We Are One Village

by Nikki Lovell

  After lunch, Sam stood up in front of me. Then he blurted out that I was going to be ‘soooooooooo fat’ by the time I left Uganda. What?! It was a good job that I had finished swallowing, or I may have spat my porcho right back out. Sam went on to say that I was big-boned and then he began to enact just how fat he envisaged me becoming. He held his arms out to his sides and then wobbled about like a sumo wrestler. He wasn’t trying to insult me—in Uganda being fat was a privilege. But I wasn’t Ugandan, and I didn’t want to be fat.

  Everyone was laughing. Andrew joined in the sumo-wrestler/my-future enactment, and I tried really hard to smile. Back when we were training, Ugandan honesty had seemed refreshing, but at that time it hadn’t been directed at me.

  Jane was probably one of the thinnest people I had ever seen. She had an incredible figure—insanely thin and yet she still had big boobs. How does that even happen?

  All the attention was focused on me, even though I only weighed 50 kilograms and never before in my life had been called fat—at least, not to my face. I had wanted to be drawn into the moment—for my mind to be totally in the now— but this wasn’t what I had in mind. I felt like crap. I wanted to run away. I wanted Luke to wrap me in his arms and tell me I was beautiful. But I had nowhere to run to, and Luke was not here. So instead I sat still, and concentrated on smiling and not crying. I was relieved when those teachers who were actually included in the school curriculum retreated to their classrooms and all the Nikki Being Fat talk subsided.

  After too many days of waiting for the primary and secondary schools to get their act together with their curriculums, we realised we could be waiting for months. So we decided to watch the classrooms and when there seemed to be no teacher present, we would conduct a lesson until a teacher showed up. We would divide into pairs for each lesson. For my very first lesson, I was with Lillian in the primary school, while Jane and Wemusa were in the secondary school. In most classes kids sat on the ground, but in this room there were wooden benches with thin blocks of wood that served as desks. The kids squashed against each other so they could all have a seat. Some bottoms hung off the edges of the benches, but the kids didn’t seem fazed.

  The purpose of our first lesson was to introduce ourselves, to introduce health broadly—it had never been taught in Namwendwa before—and to begin to establish relationships with the kids. I spoke first, beginning nervously and then growing in confidence as the kids seemed to be hanging off my every word. When I finished my little introduction, I had a big grin, feeling proud. The kids had more than a grin—they simply burst into laughter. They had been trying to control their giggles the entire time I had been speaking, but now they couldn’t help themselves. Apparently they hadn’t understood a word I had said! Their English was still very basic and to them my accent just sounded like someone putting on a funny voice. I tried to introduce myself again in my very basic Lusoga, but evidently this was even funnier.

  I was just as useless inside the classroom as I had been sitting under the mango tree reading my book. Lillian calmed the class down and completed the lesson in Lusoga. I stood in the corner and wondered what on earth I was going to do for the next seven months.

  Life at home was no easier than at school. Cooking every night was a time-consuming task. First we would need to break up the pieces of charcoal, throwing them against the ground and then collecting the smaller pieces to put in our charcoal stove. The stove was a small metal contraption—the coals went underneath, and above them was a wire grid to place a pot on for cooking. We would scrunch up some scraps of paper and push them in between the bits of charcoal. Then we would light the paper, blow on it gently and beg for the coals to catch alight.

  While this was happening, we would pour some brown peas on a plate, sorting the peas from stones, or bits of stick. Next the peas would need to be rinsed. Then a pot of water would be placed on the stove and, once it was boiling, in would go the peas. They would take hours to cook, and the whole time you needed to keep an eye on the charcoal, making sure it stayed alight. When the peas were ready, this whole process would need to be repeated to cook some rice.

