It's easy as a tourist in a Third World country to escape from the realities of what life is really like there. I have been in that position before; you see countries in a protective bubble and can switch off when you see things you do not like. It's hard to imagine people in poverty and struggling for survival when you are lying in a comfortable bed in a five star hotel. These two worlds are miles apart in a theoretical sense, but too close in a geographical sense. Does it make you feel more comfortable in that bed knowing that people are dying outside? Of course not. Ignorance is bliss.

I have been lucky enough to go on four family holidays to Africa, visiting Tunisia, Egypt, Tanzania and South Africa. I soon understood that seeing the 'good' parts and avoiding the 'bad' is what tourists do. This leads some tourists to confuse what they see and witness to be the real state of a continent. They leave with the mindset that 'it's not too bad there'. Unfortunately it often is.

Working as a volunteer in Kenya was an eye-opener. Seeing first hand the developmental problems I had learnt about at university was a constant emotional struggle; the country seemed bizarre and surreal. I was used to my own 'normality', my own life in the South of England; my parents house with dishwasher and microwave; digital television; a comfortable sit down toilet and food on the table and in the kitchen cupboards. I stepped outside my protective bubble and took a look at the world around me.

It took time for me to adjust to this new 'normality'. Mud roads, matatoes (mini buses) so crammed full of people that arms and legs are spilling out of the windows, locals selling cobs of maize on the road side, desperate and confused looks. Swollen-bellied children wearing smiles, bare-footed school pupils with ambition but little hope of achieving it, men, women and children infected with diseases and the rich local politicians enjoying a relaxing drink at the local bar.

"Howareyouhowareyouhowareyou?" scream the little children as you walk past. The repeated question is one word to them. It's as if the children understand that if they do not say it quickly they will forget the phrase. It makes their day when you answer them. "Yes I am fine thank you. How are you?" They then looked extremely confused. They do not understand. Their limited knowledge of the English language is exhausted. The confusion washes away in an instant. The children just smile, laugh and joke. Some even hold out a hand for you to touch but most just wave from a distance.

As a volunteer I lived in a small compound of brick and mud houses. Both the electricity and water supply were temperamental to say the least, but we had gas cookers. The toilet was just an enclosed hole in the ground, which became nicknamed 'The Hole of Happiness'. The two security guards would guard the compound at night with poisoned arrows, which they shot with bows they made themselves.

I had been in Kenya for two weeks when the full extent of this new normality, this reality, hit home. I had visited a family in my first week; it was part of my 'Welcome to Kenya' tour. The family lived in a mud house across the road from the charity centre. Anna, the mother, was HIV positive and so was her youngest child, a nine-month-old baby girl. Anna's husband was nowhere to be seen and her mother had disowned them. They literally had nothing in their house apart from a wooden chair, a few rags and a little maize. On my first visit, the baby was struggling to breathe and was wheezing and coughing. On my second visit, a week later, the baby was dead. Mama Mary, the head of the charity, explained to me that "the outcome of poverty is death". Mary smiled and laughed as she explained this but her eyes were welling up with tears.

When Anna lifted the rags up and uncovered the body of her dead baby I did not know what to feel. The baby looked so peaceful, no trouble breathing now. Just silent. So small, but so lifeless. The baby did not look dead but did not look alive. The palms of her hands were pale and she was not moving. I started to tremble, I thought my legs were going to give way, but my eyes were transfixed on the baby. An innocent baby dying because of poverty is very hard to take. Silence.

From talking to Mary I started to realise the situation many people live in. She explained to me that many families cannot afford funerals so when someone dies their body lies untreated in their house until they have enough money. I do not believe I need to state how degrading, not to mention how unhygienic this is.

Anna's family was one of these families. Anna came to the centre requesting a blanket to bury the baby in. I thought this was a straightforward question with an easy answer. However I was surprised to hear Mary refuse to give her a blanket. "We help the living not the dead," Mary replied. I thought this was a harsh way to speak to a woman who had just lost her baby. When Anna had disappeared Mary informed me that giving a blanket to Anna would not have helped the situation - "even with a blanket they cannot afford the grave site". I understood her point but it was still hard to take.

It was at times like this when volunteer morale would fluctuate. I remember writing in my journal one night that I believed I had experienced every emotion under the sun while being out in Kenya, and I still believe it. I would see and witness hope but at times I would be too overwhelmed with helplessness and guilt to properly take advantage of it all the time. This is when the volunteers would band together and help each other through.

I could see that most of the volunteers I met gave something from themselves while in Kenya and left it behind. A bond was formed and people changed. However, the most surprising discovery for me was finding out that returning to my protective bubble was an even bigger culture shock than leaving it in the first place.