Racy.

Neon and on and on.

Kowloon, Hong Kong — It’s a sprint to the finish. And we took a wrong turn.

We’ve spent the evening at the Temple Street Night Market in Kowloon, and the last ferry to Hong Kong Island leaves at 11:45 p.m.

Time spent sifting through cheap knockoffs and knicknacks that cut out the middle man has left us running to the pier. We left behind the dai pai dong with grilled meats and delicious looking spiced crab as shutters began falling sharply over storefronts like steel blankets.

Prostitutes don’t bat an over-lacquered eyelash. Even the purveyors of pastel cat-printed t-shirts, hand-held fans and Cucci purses barely raise a wrist in limp protest at our rushed departure.

This side of town is a far cry from the opulence of Canton Street — where a Lamborghini passes a pair of Bentleys — underlining the region’s vast wealth disparity.

Only a few blocks separate them, but their worlds could not be farther apart.

With the clock barking in our ears like a drill sergeant, the blocks feel even longer. We make it just in time.

Naturally, I try to pay with my room key.

It has been a long day.

Another Brick in the Wall.

Teach a man to fish.

Basseterre, Saint Kitts – The low-slung brick wall sports a message: “No nastiness.”

As we wade through the mild humidity past downtown – where faded British phone boxes stand barren, in an apt metaphor for the former colonial state – and into the community, many walls carry similar slogans.

They call for unity, for the elimination of gender-based and sexual violence, and decry crime with crudely scrawled guns and knives. The city has the highest murder rate of any country’s capital.

Interspersed are gang tags and RIPs to fallen comrades like ‘Beat Boy.’ Like billboards to poverty, the street is filled with the disassembled jigsaw puzzles of rusty vehicles. Many of the pieces are missing, never again to be found.

Back downtown, more memories of the slow fade of colonialism and a traffic officer, who barks at me about jaywalking at an uncertain intersection.

It’s supposed to be a $500 fine. But, I get a pass.

No nastiness today.

Art of the Meal.

Half a step in, twice the steps out.

Austin, TX – Choppy fences stand, half-cocked, framing misshapen food trucks, food shacks and food trailers. With strong food and art scenes, Austin appears, at first blush, to be a city focused on both palate and palette.

The sun gleams off a large spray-can mural and a silver Gulfstream – a bullet filled with tasty treats. Fresh wood smoke, meanwhile, does olfactory battle with jasmine seeping from the trees that remain unburning. The humidity and vegetal scents remind me of being in a greenhouse on a cooler day.

Neon soon begins to seep into the encroaching dusk.

A homeless man with a tufted purple wig hikes his oversized jeans and rumbles across the road in front of us like a troll keeping Austin weird.

We have ended up at Banger's Sausage House & Beer Garden. With 106 taps of craft beer to peruse as I tuck into a fragrant south Texas antelope merguez sausage, jalapeño mac and cheese and a jar of spicy pickles, how could we not?

We haven't, however, taken them up on their offer of a free tattoo of their beer stein and sausage logo.

Can You Belize It?

Shabby chic.

Belize City, Belize – Following a 20-minute tender to shore, we are greeted by the storm-beaten planks of tilted houses, bleached and encrusted in salt.

Others are brightly painted masks of the evident poverty. As is so often the case, the port is a party, the town, a separate world.

But then, a large bank of clouds breaks into a smile.

It would be the same from the locals.

A country with a porpoise.

A former policeman points us to where we should explore at the back side of town. Another, sporting a curly beard, spouts local history, hoping to take us on a tour and share his evident knowledge. Prince Charles Perez is apparently a local fixture and goodwill ambassador for Belize, a fact later confirmed online.

A shopkeeper drops the price on a couple local Belikin beers as he lifts the tops for us, and we spend a half hour speaking with a very talkative woman in a spice shop.

Despite the country’s reputation for violent crime, this has easily been the friendliest stop on the trip.

Hola, NOLA.

Dancing in the streets.

New Orleans, LA – “Braaap!”

We’re greeted by blasts of brass horn and a storm of powdered sugar as we arrive in the French Quarter.

