I turn on my cell phone. There is no coverage here, but there is an old message that I want to read. "My love, you have the blood of pygmies in you from the Congo. If you are in the forest enjoy yourself and rest well my daughter."

By Saskia Roskam

In the forest the sun is beaming down. I am sitting on the back of a small motorbike. Huge bouquets of bamboo bushes surround us. And the eroded road underneath us is making it a bumpy ride. But this is great. I am enjoying myself, but am far away from resting.

I am smack in the middle of Congo. In the rainforest. The supposedly 'dark heart' of Conrad's Africa. Yet, it is surprisingly bright here. Our destination is a far-off pygmy village.

After hours of intense driving on small forest tracks, along small log bridges, we arrive at last. A surprising number of children form part of the circle of villagers. Greeted by the village chief we exchange words and a discussion starts with the men about the state of the forest.

I move away to the school. A palm-leaf roofed house without chairs, but with thick branches to sit on. Here I meet with the women of the village.

Delighted, they look at me. Carrying newborn babies, who are as quiet as any I have ever seen. Gently wrapped in a woollen blanket is a one-day old baby. Its mother is in bed, still suffering after delivering the baby in this place, without trained physicians.

Speaking to these women it becomes obvious this is their biggest worry. "A lot of our children are stillborn. Then there are so many more who die after they are born as they and their mothers become infected when the umbilical cord is cut." The list goes on and on and on.

"We have children because they can help work the land and take care of us when we no longer manage to do so." Yet, at the same time, they notice that life is changing. "Our parents and grandparents had it so much better. There was plenty of food back then. We now have to walk kilometres to find suitable land and wood for energy. Our children are suffering." They see the discrepancy of having too many mouths to feed and not enough food to do so. But solutions are hard to find.

The unsustainability of it all becomes so blatantly apparent. The forest is going up in smoke, literally, as they used the wood for fuel. And who can blame them? Who can blame people wanting to survive and seeing no other means to do so? In my head it becomes a vicious, dangerous circle. And it feels rotten. I have no answer to give to the hopeful eyes staring at me. No answer when they look at me and ask what I can do for them.

The only answer is the truth and that is going to take time. A whole lot of time. Time for these women to educate their kids. Time for these villagers to organise themselves and set up trade in their region. Time for mentalities to change and birth-rates to slow down. But it seems to me that it will get worse before it will get better...

(photo: Saskia Roskam)