Day 34: Rural Rwanda.

Kitabi, Rwanda – An endless line of rural citizens had begun the long walk through the dark with bags of charcoal or vegetables balanced on their heads. Most were barefoot and shielded their eyes as our headlights pierced the darkness, hands shooting up to steady their loads. It was six a.m. and many had likely already walked great distances.

Men, women and children alike coughed as a hundred trucks carrying sweet potatoes to the capital from outlying areas belched acrid clouds of diesel exhaust. The farther one goes from Kigali, the more evident the extreme nature of poverty in Rwanda – ‘Capital P’ Poverty. For most, the sole means of subsistence is whatever crop they are able to produce and sell. In areas around the capital, this means making long daily treks into the city to sell what is not needed at home.

Houses are commonly made from hand-made clay bricks hewn from nearby hills. Some are covered in a mixture that includes chalk to make the surface smooth, and occasionally painted. Others are made from mud stacked on a framework of sticks, often listing to one side. Some of the poorest homes are simply mud cubes. Roofs are often comprised of steel sheeting, or clay tiles. Unlike Tanzania, few are thatched, in part because of a government mandate against them.

Experiences like this still affect me deeply, despite having been to other developing nations, and to Africa twice. It pains me to see children in these communities gathering water from puddles that pool at the end of muddy driveways during rainstorms. And to know it is often cleaner than the alternative. The extent of poverty can be staggering.

It hurts, and is a constant reminder of the excesses of home.

Day 15: Removing the Mask.

Kitabi, Rwanda – Only 40 per cent of Rwanda’s estimated 8.5 million citizens are considered employed and, of them, 75 per cent are their own bosses. The average per capita income is only 62 cents a day. In short, this is one of the poorest countries in the world.

I’ve written previously that the abundance of food and vegetation can sometimes seem to mask the extreme poverty that exists here. Walking through a modern city like Kigali – with its hustle and bustle, well-dressed business people and a recent housing boom that has led to the rise of hundreds, if not thousands, of mansions – it can be even harder to fathom.

But Kigali is not representative of the country as a whole. No, this is a country where 94 per cent of people live in rural areas and where 87 per cent are engaged in agriculture and its related trades. There is very little industry here and 60 per cent of the population is under the age of 20. In 2004, the per capita gross domestic product was estimated to be a mere $228. Statistics can be a little numbing, or awakening, depending on your perspective.

In somewhat of a paradox, this is actually quite an expensive country, particularly when compared to others on the continent. The cost of accommodation in Kigali, for example, is on par with anything you would pay in Canada and potentially more expensive in relative terms when you consider the amenities offered. The lack of industry and a reliance on imports also increases the cost of everyday goods.

It’s enough to make you reassess your opinion of what poverty is, which has been gnawing at me of late. Generally, I’ve personally tended to define poverty as a lack of opportunity – for sufficient food, nutrition, shelter, health and access to education or gainful employment – but the poverty here is different from what I witnessed in Kenya and Tanzania.

Here, food is rarely a problem and with better nutrition generally comes improved health. HIV/AIDS infection rates aren’t as high as other sub-Saharan countries. Following a government mandate, there are few thatch houses remaining and people live in solid homes with steel or tile roofs. But Rwanda’s people are no less impoverished.

The Kitabi College of Conservation and Environmental Management (KCCEM) – where I’ve been working – hopes to marry environmental training with tourism to diversify and further the country’s economy. Located at the world’s only surviving Afro-montane tropical rainforest, KCCEM is being developed with consideration paid to the country’s development thrust, particularly to the government’s ambitious Vision 2020 goals and the Economic Development and Poverty Reduction strategy.

In short, the College seeks to generate employment opportunities and training thorough sustainable use of the environment, and to develop private entrepreneurship practices related to environmental conservation and protection. Overall, they hope to address issues of capacity building in the fields of biodiversity and environmental conservation througout the Albertine Rift region. My work here has helped me feel I am at least contributing something, however small.

The government hopes such initiatives will lead to an increase in per capita GDP to $900 by the year 2020.

Day One: Kigali - "Toto, We're Not in Africa Anymore. Are We?"

Kigali, Rwanda – With the cloying humidity and a distinct pot pourri of smells that includes the sweet smoke of home fires and the choking mask of diesel exhaust, my senses took me immediately back to my last trip to Africa as I stepped out of the airport this afternoon. Driving around Kigali, however, things looked fairly different when compared to Tanzania and Kenya.

Given that this is the most densely populated country on the continent, the sheer volume of people is unavoidable. That the city – and most of the country – is built on sprawling hills has also made everyone’s plot in life stand out all the more. Tremendous infrastructure developments like good roads seem also to have attracted that many more drivers. There also appears to be less yelling and jostling. Case in point: there is an orderly system at the bank – policed by its users – whereby you take a seat at the end of the line and move down one until it’s your time to visit the wicket. I dare say that would not work in Nairobi.

