We Are One Village

by Nikki Lovell

  Back at Namwendwa trading centre, I hugged the girls goodbye in turn. Harriet was last.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, her eyes still wet with relief.

  I smiled at her reassuringly and said that I would see her at school tomorrow. She turned and followed the other girls back down the dusty red road.

  I started slowly in the same direction, but then I detoured, deciding that I would visit my friend Florence. When I got close to her house she saw me coming and she raced onto the road. ‘Niiikkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiii!’ she literally squealed with joy as she wrapped me in a long hug.

  Then she took my hand in hers and led me up to her home. I waited just outside while she raced into the house and then reappeared with two handmade wooden chairs. Most women in the village sat on coloured woven mats, while chairs were normally reserved for men. But that was a practice Florence never followed. We always sat outside her home, although I had been inside once before. She was better off than most in the community: where most people had thatched huts, her home was brick and had a solid roof. It was still a single room though, which she shared with her husband and children. I think she had seven, but I struggled to remember their names. They all shared the same few outfits, so I was often confused about who was who.

  Florence—whom we had met at a community meeting— was able to afford such a home because she had built an infants school in her backyard. I call it a school because that’s what it was, but perhaps that creates a false impression of its structure. Its single classroom was made of bamboo and sat behind Florence’s home. Years earlier she had had the ingenious idea of creating a combined pre-school and early years primary school. There was already a primary school in the village, which was government-run and essentially free for students to attend. This was one of the schools where I taught and so I knew firsthand that its classrooms had no resources and it was seriously overcrowded. The children had to sit squashed on the dirt floor because there were over 70 kids in each class. Parents obviously wanted better facilities for their children, but there was no other option. One problem was that the only people earning an income in the village were the teachers and those who worked in the trading centre. Florence, a trained teacher herself, thought that if she could set up her own school and charge a small fee for students to attend, she could both earn an income to support her large family and provide a service for the community. The idea had worked exactly as she planned—and Florence had also been able to employ three other teachers. Class sizes were small, with some lessons taught inside the bamboo building and others taught outside.

  I loved watching Florence teach. She was always very creative and fun with the kids. She taught the alphabet by singing with them, and they learned the meaning of words by drawing pictures.

  As we sat outside that afternoon she clasped her hands together and exclaimed, ‘Madam Nik! How are you?’

  I was exhausted, so I let Florence do the talking. She became excited, almost bouncing out of her chair as she told me of her plans for developing her school. She never talked about dreams—only plans. A few of her children gathered around us, the youngest one tugging at her skirt while staring at me. Florence picked up the little boy and bobbed him up and down. Goggle-eyed, his focus remained on me. I gave him a big smile.

  ‘Jambo!’

  This was too much for him. His little head swung around to face his mother, screaming and crying both at once. The poor boy was terrified. As I stood up to leave, Florence passed the boy into the waiting arms of one of the older children, who carried him inside. To reassure me, my friend asked that I stay.

  But I was tired and ready to go home. Florence took my hand and walked me back out to the road. As I hugged her goodbye, I noticed that there was construction taking place next to her house. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it before. The sound of the workers suddenly seemed very loud and unpleasant. I asked Florence what was going on and she told me that they were building a phone tower. Then she hugged me again, and turned back to her home.

  A phone tower? In a rural village where there was no electricity and no running water, where people lived in mud huts and school was a luxury? I was shocked. Not pleased, or dismayed, just shocked.

  As I entered my red-road, lush-greenery and blue-sky world, I thought that communication must be one of the most valuable things to have. I never realised at the time how true that would prove.

  At home, I found Jane squatting outside beside the charcoal stove. We shared a home and did most activities together. We also shared the novelty of being the only white women in the village.

  I snuck up on her, but instead of Jane being surprised it was our dinner that seemed startled. There was a pot on the stove with a plate resting on top as a makeshift lid. As I spoke, the plate suddenly came alive and began wobbling frantically.

  Jane quickly spun her head around in my direction, said hello, and then grabbed a piece of cloth and removed the plate. I dashed inside and reappeared with a wooden chair. I made myself comfortable, but then thought better of it and stood up again, asking how I could help.

  Jane instructed me to get some plates and cutlery. These were stored neatly in the yellow basin. I also grabbed the purple woven mat and returned outside. I laid the mat on the grass and took the plates and cutlery to the now pot-less stove. Jane was draining the beans by the side of the house. We served up but just as we settled back on the mat to eat, Robert, who lived nearby, wandered over and greeted us. He was tall and sturdy but I guessed he was only about sixteen. His face looked like the moon when he smiled—round and gentle.

  When I asked how he was, his large feet shuffled in the dirt and his face tilted toward our stove. The sky had just started to darken and the coals glowed magnificently. I nodded toward the coals and offered for Robert to take them. His smile widened. He was holding his family’s stove (a small metal stand, which the coals would rest on while a pot would be balanced on top), and he moved toward the coals and quickly plucked them up. He thanked us in his soft voice. My eyes followed him home. He was wearing the same clothes that he wore every day—torn three-quarter length pants and a ripped white T-shirt with faded blurs of colour where a logo had once lived.

