by Nikki Lovell
Everyone around me was in a huddle talking about the exam but I didn’t want to get swept up into their state of anxiety. It was over. This was the time to rejoice, not wallow in regret. I said goodbye to my friends and went home.
I walked straight inside, went to the kitchen bench, grabbed The Gap Year and dialled the SPW number again. This time I went outside to talk—perhaps it was silly but I felt there was more positive energy outside. The same woman answered the phone and I quickly re-introduced myself—but this time I added that I had been working part-time for three years and had saved $10 000. I was really interested in human rights and was involved in an Amnesty International group at my school, I told her. I was very passionate about Africa. I understood that applications had closed, but I was asking them to make an exception.
The woman asked me to hold. I paced back and forth by the pool, waiting for the verdict. Then she came back on the line. ‘There is training in Sydney in two weeks’ time. Can you make it?’
‘Yes!’ I answered immediately. Go to the training, impress them, show how passionate you are.
Go to Africa—that was the plan.
When I went to Sydney for the SPW training, my friends were off at ‘schoolies’, celebrating the end of school. I felt like I should have cared that I was missing this week of youthful fun, but honestly I was relieved. I didn’t like drinking that much, and my boyfriend had finished school the year before so it wasn’t really his scene either. The training was actually convenient timing.
There were only a few of us there and only two of us wanted to go on the health program. Lindy, the other girl (really she was a woman, who I would later learn was 27) had a very peaceful and wise presence about her. She had my immediate respect and admiration. All the SPW staff were lovely, and the training felt more like relaxed conversations. They decided that I could go to Africa, but there was only room for me on the placement in Uganda. I had barely heard of Uganda, but I happily agreed anyway.
That afternoon, I celebrated by getting my first vaccinations. I had two in one arm, and one in the other. I would have to have many more before I left Australia. I would also need to organise malaria tablets and come up with some extra cash. The placement cost $12 000, $5000 of which was a compulsory donation.
Back home in Adelaide, Mum and Dad were extremely supportive. Mum even managed to laugh. She said it was in my nature to pick the most challenging thing possible, in a place we had hardly heard of. Of course I could also see the worry in her eyes, but at the time neither of us mentioned it. I had inherited my adventurous spirit and my stubbornness from Dad, so I think he knew there was no point trying to change my mind. Better to support me than to argue—either way, I was going to go.
For Mum, I knew it was harder. I imagined her restless at night, feeling anxious about her daughter taking off. Later she would tell me that others had criticised her as a mother— my nanna had told her to put her foot down. I knew that my mum must have loved me so much to still want me to go. She could see me glowing with joy and she would do everything in her power to help me, regardless of how scared she felt or what anyone said.
My boyfriend, Jack, was also unbelievably supportive and I realised that he too must have cared for me deeply, to put my happiness before his own. We planned to have a long distance relationship while I was away; we never even discussed anything else. Secretly, I worried that being apart for so long would be too hard, but then I remembered the wind. I told myself that I did not need to see Jack to feel his love. I hoped desperately that this was true. I never even considered that it might be my feelings that would change.
As I began to get things organised for my trip, I felt like I was in a constant state of motion. I raised the extra money I needed by getting donations from Rotary and Lions clubs (I would have to do presentations for them on my return), by asking family friends for donations and by selling cakes during our School Awards Night. Mum stood behind the trestle table with me in the foyer, collecting people’s money and counting out their change.
The bakery I worked at had donated the cakes. Jack’s dad was a milkman and he also asked his customers for donations, which was a lovely gesture. It felt like all the important people in my life were coming together to help me pursue this dream.
I had my extra injections, and began my malaria tablets as I was required to start taking them before I actually got there. I bought a mosquito net (which I would later realise was stupid as they were sold everywhere in Uganda), a new red backpack, a pair of brown leather sandals from the camping store and a head torch (which would prove to be my most useful possession). I also packed eight months’ worth of tampons. We had been advised about this at the training— such things were hard, if not impossible, to come by in Uganda.