  Given that it took so long, we decided to take it in turns to prepare the meal each night. I liked this system—it forced me to be independent, and I enjoyed trying to be creative with very limited ingredients. Jane and Lillian also quite enjoyed cooking, and Lillian was an excellent cook. Wemusa was the only one who didn’t like the system. After one of us had cooked his dinner, he would leave his meal sitting there uneaten for an hour or so. He would never say thank you, and his lack of any gratitude was hurtful. Later he would pick at the food, pushing it around his bowl, unimpressed. Then he would leave his dirty bowl, expecting us to clean up after him. On his nights to cook, Wemusa would disappear. If we waited for him, we would go hungry. He would return home late, cook himself some rice, and then leave the pot unwashed as well as his bowl littered with scraps.

  Wemusa was tall and bony and didn’t seem to require that much food. His complete lack of respect for us was more than hurtful; it was bloody annoying. It wasn’t just the cooking or cleaning either. He also wouldn’t fetch water or prepare lesson plans. I could understand why he was the way he was—his dad had multiple wives and he had over 30 siblings, more than he could recall by name. In his world, women did everything and men were always right. But understanding his background didn’t make the situation any less aggravating. I also felt a little used. Being an international volunteer, I had paid the organisation a significant donation so that they could supplement the Ugandan volunteers’ living expenses. I felt that working alongside the Ugandan volunteers was a critical part of the program. I could learn a lot from Lillian and Wemusa, but I felt it should have been a two-way process and it bothered me that Wemusa was not even open to consider that there may be other ways to live.

  Neither Jane nor Lillian said much to Wemusa, not wanting to make matters worse. I was stupid and thought maybe we could just talk things through. However, Lillian and Jane were right—any of my attempts to talk with Wemusa just created further tension within the house. He would sit silently and give me death stares. His dark eyes seemed to drill through me, and I would sit looking back at him. I was stubborn, like my dad; but all the while, I knew I was facing a losing battle. Eventually I would give up, and retire to Jane’s and my room. We had been given beds now, and Lillian had moved into the main room. Jane’s and my beds only just fitted into the room, with about 5 centimetres between them.

  It wasn’t just Wemusa and my lack of teaching success giving me discomfort; I was also constipated. Thinking I needed to go, I would grab the toilet paper and dash to the latrine. But as I approached, the stench would become overwhelming. When I swung the wooden door open, the flies would suddenly be swarming around me. There were the signs of diarrhoea everywhere. Holding my nose, I would place my feet either side of the hole, my sandals squashing the muddy shitty mixture. I held the toilet paper in my mouth so I could hoist my skirt up. The flies would be buzzing around my ankles. It was unbearable. Any need to go to the toilet disappeared almost instantaneously. I would sigh as I left the stinky latrine.

  Later that night, when the need re-emerged I would consider ducking behind a bush but there seemed to be people everywhere. I would prepare to squat and then hear giggles from above. I would look up and there would be kids perched in the tree. Even in the dark it was an impossible mission, as being white I glowed. Being white also meant that eyes followed me with curiosity wherever I went. One night I felt really bloated and disgusting but wondered whether I was just making excuses and was actually getting fat. As I sat on my bed, I felt I needed some distraction from everything. Jane was outside cooking, so I had a brief moment of privacy. I started searching through my backpack. Everything I used I had already pulled out and had hanging in bags from nails on the wall beside my bed. A few random bits and pieces remained in my pack. I pulled out a small black bag, and opened it to find syringes and little boxes of various pills—my m
edical kit. Dad, being a doctor, had put it together for me and this was the first time I had looked through it. I emptied the bag’s contents onto my bed and examined the different boxes. Dad had also typed up a list of everything in the bag and laminated it (though I suspected the laminating was Mum’s touch). At the bottom of the list Dad had written: ‘Most importantly remember we love you and are thinking of you. Love Dad.’

  It wasn’t the sort of thing that Dad would normally say to me, but it was exactly what I needed. I found myself hugging the piece of paper, tears flowing. Good job it was laminated. Even though such emotion was rare for Dad to show, the note still reminded me of my life before all this—before awkward language barriers, standing out like a ghost, shit-covered long drops, men with little respect for women. But the note also brought me back to a life that was just as uncomfortable, yet in different ways. A life where I had every reason to be happy, but I hadn’t been. I had been restless and uneasy with the world. I struggled as much there as I did here, and there was something both unsettling and reassuring in that.