  Without any further ado, I tucked into dinner—the beans and rice were delicious. I also asked Jane how school had been today.

  ‘Well,’ she began, swallowing a large forkful, ‘quite eventful, actually!’

  She went on to explain all that I had missed—a lot can happen in a day. We talked, and laughed, and ate. By the time I had finished I was so full that I had to lie down on the mat. Jane told me there was still more left but I couldn’t eat another bite. I grasped at my stomach, which now contained a bean and rice baby. We had no way to keep food cold or stored, which meant that we often over-ate. However, the previous few nights we had taken the leftovers to our neighbours. I was just about to suggest this when young Victoria and her even younger sister, Mirimu, skipped over. I sat up and Victoria nestled in my lap. She pulled my hair free from its ponytail and twisted it around her fingers. She glanced up at me with her beautiful brown eyes framed by her long dark eyelashes. In Lusoga I asked her about her day. But instead of answering, she smiled shyly and focused on my hair.

  Jane placed her plate to the side as Mirimu launched in for a cuddle. Soon other children started to gather on the mat. It was very dark now, and it was difficult to differentiate their faces. I lifted Victoria from my lap, and raced inside to grab the kerosene lamp. I placed it beside the mat but, instead of sitting down again, I reached for Victoria’s hand, pulled her up and started singing. The children leaped up in a great burst of giggles. Everyone raced off the grass to a larger patch of dirt. A circle was formed and, with hands tightly clasped together, we skipped around singing. I still didn’t know all the words, but I understood when it was time to squat down, or jump up, or when we all ran together into the centre of the circle and threw our hands in the air. It was ridiculously fun.

  We played until older sibling
s of the children came and took the younger ones home for bed. Then Jane and I retired to the mat. We lay down and gazed at the stars. Other than the small glow from our lamp, the village was pitch black and the stars were unbelievable.

  Soon my eyelids started to feel heavy but as I stood to go inside to bed, I suddenly remembered the leftover dinner. Jane and I looked around; but there were no signs that any of our neighbours were still awake. We decided that we should try knocking next door anyway, but first we carried our dirty plates inside and put them in a basin. We then put another basin upside down on top of it, before placing a brick on top as a weight—to rat-proof it. Then I carried the lamp while Jane heaped the leftover beans into the pot with the remaining rice, and we made our way next door.

  I was feeling unsure about disturbing our neighbour, but when the dark silhouette answered and we showed him the pot, his white teeth glistened out from a big smile. ‘Webale, webaleino.’ (Thank you, thank you).

  By the time I finally crawled into bed and tucked my mozzie net carefully into the mattress, I was exhausted. I could hear the rats in the other room, pushing against the basins and knocking against the unbalanced little table. Soon they would be in our room, scurrying about under our beds, but I was too tired to care.

  ‘Sula burungi (goodnight), Kawooda,’ Jane called out.

  Kawooda was my village name. It was the name given to the youngest girl when twins were born.

  ‘Sula burungi, Babida.’

  The night before I had been restless and full of self-doubt, but now I felt peaceful. I imagined Harriet would sleep with ease tonight, and I felt happy that maybe I had played a part in that. I dozed off with a full belly and a full heart.

  2

  Saying Goodbye

  ADELAIDE, SOUTH AUSTRALIA, October–December 2004

  There were two men in my kitchen and they were stealing my attention. I was sitting at the kitchen table, and they were directly in my line of vision with only the table and kitchen bench between us. I wasn’t entirely sure what they were doing there—fixing the fridge maybe? Whatever it was, they were making a lot of noise. They were attractive men, with tanned muscular bodies, but this was not the time to be distracted.

  I was studying for my Year 12 exams, or at least attempting to. This was the closing chapter of a significant stage of my life and I felt it warranted a little more attention. But for Mum and Dad this was also a time for endings and beginnings and they had decided to sell the house. In a few months they were moving to Ireland, and Dad was going to work as a doctor in a medical clinic there. Mum had given up her job as a social worker and was going to look after my younger brother, Josh, who was going with them. My older brother, Sam, planned to stay in Adelaide. And I still didn’t know what I was going to do.

  During school my friends sometimes referred to my family as The Addams Family. We certainly never had a butler, neither my two brothers nor I were named after a day of the week, and I never saw my dad elaborately kiss my mum’s arms, but there was always something happening in our house. Every day at school I seemed to have a different story: Josh had flushed his glasses down the toilet; my nanna had temporarily moved in; my dad was living in Antarctica for a year—yes, these things actually happened. I lived in a busy, sometimes crazy family. There was never a dull—or quiet—moment.

  As if to prove my point, the men in the kitchen started making a grinding noise. Admittedly I could have been studying in my room, but I liked to have my books and notes spread across the kitchen table. It made me feel more productive even if it was just a scattered mess. Of course it was useless anyway—I couldn’t concentrate. I was wondering where Mum was. I needed to complain about our house turning into a workshop. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself and singing the song ‘What About Me’ in my head—I knew that any chance of memorising my legal studies notes was well and truly gone once that happened. I stood up and the men in the kitchen looked at me.

