ActionAid offered one Guardian reader the opportunity to go on a life-changing trip to see the charity's work first-hand in Rwanda. Jean Woodhouse, 48, kept a daily blog of her experiences, thoughts and feelings, which we're publishing here
It is light early. I'm so glad. The day bursts in with lots of chatter in the yard. We head straight to the school, which ActionAid helped to improve, because we want to see the kids before they go in at 8am. The children all line up in the yard and sing the national anthem. We stand at the front and watch them. There are three little boys at the front who have no uniform. They are dirty. One in particular has beautiful eyes and he stares at me – perhaps it's because of my glasses. We get to visit them once they've started their classes. They are all packed in tightly on wooden benches. I try to join in their English class, but I feel very self-conscious and I think I confuse them more than help them!
Later we go to Beatrice's co-operative farm. It is about a 20-minute walk. They are growing Irish potatoes and there is a group of about 40 women in their colourful cloth wraps ploughing with heavy hoes. I think they are fabulous. Such fun and so warm to me. It makes me think of my girlfriends back home in Manchester. When these women feel like a boost they sing together, it was really moving to hear them. After work they head to the bar and they want me to drink the local brew, which is very sour. It turns out that about 30 of the women's children are sponsored through ActionAid so go to the school I visited earlier.
It is such a weird feeling here. Beautiful place, and such lovely warm people and yet abject poverty. Little kids in rags, thin, they have so little. I feel very happy to be experiencing this but feel quite helpless. I can't do enough to help these people. I want to empty my bank account, hand things out.
But we are followed like the Pied Piper and no one asks me anything. They just follow and look. I have brought some small playthings with me – balloons, bubbles and bouncy balls. I give them to the children of the family, but when I look up I see the father playing with a balloon with such a joyful look – later he thanks me and tells me that he has never had a game that has brought him close to his children before. I blow more and more balloons because the group is expanding as children from the village come to join in. They get more insistent saying "me, me, give me" and they begin to close in – I start to feel threatened and wonder if I have done the right thing.
Later I go to sit up on a mound above the house. The family have a cow and he has a healthy coat and looks well fed, but I have been followed up by a little girl who is about four years old and in rags who doesn't look like she gets so much to eat. She lifts up her torn sweater and pulls out a little bit of a popped balloon and strokes it before putting it back. Later in the yard the local storyteller comes with his guitar to sing us songs about adultery and broken marriages. This same little girl finds me and leans against me and holds my hand. This is so unexpected I am nearly moved to tears. She is cold and wants to be warm and hugged. I ask Beatrice where her mother is, she tells me she has gone to the next town. The little girl goes home alone.