It turns out visiting the famous Café du Monde offers a far different whiteout from what we experienced during yesterday’s drive. Tables and chairs are slicked by remnants of confectioners’ sugar peaked onto still-warm beignets and subsequently caught on the breeze.

Fattened crows, pecking at the ground of the outdoor café, are thrilled.

Stepping into the elegant Omni Royal Orleans is like stepping into history, as is anywhere in the French Quarter, where ornate iron railings and wrap-around balconies frame art galleries and bars – lots of bars. These days, it seems some of this history has been perverted by neon and cheap Chinese trinkets, but beauty lies behind the troubling evidence of rampant addiction and homelessness.

On cue(s), a man staggers by as if he has wooden legs. It's still early.

But, N’awlins is known for its soul, expressed through food, art and music.

VooDoo like to come in?

Brass bands fill the squares, kept in tune by the rat-a-tat-tat of snares, as we tuck into the back of the Erin Rose and into a one-table room with the trappings of many years of bartending: an old Miller High Life sign rests in a retired brick fireplace. Something tells me it’s not the only thing lit in here.

But the grilled shrimp po’ boy sold under the flag of Killer Po’ Boys – logo: skull and crossed baguettes – is tremendous.

Later, neon catches fire as we wander down Bourbon Street, and into the famed Carousel Bar, which installed an operational merry-go-round in 1949. At least I can blame the rotating bar seats for my world spinning.

The stars, meanwhile, have been replaced by the twinkle of tiny white Christmas lights wound through the trees and over the balconies. One is festooned with "Peace, Y'all."

In the distance, a trumpet sounds mournfully.

Two Vans.

You seem to be missing a W, Internet.

Vancouver, BC – Near Hastings and Cambie, artists set blue tarps against the drizzle.

Most is much less art than it is livelihood.

Tired chain link, unlinked, leans before moping gardens, the morning grey only mildly resisting the haphazard curls of spray cans.

Ashen faces are etched hollow by addiction. Many barely conceal their activities: a man, hunched over in a wheelchair, shudders with his hand outstretched.

Instead of coins, pills offered fall into it.

And yet, here I sit, tucking into a delicious Ruben Eggs Benedict at Jam Café. Delicious, but a reminder of my good fortune. Around the corner, the Gastown steam clock – one of the few remaining in the world – spouts a merry tune.

My journey carries me to Chinatown, where colours are both visual and olfactory: neon – although not what it once was, apparently – blends into dried seafood, lemongrass and fry oil. With an incense chaser.

Heading home, people and buildings alike are missing teeth, their makeup spray-painted. Reaching the west side a couple blocks away, I'm struck again by the contrast: high cheekbones set in glass.

Two Vancouvers.

Kudus and Kudon'ts.

Looking for something else.

Uis, Namibia – Topless Himba women, painted with butterfat and ochre, stand roadside – thick red dreadlocks falling from their heads.

Scattered amongst them, children with impish grins and loose checked blankets or loincloths scramble over a crooked tree branch. One sports a thin, closely cropped wedge of hair that courses over the centre of his head. A few conical and thatched huts lay conveniently behind tables of handicrafts.

Tourists flow from a line of trucks, shutters clicking at bare-bottomed children. Fifty Namibian dollars per photographer, please.

Billed as authentic, I can only imagine why, with countless miles of open space behind, we will pass several tiny villages at the side of the dusty highway. Uncomfortable with the spectacle being orchestrated I, and a few others, stay behind.

Privilege is very real. To me, it’s just too much of a human zoo: 'natives on parade.' This isn’t the way I wish to support the local economy.

To each their own, I suppose. I'll just watch the kudu and giraffes.

On the Town.

Hamming it up for the camera.

Cape Town, SA – As we pulled into the township of Gugulethu, on the outskirts of Cape Town, a young man with a half-finished beer in his hand stumbled, tripped over his feet and fell to the ground.

When he stood, another man slapped him repeatedly on the head. Apparently, he was no longer welcome. He fell again. It was all of 9:30 a.m.