I was all set, but the funny thing was that I was so consumed with the thought of getting to Africa that I had given very little thought to the life I was leaving behind me. Mum would have to pack my things in boxes after the house was sold, and put them into storage. I would not be coming back to my family home; maybe I would not even come home to my family. At that time they might still be living in Ireland. But admittedly it was not really this that was upsetting me— it was the reality of leaving Jack.
The morning I was set to fly out, I woke up before my alarm. I had hardly slept I was so restless. I had half been wishing time away, but then suddenly never wanting the night to end—I didn’t want to say goodbye. And now it was actually time to get up. To get organised. To go. Jack was peacefully asleep beside me and, without intending to, I started crying. What am I doing? I have a good life. I could stay in Australia, start university, travel with Jack. No, my heart said, that’s not who you are and that’s not what you really want. It was strange for my heart to feel so strongly about going, even though my mind and body now wanted me to stay.
I decided it was easiest to get up and start getting ready before Jack woke. I snuck into the shower and when I returned to my room, dressed in my pre-planned airport outfit, he was sitting up in bed. I nearly cried again, but stopped myself. Instead, I made a comment about how ridiculous I felt. I was wearing way too many layers of clothing, plus my hiking boots, because everything wouldn’t fit into my bag. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable travelling outfit.
Jack managed a smile, then he too got up and got ready. It was amazing how, even when filled with the strongest of emotions, we were able to go about such normal morning rituals.
Mum, Dad and both my brothers were coming to the airport to see me off. Because we wouldn’t all fit in the car, Jack and I drove separately. I found myself thinking about my room. I suddenly felt like I should have studied it more closely before I left, or taken a photograph or something. It was so ‘my room’. It was painted just the way I had wanted (the bottom half blue and the top sandy yellow, as if I were living on the beach), with wooden beams running across the top and on them artificial rock-climbing holds. I used to be able to swing from hold to hold, and reach the window sill from my bed without my feet touching the ground.
The other special place in my room was the top of the built-in wardrobe. I couldn’t reach there using my rock-climbing holds, so I would pull the wooden drawers from the wardrobe half out and climb them like a ladder. Then I would sit up there and make engravings on a separate wooden beam that ran parallel to the top of the wardrobe. I had been climbing up there since I was just a little kid. That wooden beam had engraved into it the name of the first boy I had had a crush on. And all my friends’ names too—I used to make them climb up there as their initiation into my room. I also used to steal food from the kitchen and hide it there. Things that Mum wouldn’t suspect, like the gelatine crystals for the jelly. The thought of my room and its many memories made me smile. And then it made me sad— it wasn’t my room anymore and I would never see it again.
I had known this before, of course, but I hadn’t really considered it until now. Jack noticed my silence and asked if I was excited. I think he was trying to cheer me up. I smiled, but I didn’t
answer. I wouldn’t have known what to say—I was excited, but I was also terrified. The wild contrast in my emotions made me confused.
We got to the airport earlier than necessary, checked in my baggage and went through security. Josh was complaining that he was hungry and thirsty, so Dad suggested we have breakfast in one of the cafes. I don’t remember what we ate; I just recall the uneasy silence. The feeling when you know something terrible is about to happen. And then it did happen—my flight number was called. The voice on the loudspeaker seemed to echo through me—it was time to board. I started crying even while I was still walking to the departure gate.
On the way, Jack suddenly started pulling me. I looked at him questioningly and he pointed to a little photo booth. It was one of those where you go in, it takes a shot and then prints the photo as a series of little stickers; in the backdrop is a shark about to swallow you whole, or something like that.
‘We don’t have time,’ I said, a little pissed off.
But Jack insisted. He dragged me into the booth, pulled the booth curtain shut, and kissed me passionately. He hadn’t wanted the photo stickers at all. All he wanted was a final moment with just us. I wanted to stay in that moment forever, but I really had to go.