The biggest shock for me, though, was the houses. Housing developments of hundreds of homes that would rival the largest in London are cropping up everywhere. It’s not just a couple select communities, either; it’s all over the city. Apparently, over the past 15 years – and even moreso over the past six – foreign investors have invested heavily in Rwanda and have begun to build monstrous homes with imposing gates, Roman columns and infinity pools. It seems so out of place, particularly given that extreme poverty is enmeshed into the very same communities. Jethro explained to me that, unlike a city like Nairobi, which has very geographically defined slums, sparse land has left the poor living side-by-side with the rich.

Entire hills are being carved out for these new developments, leaving the shanties that previously occupied the land in toothpicks. For me, it raises the question of where these marginalized people are going to live, particularly given the population density. Driving through these neighborhoods, though, you no longer feel like you’re in the Africa you’ve become somewhat accustomed to. It’s surreal, much in the way I imagine Las Vegas to be.

We’ve decided to stay in Kigali tonight at the Agasoro Motel, nestled behind a large steel fence with imposing spikes on the top. While it's very basic, it will certainly do the trick and the lunch they prepared for us – consisting of grilled fish, fresh cut fries with a sauce you could add and spiced peas – was very good.

Given the amount of traveling I’ve done over the past few days, I had also planned to have a shower to freshen up. It turns out that, by flushing the toilet, I exhausted my water supply. There must be a lesson in there somewhere. When in Africa, you have to roll with the punches, or in my case at least, roll with the pungent.

Day 11: A Good Deed.

Mwanza, Tanzania - It was tremendously rewarding to take part in a good deed today during an excursion that will make an enormous difference in a woman’s life.

Where there’s poverty throughout Mwanza, homes in the slums up the hill we visited today are in even more serious states of disrepair. Missing are even the open sewers of the city; refuse of all varieties – fabric, packaging, corn cobs and liquor sachets – blanket the ground, piling high in areas where the wind has carried it. The hills are rocky and steep, the ground hard and dry. Small shacks perch precariously on ledges, gravity pulling wood planks to the ground. With the heat in full force, the hike makes your lungs ache.

As ever, children call out to us and we are welcomed by a number of friendly adults sitting in front of their homes or small shops.

When we reach our destination, a frail-looking woman with few teeth comes to the door of her clay hut and welcomes us warmly into the small room that serves as kitchen, bedroom – with a bed made from pieces of discarded foam – and living room. Soon, her granddaughter, Sikitu – the reason for our visit – comes by and we’re able to hand over a letter and 500,000 TSH (approximately $450-500) from former WHE intern Dallas Currow. Dallas had come to know Sikitu during her time in Tanzania and had conducted additional fundraising back in Canada to help her pay for medicine and other needs.

That is a life-changing amount of money here, particularly where she lives. I can only imagine the look on her face when she opened the envelope.

Day Nine: Buswelu.

Mwanza, Tanzania - On roads carved from clay, and etched by rivulets and sinking tires, we made our way to the Buswelu Primary School this morning to take hand-made cards and picture books prepared in English and Swahili by students at Tecumseh Public School in London, Ontario for the children here.

At times, flooded roads became impassable and we were forced to wind through the labyrinthine community, past residents tending to meagre plots of land and washing clothes or themselves in their front yards. By the looks of surprise we received, it became immediately evident these weren’t roads regularly traveled by ‘s’. I suddenly felt very conspicuous and exposed in my pallor. The fact our cab ride to Buswelu – a suburb of Mwanza – cost an average man’s monthly salary was also food for thought.

Homes were generally constructed of clay or concrete; chickens, dogs and goats darted onto the roads with impunity. Children, of all ages, too. It continues to amaze me how many children are always scurrying about – often with loads of water or sticks on their heads – and taking care of themselves from very young ages. It’s not uncommon to see a five-year-old looking after his or her smaller siblings, without a parent in sight. I can’t imagine how young responsibility is foisted upon, or accepted by, youth here, but with the sheer level of poverty, there is an obvious reason why. There is very little time for parental supervision.

Upon arriving at the school, our car was immediately surrounded by children, pointing at us and asking us questions. Thankfully, Meaghan and Alison’s Swahili is much better than mine. Ushered into Headmaster Leonard Chinyele’s small office, we were welcomed and asked to sign the visitor’s register, which has happened everywhere we have been thus far. It was our hope to ask Mr. Chinyele to have students at the school write back to their Canadian counterparts on cards provided by the Western Heads East project; he readily agreed, saying that he could get them to us by the time the interns return home in December. The more we can learn about people in other parts of the world, the easier it can be to understand where we can help and what we can learn from them. Exposure to children like those at these schools is a positive first step.

Day Two: Oyugis/Kasipul/Kabondo.

Advance caveat: I'm aware this is far too long a post for a blog, but it was such an important day, I feel I had little choice. Given the inconsistency of Internet service here, it also comes relatively unedited.

