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.
Kisumu, Kenya - 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.
Mwanza, Tanzania - Visiting the Sekou Toure regional hospital in Mwanza this morning, we were reminded of how lucky we are to have the health care service we do in Canada. While the hospital was better equipped than the one we visited in Kenya earlier in the trip, its inadequacies were punctuated by its complete lack of electricity and water since last night. They have no back-up generators.