The township is home to 700,000 people living in tight quarters stitched together by scrap plywood, cardboard and sheet metal. Wood smoke from the braii clouds the air, and shreds of garbage bag flap in the breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.

Tellingly, countless crooked abortion posters are pasted to the outside walls, alongside murals advertising Coca-Cola and SIM cards.

While the community's people were lovely to us – and we were investing in their community – the experience felt precariously close to one of 'poverty porn.' It's a moment your privilege leaves you naked.

Even more, given the morning's first encounter, it seemed wrong to be on a tour where we were to learn how traditional beer is made, and then sample it. But we did, engaging in the ritual of doffing our caps, kneeling and tipping the large communal tin can to our lips. The bready mixture will win no awards.

Glassy-eyed men sat in the corner of the cramped black shack, egging us on.

We had made it to 10 a.m.

Buy the Yard.

'Axe' questions at Rumford Visitors Center.

South Burlington, VT – At every turn, the roads through New Hampshire and Vermont were littered by signs advertising ‘yard sales.’

And they were not referring to the term more commonly used by skiers in the region.

One has to wonder about the depressed nature of the economy in certain areas of these states, given that yard sales appear to provide a livelihood for a significant portion of the rural economy. It has not mattered what day of the week, or time of day it is – garages rest with gaping maws and storage lockers have been raised like Levolor blinds unto another world.

Deal finders even flocked to a funeral home parking lot onto which items had been spilled onto blankets under garish, marker-scribbled signs. I guess it’s a venue familiar with goodbyes.

It also continues to astound me how many abandoned homes dot the roads. They lean, creaking with windows falling out – their curtains still wrapped around the frames as one would cling to the ghost of a former love.

By contrast, however, we have landed in South Burlington for the evening and the area’s splendid vistas are home to a bustling population, packed patios and cute, manicured shops.

After a long day driving, though, finding a scallop and bacon wood-fired pizza at Folino’s and four free samples at Magic Hat Brewing Company (try the #9) made for a great way to cap off (pun intended) the day.

A Caricature.

Spartanburg, SC – Weaving through hilly switchback cicatrices and past the French Broad River in the back country of North and South Carolina, we finally had our first deviation from the Interstate on this trip. 

Naturally, the day had begun to yawn.

A rock slide in Newport, Tennessee had caused us to detour an hour out of our way, which not only provided fun driving in the hills, but the most eye-opening experience of the journey thus far. It was a prime and timely opportunity to reflect on our good fortune, even in the face of current adversity in our lives.

Like a sad caricature, a young pregnant woman stood smoking on the rickety porch of a fallen-down trailer nestled in the trees. A half-dozen baby carriages in various states of disrepair sat perfectly aligned, much like the weathered, parted-out pick-up trucks to the side. 

I almost expected the moment to carry a New Yorker-type quip underneath.

Throughout the area, decrepit trailers and clapboard homes shrugged like depressed shoulders. Perching on the edge of the riverbank, they lacked doors and sported window frames that slouched into diamonds. A pauper’s garden of refuse dotted the lawn.

It really made us think, even as we careened through the fun-to-drive hills and curves – extreme poverty exists everywhere. Though unexpected, it was the day’s highlight.

From the time we entered Tennessee, however, we could tell from the spicy, humid aroma of the air and the red and white flowering trees that blossomed like small puffs of smoke that the onset of spring was already here. With budding trees comes a budding season and budding promise for the journey ahead.

And Carolina barbeque for dinner wasn't a bad way to end a day, either.

Vitals:

• Time: 14 hours
• Distance: 1,323.3 kms
• Weather: Predominantly grey, warming up in the afternoon; rain in major cities in the north
• Province/States: Ontario, Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, South Carolina
• Wildlife: None
  

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.

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.

Penang: Day One.

Penang, Malaysia - Having left KL behind, we had a great day on the island of Penang, which is to the north-west of the nation's capital and on the Straits of Malacca. It was an earliesh start to the day, but we had to be sure to get one more Hilton breakfast under our belts. Literally.

