by Jo Hardy
The borehole would make a huge difference to the lives of the community. There were excited, happy people crowding around the pump, desperate to have a go at pumping fresh water, some even drinking it directly from the tap. World in Need had also provided 130 new jerry cans for carrying the water, so that everyone would take home fresh water in a clean, new container. It was a world away from the muddy spring they were used to and would contribute to the wellbeing and the health of everyone.
On my last evening all the community leaders came to George’s house to say goodbye. They brought gifts of bananas, eggs, nuts and two chickens. As, unfortunately, I wouldn’t be allowed to take the produce – let alone the chickens – on the plane, once the leaders had left I gave all the gifts to George’s family.
The following day I waved goodbye to George, Lucy and Joshua, and to Maurice, who came to see me off. I was excited about going home but sorry to say goodbye to my new friends, especially George, who was such a brave and warm-hearted man. His kindness had made a lasting impression on me, and so had the people of the community, with their resilience and generosity.
Before my flight home I had arranged to go on a tour for three days. I wanted to see a little more of Uganda before I left, so in Lira I joined three other travellers – Massimo, Pippa and Karina – and our tour guide, Rodney, on a trip to Murchison Falls National Park, three hours to the west. Massimo, in his late thirties, vibrant and spontaneous, had decided on impulse to fly from his home in Italy to Uganda, just to see the country. Pippa and Karina were sisters from Germany: Pippa was 18 and a gap-year student who had come out to work on a local project and Karina had come to join her for a two-week holiday. Pippa had been working as a community health worker in Jinja before heading to medical school the next year, taking blood from sick people to test for common infectious diseases such as malaria and typhoid. She had turned up in Uganda and received no training, so she had learned how to take blood from videos on YouTube and was soon one of the best at the centre. She would be miles ahead of her peers when she got to university the following year.
Murchison Falls is on the White Nile River, with the falls at the point where the Nile flows through a 23-foot gap to tumble 140 feet into Lake Albert at a rate of 11,000 cubic feet per second. The result is a dramatically powerful and spectacular waterfall set in a vast game reserve. We spent two nights and three days based in a campsite there, with no fencing, and late one night I heard Pippa and Karina whisper, ‘Are you awake, Jo?’ from their tent next door to mine. I was, and I could hear something moving about the campsite. We popped our heads out of the tents and saw several hippos wandering around. I held my breath – a distressed hippo can be very aggressive – but these ones were obviously used to being there and, with surprising finesse considering their bulk and weight, they managed not to crash into anything or trample on our tents.
During the day we went on game drives and at night we ate in the camp. The food was a joy. After four weeks of trying, unsuccessfully, to accustom my stomach to the food of Owiti I almost cried with pleasure when I was offered a simple cheese, tomato and avocado sandwich. I had missed fresh food – especially vegetables – so much.
Finally it was time to head home. I couldn’t wait to get back to see my family. I settled into my seat on the plane thinking about how much I had to tell them, and promptly fell asleep. I was woken by turbulence as we flew over Sudan. There was a huge storm; I could see the lightning bolts hitting the ground. It was frightening and the lurching of the aircraft was stomach-churning, but eventually we made it through and I eased my vice-like grip on my armrests, although I was far too adrenalised to get back to sleep.
When finally I disembarked, 10 hours after I had first set off from Entebbe, I was tired, dishevelled and sore, but the sight of Mum and Dad waiting at the arrivals gate made me so happy that I forgot everything else. After hugs and tearful hellos, we had breakfast at the airport Carluccio’s – the freshly squeezed orange juice and pain au chocolat tasted like heaven.
I had a week at home before going back to locum work, and it took me that long to get used to being back in the UK. After living in such basic conditions in Uganda I saw everything through fresh eyes. The fridge, the running water, electricity, the food and drink, my comfortable bed, our home, the car – it was a long list of things that seemed suddenly extraordinary. I realised that I’d always had everything I could want or need and I no longer took that for granted, because I knew that in Uganda most people would be amazed and grateful to have even a fraction of what we had. The experience of being there had been life-changing for me and I felt profoundly thankful for my life, and truly blessed.