  I was still clutching the paper when Jane came to the doorway to announce that dinner was ready. She noticed my watery eyes and the tears smudged on my cheeks and asked if I was okay. I smiled and said I would explain later. As I followed her outside to eat, I realised it was only the two of us. Wemusa was probably meandering about in the trading centre, but Lillian’s whereabouts were a mystery. Jane and I had gone to the borehole earlier in the day; when we had returned, she was gone. We had assumed that she was just at one of the schools, but it was strange for her to still not be home.

  The next morning I got up early to wash, and noticed that Lillian’s bed was still empty. Perhaps she had arrived home late, and was already up and about this morning. I was trying to be positive. I had my towel and bed sheet slung over my shoulder, and my toiletries bag in my hand. I put my bag down and filled the yellow basin with water from one of our jerry cans. Then I put my bag in my mouth, freeing my hands to carry the full basin out to the bathing area.

  Many people had obviously already washed as the bricks of the bathing area were saturated with soapy water. I crept in and put my basin down. Then I wandered back out and found some heavy stones. I hung my sheet up, using stones to weigh it down on either side of the gap between the two top bricks. My makeshift door was as much privacy as I was going to get.

  Even though it was still early, the sun’s heat was already intense and I was grateful for that. I undressed slowly, my eyes watching my sheet with caution. I placed my towel and clothes over one of the brick walls to keep them dry. Then I pulled some soap out of my toiletries bag and stood in the basin, splashing the water onto myself. It was difficult to wash properly with only a small basin of water, but being outside was relaxing. I loved the feeling of the sun shining on me as I scrubbed the dirt out of my skin. I imagined myself getting a perfect tan and smiled at the thought.

  But just as I was at peace, a forceful gust of wind blew and lifted my sheet up. The stones were still in place, so it only flew into the air for a moment but it was as if it all happened in slow motion. The bathing area was behind our house, and just in front of our house was the dusty road that led to both the primary and secondary schools. At the exact time that my sheet floated up, secondary school students were walking down the road and they caught a glimpse of my white naked body. Oh god! I was going to be teaching these students and this was our first encounter. I quickly grabbed at my towel, dried myself and got dressed again.

  Jane was dressed and boiling water for tea when I entered the house. We assumed Wemusa was still in bed. We had a quick cuppa and decided to walk to the schools to see if anyone had seen Lillian. I was reluctant to go to the secondary school following my earlier embarrassment, so I offered to ask around at the primary school instead.

  The teachers had not seen Lillian but reassured me not to worry. Then they asked if I would teach. I felt panicked. The thought of teaching on my own was more than daunting; it seemed impossible. But I couldn’t say no. I entered the class, and 100 or more students in pink uniforms looked up at me. Who would have thought a room full of little kids dressed in pink could be so intimidating.

  This was a different class than Lillian and I had taught last time, so they didn’t know who I was. I introduced myself slowly in English, and then I asked in Lusoga if they understood me. They nodded and smiled. I didn’t want to just talk at the kids, so I decided to teach them a song. At the training we had learnt a song called ‘Under the mango tree’. I really liked it, as you could act out every line—it was good fun. I gestured for all the kids to stand up, and then I started singing and acting out the song. At first the kids just looked at each other, in part amusement and part confusion; but, as I continued, they started to join in.

  This was the first time I had ever sung in public. I have a terrible, terrible singing voice and am well aware of it, but the kids didn’t seem to care. When we were singing together and moving our arms like the swaying leaves of the mango tree, it was magic. I was so exposed, being completely myself, dreadful singing voice and all—and it was bliss. The kids cheered when we finished the song and I left the class with a smile. I hadn’t even mentioned the syllabus or taught them anything to do with health, but that would come later.