By high speed train to the airport, we passed Putrajaya, a recently-planned city designed to ease the burden on Kuala Lumpur. Home to the new Multimedia Super Corridor (MSC), which is intended to replicate silicon valley and push Malaysia to so-called first-world status by 2020, Putrajaya also serves as the current base for the Federal government. And the Prime Minister's home, atop a tall hill, looms large above. Over the half hour trip, we also passed many of the palm plantations we saw upon landing earlier in the week. They really do stretch for as far as the eye can see, all in perfectly ordered rows.

One of SCS's friends picked us up from the airport and brought us to the Hotel Vistana, where we will spend a couple of nights prior to heading to Langkawi for a bit of R&R. And hopefully, some monkeys! We're staying just up the street from Universiti Sains Malaysia, a hike from downtown, but in the shadow of a tropically verdant mountain. Interestingly, outside downtown, nearly all homes are gated.

Wandering downtown was one of the neatest experiences thus far for someone interested in how people live. Gorgeous buildings, but most in need of some serious repair. Sidewalks that end abruptly, dropping off to the street. And into the gutter. Weaving in-and-out of archways hanging from which are Chinese lanterns, blankets and other wares. A little tougher to navigate for tall people. Small, one room homes you can peer into, almost all of which have a Chinese alter directly in front of the door, candle light flickering over the walls while children scurry about, helping make dinner or watching television. Or others, in which all of one's worldly belongings are stacked to the ceiling in a single room. In the face of very real poverty, people's faces are painted as brightly as the colours on the doors, shutters and archways that carry you into their worlds. Bamboo blinds, blinking. Motor scooters dueling with rickshaws on the road.

You cannot effectively get many places here without some form of transport- ation, so there are a lot of cars, but even more motorcycles or scooters, and bicycles. One man lugged a dozen or so bleach bottles of detergent, tied -- hanging like jewelery -- to his bike. Another, strapped his eggs to the back of a motorcycle. One accident in this heat and you'd have a giant, instantaneous omelet. And likely, a street party. People's livelihoods strapped to two wheels and their balance -- the way people drive here, that's a serious risk.

Everywhere, little shops filled with trinkets, antiques and artwork. Alleys which open into vast spaces filled with fabrics in a full array of colours. Chinese temples, Hindu temples and the occasional Buddhist temple tucked quaintly between people's homes. Apart from occasional, small alleys, jutting jagged like veins in random places, most buildings are attached to each other. And the roads: not designed according to a grid.

We wandered through Little India, which was also awash in colour: bright flower leis in oranges, reds and yellows. Saris in combinations of all colours. Small backpacker havens which could be had for the equivalent of $6 CAD a night. With a fan.

A little peckish, we stopped into one of the street side Indian restaurants to sample some local fare. Taunting the taste buds, some of it was spicy enough that I saw colours. And not from all of the flowers hanging outside. But it was also extremely tasty and the blackberry lassi certainly helped to cool things off. Completely full, all for a few dollars. It was a satisfying way to take in some of the local culture at what appeared to be a family-run establishment, the matriarch perched on a chair, silently directing the men about the restaurant as they gathered us food bathed in yellows, browns and reds.

After lunch, the rain began to fall (which helped polish off the last remains of spice the lassi couldn't handle) and we made it over to the Eastern & Oriental Hotel, a bastion of Britishness that remains from colonial times. Swanky, even. As the rain fell harder, we huddled inside the dining room over a coffee, then a glass of wine, overlooking the choppy water. As the storm lifted, we were gradually able to see across to mainland Malaysia and the whitecaps soothed themselves back into the ocean. Venturing outside to take a couple of pictures, I was greeted by my new, little friend to the right. Not the best of pictures because the lizard skittered along the wet pavement better than I. Trying to get closer, it took off, dancing up a covered drainage ditch, splashing happily away. As did I.

We enjoyed dinner with a number of people associated with SCS's conference and partook in some Malay food, including fried seafood balls coated in -- essentially -- croutons and chicken wrapped in banana leaves. What a good day.