Becoming engaged to Jacques had taken a back seat for the past month, since there had been very little time to think about it and no one to share the news with anyway. So when, a couple of days after I returned home, I went out for a family meal with my parents, Ross, and both sets of grandparents, it was lovely to share the news of my engagement and the story of the proposal with them. They were all so happy for me and Jacques, and excited at the prospect of a family wedding, too. They all toasted to the happiness of our future, and I felt a little sad that Jacques wasn’t there celebrating with us.
I was longing to catch up with all my friends – it had been three and a half months since I’d seen any of them and it felt like an age. And of course I couldn’t wait to show off my engagement ring and ask my closest friends to be my bridesmaids!
Top of the list was Abi, who I was hoping would be my maid of honour, then there was my fellow vet Lucy, my cousin Esme and family friend Becky. Jacques’s sister Sonia was on the list, too – I’d already asked her in South Africa and she had said yes. I was going to need Sonia – not only was she brilliant with hair, nails and make-up, but she knew the groom pretty well and would help to keep us both calm as last-minute nerves set in.
I had bought some little rings which were knotted into the shape of a heart and in each little gift box I put a note saying, ‘Will you help me tie the knot?’ A little sentimental, I know, but I loved doing it and I wanted to give each of my bridesmaids something to tell them how important they were to me.
Abi and I got together for a girls’ evening and when she opened the gift box she threw her arms around me.
‘I’m so happy for you,’ she said. ‘You and Jacques were always meant to be. Of course I’ll be your maid of honour. Er, what will I have to do?’
‘Oh, everything,’ I said, laughing at the look of horror on her face.
I saw Lucy a couple of days later when she came over with her dog Renly.
‘What?!’ she said. ‘You’re getting married and I haven’t even met anyone yet. Honestly, couldn’t you just slow down a bit?’
We went out for a long walk with our dogs Renly and Roxy afterwards and Lucy entertained me with stories of life as a farm vet. A couple of nights earlier she’d been called at four in the morning to help a cow that was calving. She’d found the poor exhausted cow up against a wall in the barn with the calf stuck because one leg was bent. The other was sticking out of the cow, but the bent leg needed to be straightened before the calf could be born. Lucy gave the cow an epidural to relax it, but had a real job getting the calf’s leg straight because since the cow was against a wall she could only use her left arm, which, since she’s right-handed and had always learned using that arm, was difficult. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough but she managed it, before calling the farmer to help pull the calf out with calving ropes. It was a bit battered, and the cow was weak, but with a bit of TLC both survived and Lucy managed to get back to bed by 5.30 for an hour’s sleep before getting up for work again.
We were so absorbed in our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Roxy plunge into a very muddy stream. Renly was running up and down the bank, too scared to go in, so we gave him a push and he joined Roxy, although he didn’t seem to enjoy it with quite the exuberance that she did. When they came out they were absolutely covered with smelly, swampy mud, s
o we took them back home and put them both in the bath, after which we had to change because they’d soaked us in water. After a cup of tea Lucy headed back home, promising to catch up again soon and keen to know what colour the bridesmaids dresses would be.
‘I don’t look good in pink,’ she warned. ‘Or yellow.’
‘Absolutely no pink or yellow,’ I promised, smiling. ‘How about orange?’
She looked aghast.
‘Only joking,’ I said. ‘The dresses will be elegant and tasteful, I promise.’
Esme was my 17-year-old cousin. She was like a little sister to me so of course I wanted her to be a bridesmaid. We had a family tea with her parents, Barry (Mum’s brother) and Helen, the weekend after I got back and after the meal I slipped upstairs to see Esme in her room. I handed her the box with the ring and then when she opened it I asked her to be my bridesmaid. At that moment there was a throat-clearing noise from the computer and I realised that our private moment was being shared by the guy she was talking to on Skype! ‘Oh, goodness, sorry,’ I said.