  For a moment I worried that I had actually been singing out loud. No, not possible. If that was the case they would have been staring, not merely looking, and they would have had expressions of disgust—I’m an awful singer. I quickly smiled at the men and then wandered outside, grabbing a book from the kitchen bench on my way. I sat by the pool and opened it. Mum had brought it home for me the night before. It was a good ole Lonely Planet Book called The Gap Year.

  For as long as I could recall, I had been dreaming of the wild adventures that I would embark on post school. Since I was 15 I had worked in a cafe and then a bakery, saving every dollar I earned. I was very proud that I now had $10 000 in the bank. My only problem was that freedom was looming and I had absolutely no plans. I had heard a saying once that the best way to know oneself was to remove yourself from everything you know. That’s what I wanted to do. Although not to discover myself or anything like that. I knew who I was and what I wanted—I wanted a wild adventure.

  Whenever I became excited about this prospect, I always thought of Africa. I knew little about the continent, but it fascinated me. I imagined vibrant and diverse landscapes, cultures and people. In my mind I could see various tribes dressed in bright clothes and wearing beaded necklaces. And then such beautiful thoughts would be interrupted by different imagery—of tragedy, of famines, of corrupt governments, of child soldiers. This was the Africa the media had shown me. But I wanted to learn about the place for myself, to truly understand the sad pictures that so often appeared on my TV screen.

  The Gap Year had a section that listed opportunities for volunteering in different African countries. As I read it, I realised how lovely it was to be outside. It was a sunny day with just a slight breeze. I couldn’t help watching the wind dance through the leaves, which rustled as if the breeze was tickling them. I have always liked how the wind can only be seen through its effect. It reminded me of love—you cannot see love, except in the way it makes your step lighter, or your eyes sparkle, or your smile become goofy even when you are talking about something ordinary like what you’d eaten for breakfast.

  The wind swept through my hands and turned a few pages. I remembered that I had been reading and flipped the pages back to find my spot. I was not finding much inspiration in the organisations that occupied each page. Maybe I was sitting too much on my moral high-horse but all the placements seemed tokenistic, like ‘2 weeks building a classroom with volunteers from all over the world, then a 2 week safari!’ I didn’t know much about these countries—okay, I didn’t really know anything at all—but nevertheless I was pretty sure that the local people could probably construct a building for themselves. I sighed. I didn’t want to just feel like I was doing something worthwhile—I actually wanted it to be worthwhile! And I had a whole year.

  Sometime later Mum found me by the pool. She sat with me and patiently listened to me whinge about the lack of exciting and significant opportunities, probably grateful that I was yet to mention the loud workmen.

  ‘Don’t you have an exam tomorrow?’ she then asked.

  Gah, it was true. Silly legal studies.

  The next morning the men from the kitchen were gone, and my notes and books were back scattered across the table. My exam started in a few hours, but I was beaming with joy. The Gap Year was open in front of me, with different organisations highlighted in fluoro green. But none of them mattered anymore; I had just found the organisation for me—I was sure of it!

  Student Partnerships Worldwide (SPW) offered volunteer opportunities in remote communities around the world. You worked with in-country volunteers for either five months on an agriculture-based project or eight months on a health-based project. It was perfect. It was actually perfect.

  The health project appealed to me the most, simply because it was the longest of the two options. I raced to my room, grabbed my mobile phone, and returned to the book. The organisation’s number was right there, waiting for me. I didn’t hesitate in dialling. A woman with an English accent answered. I introduced myself and said that I wanted to volunteer for th
e health program, either in Tanzania or Kenya. I was talking quickly but I was unbelievably excited and in my mind I was already packing my bags. Once I finished my little monologue, the woman paused briefly and then apologised; applications had closed two months earlier.

  My heart sunk. Of course there were other organisations, but applying for them now would be like having to eat Weetbix when I knew how good muesli tasted.

  Suddenly I realised the time. I grabbed my books, jumped in my car and headed to my exam. We were herded into the exam room like cattle but when I sat down, my mind was in Africa. Nevertheless, I felt the exam went okay.

  Afterwards there was the usual post-exam, comparing-answers chatter. I suddenly realised that I had misread one of the questions. If I had read it correctly I could have given the perfect answer, but instead I had written something completely off topic. I should have been more stressed than I was, but I actually felt more disappointed for my legal studies teacher.

  ‘You know Mrs Edwards thinks you’re home studying hard,’ my English teacher had said to me the week before when he saw me at work in the bakery.

  I had used SWOTVAC as an opportunity to pick up more shifts and save funds for when I eventually worked out what I was going to do in my gap year. I had told my English teacher that my books were out the back. Not that they were much good to me there anyway. Mrs Edwards was also our careers counsellor and I found her advice heavily influenced by the fact that she was also my legal studies teacher. Naturally, she thought I should be a lawyer.