We got to my gate and everyone was already boarding. I felt annoyed at myself that we had spent so much time in the silly cafe and now had to say goodbye so quickly. This was it. I said goodbye to my family first. Sam seemed quite indifferent to me leaving: ‘Have a good trip, Nik.’ Josh gave me more attention, giving me a big hug, but I wasn’t sure he really understood what was going on. The hug with Dad was brief and slightly awkward—hugging wasn’t something we did a lot. And then there was Mum. She had started crying while I was still hugging Josh. ‘You know me’—she tried to make a joke of her emotional state. It was true that she was a highly emotional person; she could cry during cartoons. This time, however, her tears were justified. She hugged me tightly and it was difficult to let go. When I finally pulled away, she reached into her handbag and handed me a letter: ‘Read it on the plane.’ We both expressed ourselves better through written words. I put the letter safely in my bag.
Next was Jack. It was horrible. We were both crying as we hugged. I remember thinking that the other passengers must have thought we were being over-dramatic, given that this flight was just to Sydney. I wanted to tell them that I was actually going a whole world away, and that I was terrified. But instead I hugged my brothers, Dad, Mum and Jack once more. And then, like a lemming, I joined the boarding queue with everyone else.
As I was having my ticket checked, I took a final look back at the most important people in my life. Jack had put his sunglasses on to hide his wet eyes, but I could still imagine their radiant blue. Josh was hugging Mum now—he was probably telling her to stop crying. Sam and Dad stood with their hands in their pockets, not knowing what to do with themselves in such an emotionally charged situation. I started walking down towards the aerobridge ramp. The walkway was parallel to where my family and Jack were standing, with only a glass barrier separating us. I imagined them watching me, so close and yet untouchable. I could have faced them while I was walking, I could have pressed my hand against the glass, I could have stayed a moment longer. But then I don’t know that I would have ever left, so I kept walking. I kept walking and I didn’t look back.
On the plane I was forced to compose myself. I had a window seat and I stared out at Adelaide. As the plane took off, I watched everything that was familiar become no more than a Lego world. Looking at it like that, it seemed that I could build my city in a matter of minutes. I imagined myself picking up each building, every tree and such, and fitting them all into the palm of my hand. People were soon the size of grains of sand, and they filled in the gaps between the imaginary city now nestled in my palm. With the life I knew so well safely in my grasp now, I decided to put it into my pocket and carry it with me.
It was a good thing I did this, because soon we were among the clouds—Adelaide was gone. I told myself I could recreate it anytime. I could pull it out of my pocket, imagine it all unfolding. I told myself that I never really had to leave anywhere, because my thoughts could always carry me back. And then, feeling much calmer, I pulled Mum’s letter out of my bag and started to read it.
3
The North Star
JINJA, UGANDA, January 2005
From Adelaide I flew to Sydney and then to Dubai, Nairobi and finally Entebbe, where Uganda’s airport was based. Flying over Uganda was magical. It didn’t look like a Lego world, even when everything was so distant and small. It was too green, too real; there were too many interesting shapes for it to be compared to childhood building blocks.
As our plane dropped lower in the late afternoon, Uganda’s magic and beauty intensified, as did my smile. Walking off the plane was a surreal experience. I had been dreaming of Africa since I was just a kid, when I had thought it was a country rather than a continent. And suddenly here I was, my feet stepping on African soil for the first time. Unbelievable. The humidity hit my skin instantly and I loved it. I breathed in the fresh air, the smell of trees. I flung my head up to the welcoming blue sky, my smile stretched across my face. I had made it.
Walking toward the airport, a tin shed, I gazed through the windows and saw dozens of African children smiling and waving. I had no idea what they were doing there— maybe they were the children of the airport staff—but I could not have imagined a more perfect first impression of the country.