‘No, not at all, I was enjoying it,’ he said.
Esme was the most amazing cook – she had made the whole dinner when we celebrated Dad’s fiftieth birthday the previous year – so I asked her if she would make my wedding cake, too. She was excited by the challenge and said she’d get busy working on designs.
Becky was Ross’s friend from university, and had become a close friend of mine, too. Ross and Becky spent a lot of time together during their time at university and after she graduated she became a special needs educator in Tunbridge Wells. She lived not far from us and often came to visit, and she fitted in so well that we soon came to think of her as one of the family, my parents referring to her as their adopted child. I asked her to be my bridesmaid when she next came to visit and she said she’d love to do it.
With my bridal entourage complete, it was time to start thinking about venues and, of course, dresses. Jacques and I had set the date for October 2016. That gave me just 18 months to plan the big day, and although it sounded like an age, everyone warned me that it really wasn’t.
I missed Jacques so much. It had been difficult to contact him from Uganda, so we caught up over Skype once I was home. But talking to a screen was no substitute for a warm hug. He was coming to England in July, along with his parents, who were coming over to meet mine. Even so, three and a half months felt like a very long time to wait.
We still had so many decisions to make, including which country we would be living in after we were married, but whatever we decided, wherever we went, in 18 months’ time we would be together, and that thought was so comforting in the long months when we were apart.
At least I had my horses to cheer me up. It was lovely spending time with Elli and Tammy, although when I first saw Tammy I was horrified! My thoroughbred looked more like a Shire horse. She’d had five months of rest because of her tendon injury and she was fat and fluffy. In fact, she was clinically obese. At least Elli had been exercised and she looked fine. I spent a lot of time in the days after I got back grooming, riding and just enjoying being with both of them. I trimmed Tammy’s wildly overgrown mane and tail and put her on a diet to get her back into shape and looking good.
Thankfully now I could start riding her again, gently at first and gradually building up to longer rides. But after such a long break her dislike of being ridden was stronger than ever. She had plenty of tantrums, which usually involved bouncing around on the spot or, when she got very annoyed, rearing.
A few days after I got back I went into the World in Need offices to tell them how my visit went and show them some pictures. I talked to David Shamiri about Pasca and asked whether a sponsor could be found to pay for her schooling. At school she would not only receive an education, she would also be given a much-needed meal every day. Without the money to go to school, she would have to go out and work, or scavenge food from the land.
David promised to put her at the top of the list of children waiting for sponsors and a week later he called me to say that one had been found. Pasca had lost so much, but from then on her schooling would be guaranteed and that, I hoped, would be her passport to a better future.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Just Like Us
‘Stanley is just not himself. He’s picking at his food and he mopes around and doesn’t want to play or go for walks.’
Stanley, a beautiful russet-coloured cocker spaniel, looked at me with sad eyes. His owner was Mrs Johnson, a tall, fair-haired woman in her forties.
‘What’s up then, Stanley?’ I said, bending down to stroke his silky head. ‘Let’s take a look at you.’
I checked his temperature and heartbeat and looked him over for any signs of a wound, discomfort or infection, but he seemed fine.
Mrs Johnson looked worried. ‘The thing is, we just lost his brother, Hector, six weeks ago and I really couldn’t face losing Stanley, too.’
‘What happened to Hector?’ I asked.
‘He had a blocked intestine. He was only eight. It seemed as though one minute he was fine and then three days later he was gone.’
‘I think you’ve probably got the answer right there,’ I said. ‘Stanley may well be grieving. He’s lost his companion. I can take bloods to make sure there’s nothing else, but as there are no other clinical signs, I think there’s a good chance that’s the case.’
‘Do dogs grieve?’ Mrs Johnson asked, looking surprised at this. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Yes, they sometimes do,’ I said. ‘They can be very like us, feeling sad and a bit mopey when they have lost another dog or a person.’
‘Oh poor Stanley, I didn’t realise. I thought he was getting sick, too. What can I do to help him?’
