfully (in praise of their cows) and threateningly (“we’ll steal your herd of cows if you don’t watch out!”). The women sway gracefully. But these guys were good. The best I’ve seen. There was a troupe of guys, but some of the best were these tiny boys, no more than 8 years old who faux fight against the old men, wielding their spears and shields and flicking their blonde wigs aggressively. They were fantastic. Like I say, Rwandans need no real reason to do their national dance. If they can find an excuse – be it a HIV awareness session in preparation for World AIDS day then fine, go ahead.

We were a good 45 minutes away from anything resembling a tarmac road. I’d created a bit of a stir rocking up on the motorbike.Uunfortunately when the final closing comments were being made myself and Dany, a Congolese guy who works for the Red Cross, having spied rain ahead, and knowing we’d be trapped on our bikes if we didn’t flee right away, made to leave. Doubly unfortunately, I don’t think half of the three hundred crowd ever heard what the village chief was saying in his closing remarks, because a large proportion of it shifted over to the patch of dirt where I’d parked my bike. I have a magnetic force which draws people generally close enough to touch me but without actually giving them the courage to do so. You can’t be self-conscious out here. I had over a hundred people watch as I (fascinatingly) strapped my helmet on, put on my gloves, checked the sky for rain clouds, started her up and kicked off. It was actually quite difficult what with trying to avoid the forty kids within inches of the tyres. It didn’t stop there. The kids came streaming down the stone strewn path after me, trying to touch the bike – or me – as we made off to race the rain home.


The day had consisted of giving information about HIV, how it works in the body, how to prevent it, where to get tested and how to get drugs to lessen the effects. We had one woman give a testimony, talking of her own experiences. The person giving the testimony rarely comes from the area because the stigma would be so bad that they would be marginalized from the community. HIV is seen as a dirty virus for amoral people. Who cares if you contracted it through birth from your mother who was gang raped? Who cares if it was your husband who gave it to you because he likes ‘the sweet stuff’ too much to receive it from only his wife? Nope. Somehow HIV is either got from having too much sex out here and or it is God’s revenge on bad people. Either way, you’re going to find it difficult to have neighbours’ children playing with your kids if you are HIV+.


In this tiny village, far from cars, TV, health centres, hospitals, it was difficult to justify trying to persuade these people to watch out for themselves in such a way. Why spend 5p on condoms when that 5p could be enough to feed 6 of your children with cassava that day? How can you preach abstinence to women who have absolutely no power over what happens to their bodies nor who uses them? It’s a daily conversation I have with myself, but then HIV is so destroying, it is linked to these same factors of poverty, orphancy, lack of food because of being too ill to work in the fields, rape, gender inequality, state insecurity etc etc. So actually, it is as important as feeding your kids. Otherwise you may not be able to feed your kids tomorrow. Nor when you’re dead.


These kids were the kids of a charity appeal’s dreams. Bloated bellies full of air, bare feet, muddy faces, gape-tooth smiles, torn clothes, traditional tribal dancing...you name it, Geldof would have had his camera out. All in the middle of nowehere. But it’s not always like that. Not at all. I will have to take photos of the skyscrapers in Kigali, or the fancy architecture of the banks or embassies. Or of the rich Rwandans licking their ice creams, in a cafe with blind beggars at the doors. The contrasts are incredible. Also there are plenty of people at work who cannot believe that I sit contemplating the world on my front step – it is after all, a front step, and I am a person who has been to secondary school. I must sit on a seat! And they probably think I am more than unhygienic for picking bits of cake up in my hands. Where is the paper serviette!


I’m off on a tangent once again. Returning to work. Indeed, I often sit in an office, tapping away at a computer. I have lunch, go home and do it all again. But yes, I agree, there are those incredible moments when you realize just how far away you are. And ok, I agree, that maybe then people can be right to say that things must be ten times more exciting over here.

I’m perfectly content at the moment out here. Rwanda is exciting, challenging, frustrating, boring all in one go. But at least it makes the boring far from monotonous! Yes of course I will miss friends and family at Christmas, and yes, I would love a hot shower - or even a cold shower so long as it's not a cup and a bucket, yes a ham sandwich made from wholegrain granary bread with loads of lettuce and ground pepper would make my day, yes it'd be great to stroll down the street once or twice without a thousand eyes following my every move. But I'm perfectly happy.

Not least because I’m avoiding short days and too much electronic “Dashing through the snow” ringing out in Woolworths all over Britain right now.