  That afternoon Lillian was still missing. Wemusa seemed content, simply lying on his bed, so Jane and I decided to catch a matatu from the trading centre to the nearest town, Kamuli. The driver was an absolute nutter, no exaggerating. As we raced along the dusty road, he would press his hand down firmly on his horn. This was a painfully loud and alarming warning signal: ‘Get out of my way NOW!’ As we sped on, a buda-buda man who had been coming toward us screamed as he frantically swerved to miss the blue blur of our matatu. I swung my head around to search for the buda-buda man but instead got an eyeful of dirt as it flew in through the small gap where the window had been pushed open.

  Kamuli was a small dusty town and the matatu station was at its hub. There were probably at least 15 matatus either coming or going at any time. The town had a bustling feel with people hassling you the moment you stepped out of the matatu. You would find yourself encircled by buda-buda men, while others would just call out in amusement, ‘Munzungu, munzungu!’ Even in this little town, being white was a novelty. This was not the sort of place that attracted tourists. The dirt streets were littered with little shops on either side. Most were clothes stalls, selling the colourful material that the women would buy to make their gomesi. There were also trading shops, with tins of paint and various tools. It amazed me that all the shops survived, given that there seemed to be little difference from one to the next.

  Other than the shops, there was also a bank that always had queues going out the door and along the street. There were two small supermarkets as well where you could buy bread, spaghetti, various jars of things, and sometimes milk or liquid yoghurt. Almost all of the shops and the supermarkets were owned by Indians. This was also the case with the small shops in Namwendwa trading centre. I made a mental note to learn more about Uganda’s history.

  The town didn’t have the majestic feel of the village, but it was useful for picking up a few supplies that made life in Namwendwa slightly more comfortable. Kamuli also had phone reception. I had a mobile with me, but hadn’t used it yet. I still needed a Ugandan SIM card. I popped into the supermarket and was able to buy one. I had Luke’s number saved to my phone, even though I had never had a use for it until now. My heart was beating so fast and loud, it felt as if it might pop right out of me. I told myself that Luke and I were just friends and I had no reason to feel so strange about calling him. Then I swallowed my nerves.

  Luke was surprised to hear my voice and I was surprised to hear that he was in Jinja, a long way from the village where he was supposed to be. He offered to come and visit me in Namwendwa and, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, I said that was a great idea. I would meet him in Kamuli in a few days’ time.

  The large ma
rketplace was the other highlight of Kamuli. Just next to the matatu station, it was a maze of little stalls selling fresh fruit and vegetables. Heaven! We meandered through and were happy to pick up some carrots, capsicums, tomatoes, potatoes, onions and even garlic. We bartered with stall owners to buy a pineapple but everyone was intent on charging us three times the local price. Grrrr! We didn’t want to start a precedent of paying more, so we left the markets with just our vegetables.

  As we went to clamber back onto the matatu, we spotted another man selling pineapples. He had them tied all around his bicycle and was standing peacefully on the outskirts of the matatu station. We raced over, greeted him in Lusoga and asked him how much. This man had a gentle nature, and he lifted the different-sized pineapples, quoting their prices— all local prices. We smiled and got the biggest pineapple he had.

  Back in Namwendwa, on the walk home from the trading centre, we were bouncing with joy as we discussed the vegetable spaghetti we planned to make that night. It was the first time that we were going to have vegies in a long time and we were super excited. Admittedly I was also thinking about Luke, having no idea what to expect when I saw him, but knowing that I was seriously looking forward to it.

  Halfway home we were startled as SPW’s red 4WD raced past. An unexpected visit? The vehicle screeched to a stop—we had obviously been spotted. Jane and I approached the driver’s window to come face-to-face with a bewildered Charles. He didn’t have his usual goofy grin. He didn’t get out of the car, or even bother with greeting us. Instead he just stared directly at us. Finally he spoke. ‘I have some bad news.’