‘Just treat him normally; stick to his routine for food and walks and give him time. You can also get a collar or a spray that releases pheromones, the feel-good hormones, which can help to relax him. If you behave differently he will think there’s something wrong.’
A relieved Mrs Johnson led Stanley out of the consulting room and I looked at my list to see who was next. It was my third day back at work, I had a full list of consults and most of them, it seemed, were Labradors. I had three booked in that morning.
Ten days after my return from Uganda I had started working as a locum at a village practice in East Sussex, a 40-minute drive from home. The surgery was in a single-storey building surrounded by a pretty garden, on the outskirts of the village. The front was painted bright yellow, so it was hard to miss, which was a real help the first time I had to find it.
The receptionist, Paula, greeted me warmly and sent me through to see head vet Joe, who seemed relieved to see me. ‘We’ve been pretty busy,’ he said. ‘And as two of our vets are on maternity leave we’re very understaffed. There’s just me and two part-timers, Rita and Sue, at the moment, plus nurses Sammy and Kirsten, so I’ll put you straight to work, if that’s OK?’
It was fine by me, although it did feel strange to be back in an English practice again after months working in African townships and villages. I looked around at the shiny clean surfaces, sterile equipment, cupboards filled with the latest drugs and smart cages for overnight stays and the daily inpatients, and it all felt a little surreal.
Downe was a typical English village: a scattering of houses, a couple of pubs, a few shops and cafés and a doctor’s surgery at the other end of the village from us. It was in a beautiful part of the country, surrounded by fields and rolling hills, and as it was early April there was blossom everywhere.
The practice was relaxed; Joe was dressed in jeans and a green scrub top and so was part-time vet Rita, who came in later on my first day and popped her head round the door to say hello. Over a coffee later she explained that she had two small children – hence the part-time hours – and so did Sue, the other part-timer. Joe had set up the practice with a partner, Tom, who had since left to move north after marrying a girl from York. Now Joe, himself newly married and with a baby on th
e way, was keeping it all afloat.
‘With the number of babies all the staff are producing we ought to be setting up a nursery,’ Rita joked.
‘The practice is mostly small-animal,’ Joe had told me. ‘There are a lot of cats and dogs in this part of the world. But we get the occasional equine consult, too. I’ll push those your way, if that’s OK, as you’ve had some experience with horses.’
I was more than happy; cats, dogs and horses suited me fine. I looked at my list again. Labradors, it seemed, were especially popular in these parts. Fine by me, because Labradors are among the easiest dogs to treat. There’s a reason why they’re the most popular dogs, not just in Britain but in the world: they’re well-behaved, good-natured, friendly, affectionate dogs, as well as intelligent and easy to train, which makes them great as working dogs or as family pets.
The first Lab to come in that afternoon was a gorgeous chocolate-brown chap called Hunter.
He was getting on – at nine he was an older dog and he was slowing down, sleeping more, and his owner, Mr Bailey, was worried that there might be something wrong.
‘He suddenly seems very ancient and creaky, but surely nine is a bit young for that, isn’t it?’ he asked.
With good-natured, stoic dogs like Labradors it’s hard to tell what’s wrong. They don’t tell you when or where it hurts by yelping or wriggling, they just stand there and look at you with big, sad eyes, just like Hunter was doing at that moment.
‘I’ll give him a general check-up and possibly take some X-rays. It sounds as though Hunter might have arthritis. It’s common in older dogs and a lot of Labradors get it. Their hip or elbow joints are most affected and become inflamed and painful, which means the dog will move more stiffly and want to rest more.’
When I moved Hunter’s back legs, he would look around at me as if to say, ‘Please don’t do that’ – the closest a dog like him would get to saying, ‘Ouch!’ I kept him in for X-rays, as his owner was keen to find out exactly what was wrong, and later that day they confirmed the diagnosis, so I suggested a course of injections that would help to build up the cartilage in Hunter’s joints: one a week for four weeks and then one a month for maintenance.