I was full of joy but also anxious. Who really knew if this SPW organisation actually existed? It was Mum’s voice I was hearing in my mind now. As I picked up my luggage, I noticed three Ugandans, two males and a female, wearing oversized white T-shirts with blue print that read ‘SPW’. Perfect. I introduced myself and followed the SPW staff outside, where they had a vehicle waiting. I couldn’t help noticing that one of them, Charles, was abnormally tall, stick thin, with a long face. He reminded me of a giraffe. He also had a really big goofy smile. I decided immediately that he was most likely the friendliest of this trio.
We clambered into a 4WD and were on our way. The driving was mental, completely chaotic. At first I tried to work out whether there was any system to the chaos, but my attention quickly became focused elsewhere. I was shocked to see so much poverty, literally only a street away from the airport. It made me think of World Vision television adverts; I could have taken all that footage in the first 10 minutes. I saw women carrying enormous loads on their heads, such as bags of potatoes. I saw young children with skinny arms and legs and pot bellies—signature signs of malnourishment— washing their clothes in a basin. I saw bulls, and goats and chickens roaming freely.
Occasionally there were large billboards on the side of the road. Most of them had advertisements but some were government funded. One read: ‘Having sex with a virgin will not cure AIDS’. My heart stopped for a moment and my mouth went dry. Obviously many people seriously believed that having sex with a virgin would cure AIDS. Such ignorance seemed terrifying.
It was difficult to comprehend that the village where I would be living and working would be even more poverty-stricken. As we continued on our way, the shapes around me became mere silhouettes as darkness descended and scared the sun away. Everyone in the car was silent and I appreciated being left alone with my thoughts. We were heading to a boarding school about two hours away, where all the new volunteers would have three weeks’ training before being split up and allotted to our different placements.
My companions informed me that all the other international volunteers and the Ugandan volunteers were already at the boarding school, and would probably be asleep when we arrived. By then I was too tired to care. Over 40 hours of travel was starting to take its toll.
When we finally arrived, I was directed through the darkness to the room where I would sleep. It was a shed with a tin roof but fortunately it had lots of windows. There were seven beds in the room, and all except for one were full of bodies pe
acefully asleep in the cocoons of their mosquito nets.
As I slid into the empty bed, doubt followed in after me. I didn’t question my desire to be in this magical, mysterious place; I questioned what I had to contribute. For a time I could not get to sleep, which was odd. How can I now be this awake, I thought, when only minutes ago I was dead tired? What if I don’t ever get to sleep and am then exhausted for the first day of training? What if I fall asleep in the training? I’m never going to fall asleep.
And then I woke up. Sunlight crept through the numerous windows, as did the sounds of various unknown animals making their morning calls. As I peered through my mozzie net and out the window opposite my bed, I saw pure green— what a lush, beautiful country I was in. Looking out the window behind my bed, I saw young Ugandan children playing and laughing; their smiles were big and uplifting. I felt good. The joyful sounds and images from outside were enough to extinguish, at least temporarily, my anxieties from the night before.
There was a toilet and shower—although I was not convinced they were worthy of such titles—attached to our room. The toilet was a hole in the ground but not your typical long drop, as it still seemed to have a flush. I used most of my strength to pull down the flushing lever—and was shocked when water sprayed absolutely everywhere! I literally had to grab the toilet paper and run. I had a moment in which I was already starting to miss the luxuries of home, but things were certainly more entertaining this way. It was a bit of a game—how fast can you run? The shower also looked interesting but I wasn’t game to try it on that first morning. Lindy, the only other Australian volunteer, had one and came out with giant ant bites on her feet—and she had been wearing shoes!
Our training started bright and early at 8:30 a.m. There was no time to adjust—it was as though I had woken up in a completely different life. I was suddenly in a brick building, with open spaces where there should have been doors and windows. Wooden tables and chairs formed a U shape facing the front of the room. I sat down and smiled at the volunteers sitting either side of me. The three staff who had picked me up the night before—Charles, Irene and Paul—were sitting up the front.