Put simply, this was one of the most incredible days of my life. While there is so much to say, I still feel trepidation in my fingers because words – especially in the written form – seem unable to do justice to all we did and experienced in such a short time. Without first-hand knowledge, much of rural Africa is, unfortunately, beyond the context of understanding for many North Americans.

Complaints about traffic and poor road conditions rank somewhere between hobby and sport in Canada, yet, I have never endured a ride bumpier than today’s trip past various villages into Oyugis, Kasipul, Kabondo and points between. The roads – where formal ones exist – are in serious states of disrepair, while others have been carved from the earth and wend their way awkwardly up hills and over jagged rocks. But it’s not that we could complain about traffic. The roads were nearly devoid of cars, though a few buses spewing black exhaust made things interesting on the narrow strips of pavement.

No, instead, the roads were lined with people walking or cycling, carrying with them their wares, belongings or other people – one bicycle transported five people. Along the way, children waved, smiled and ran alongside the truck; others led their goats and cows along the ditch. As we climbed into higher elevations, the relatively arid terrain gave way to lusher, tropical trees and plants, including coffee, pineapple and banana. Consistent throughout, though, was the poverty. The landscape was dotted by small villages of mud huts or tin-roofed shacks in varying states of disrepair, and by town markets teeming with activity and people hawking their wares.

Following a two-hour drive, our day began at the Rackuonyo District Hospital, where we met with the superintendent, the district AIDS/STI coordinator and representatives from KEMRI and the ministry of public health. The project’s researchers sought permission to include some of the hospital’s 5,000 HIV/AIDS patients in the probiotic yogurt project, a proposal agreeable to the superintendent, so long as privacy standards are maintained. Visiting the hospital was interesting in its own right as it was equipped with very few facilities – mostly an outcropping of small buildings the size of an average North American kitchen. Additionally, when we walked in, a technician was drawing blood from a long line of patients – without wearing gloves. This was mind boggling, particularly given the high-risk nature of the task.

We were then welcomed in the Kokal village by the Oranda Women’s Group, who will likely follow in the footsteps of the ‘yogurt mamas’ in Mwanza, Tanzania, and begin preparing probiotic yogurt for their community. “We are very happy for your visit,” the group’s chairperson stated as we were ushered to seats of honour in their compound as cows grazed and small children sucking on sugarcane peered with curiosity at their visitors. “This is the only project like this in all of Kenya, so you are leading the way for the country,” said Canadian scientist Gregor Reid.

We then made our way through villages to meet with the Nyanam Women’s Group, who showed great promise as advocates for the project and demonstrated particular strengths in communications, marketing and sales. “My argument has always been, who brings food, brings life,” added Isaac Luginaah, the project’s principal investigator. There could be real value in leveraging their aptitudes to help spread the word of benefits from probiotics and to potentially involve them with the sales aspect, rather than yogurt production itself.

For lunch, we stopped at a roadside restaurant and I enjoyed some local fare: fried chicken and a slab of ugali. While I came to Africa armed with 50-60 Swahili words, I have limited my use to fairly basic sayings, particularly “habari”, “nzuri” and “asante” (hello, I’m fine and thank you, respectively), but at lunch I used my first full sentence: “Samahani – naomba una chupa ye maji baridi; asante sana” (“Excuse me, I would like a cold bottle of water; thank you”).

In the afternoon, we met with two more groups of mamas to examine other viable options for community kitchens and were asked some important questions, including one about whether traditional, local sour milk products provide the same benefits as probiotic yogurt. Differences between controlled and uncontrolled fermentation are important to distinguish. According to Professor Reid, while the sour milk may provide certain benefits, bacteria in it dies in the gut and, thus, does not provide the same beneficial qualities as probiotics.

I am amazed by how ubiquitous Coca Cola is here. The company’s logo was permanently overlayed in the corner of a television program featuring music videos. Shiny red, well-painted bus shelters bear the Coke logo (and were unquestionably financed by them). In many villages, bright red Coke stands rise up between dilapidated shacks housing other businesses. And, in nearly all cases, the Coke buildings were the nicest ones in the village. Even more shockingly – and perhaps the irony of ironies – one of the hospital buildings was sponsored by the beverage maker (and bore a large mural to that effect). In a community with a 17 per cent HIV/AIDS infection rate, however, I suppose the hospital’s need for funding surpasses concern for diabetes, gum disease and other drawbacks of soda consumption.

For someone as interested as I am in the world and in how people live, today was an incredible opportunity to experience a different people, a different culture and a different way of life. It was amazing. Children would invariably bound along, waving and giggling or retreat shyly. Many would then soften with wide eyes and take off with peels of laughter with their friends. Replying “nzuri” to their timid hellos left them tickled pink. In matching school uniforms, they’d cut down the laneways and peer into the buildings we were in, often unsure until we waved or said hello. Then came the widest smiles. Driving through the countryside and villages, and meeting the mamas in the various communities was rewarding on so many levels.

This was a day to remember.