We Are One Village

by Nikki Lovell

  As we were wondering who was going to man up and take on the rat, we realised that it had stopped chewing on the shoe. In fact, it appeared to be dead. We watched the rat cautiously—it was now lying on the ground, pink beady eyes staring up at us. Definitely dead. It must have eaten rat poison earlier. Utterly relieved, we decided to retreat to our respective beds. We said we would deal with Mr Rat in the morning, but what we all meant was that Wemusa could deal with the corpse disposal.

  Super early next morning, while it was still dark, Jane woke and needed to go to the toilet. Her movement woke me up too. Wemusa was still making his deep sleep noises, and Lillian was awake talking to herself.

  Jane rolled out of bed to brave the toilet, but stopped in her tracks when she reached the main room. Mr Ratty was gone! ‘Ohhh nooooo!’ she cried out.

  She quickly dashed to the latrine and, when she returned, she saw the rat scurry into our room. Great. So now rats can rise from the dead. Isn’t that bloody brilliant, I thought to myself. The rat withdrew to the safety of under my bed. Now I definitely wasn’t going to get back to sleep.

  Over an hour later the rat still hadn’t reappeared, and I was starting to wonder whether it actually had magical powers, and could morph as well as rise from the dead. As if to confirm my suspicions, we then heard the rat in the main room. Wemusa’s deep sleep noises had also stopped and so, from the safety of our beds, we called out to Wemusa to come and kill the rat. I realised that we were all being a little bit pathetic and melodramatic but we put up with rats scurrying under our beds every night, and now we felt like we needed a victory.

  Wemusa moaned in response but eventually he appeared in the main room. He was only wearing trousers, with bare feet and bare chest, and he held out a long metal stick in front of him. He pounded it against the ground and chanted, ‘I am a warrior!’

  I nearly wet myself laughing. The rat returned to his favourite position under my bed. Wemusa stormed into our room, threw my sleeping bag and pillow on Jane’s bed, and then lifted my mattress onto its side. Between the planks of wood of my bed frame, we could see the rat racing about. Wemusa was trying desperately to poke at it. Jane was jumping up and down on her own bed; I was taking refuge on Lillian’s bed; and Lillian, dressed in her nightgown, was guarding the front door to make sure the rat didn’t escape.

  The rat then made a brave move. He emerged from under my bed and raced into the main room, heading for the open wooden doors and freedom. But Wemusa was on his tail. And then . . . he got him. Wemusa literally prodded the rat to death. I would have felt guilty if I hadn’t been so busy being entertained by the armed and near-naked Wemusa. He really did look like a warrior! Later that day, he was still walking around the house chanting ‘I am a warrior’ and wearing the proudest expression I have ever seen.

  This bizarre episode was the closest Wemusa, Lillian, Jane and I had come to bonding so far. We had all shared this hilarious moment, and it had been brilliant. But, just as things started to look up in our house, it all turned to shit— well, technically, it all turned to piss.

  • I had just started to become confident about using the bathing area again when I went out there one afternoon, basin in my hands, to discover that the area absolutely stunk. It smelt like piss. I looked at the bricks on the ground, and sure enough there was yellow liquid where there should have been soapy water. Oh god.

  I carried the basin back inside. I stood by the doorway to Jane’s and my room and glanced at the space between our beds. There was no way the basin would fit there. I had nowhere to wash. I was about to give up when I decided that I could at least wash my hair. I grabbed my shampoo, comb and a cup and carried the basin to the patch of grass out the front. I knelt on the grass, and dipped my hair into the water in the basin. As I did so, the children from the family across the road came racing over.

  I was not only a novelty for being white, but also for my long hair. The children were amused watching me. Victoria had her usual smile; taking the cup from my hands, she scooped it into the basin to fill it with water and then poured it over my head. I noticed that a boy who I often saw playing with a woven ball was also examining me. He stood behind a tree, the ball by his feet, and his eyes followed me with curiosity. I asked Victoria what his name was. ‘Dawoodee,’ she replied. I realised that he was Victoria’s brother, and I guessed he was about 11 years old.

  There seemed to be a lot of kids in Victoria’s family— eleven children maybe. It was difficult to ask them many questions as their English was as limited as my Lusoga. I learnt who was from which family by watching where they retreated to when the darkness of night crept in.

  Jane was absolutely disgusted when she made the same discovery about the bathing area. ‘It’s a bathing area and a urinal’ was Wemusa’s reply when she questioned him about it. He didn’t seem to understand our concern. I had already had too many confrontations with him so I decided to let Jane lead this battle. She stormed out to the bathing area, chalk in hand, and wrote on it, ‘Bathing only.’ I didn’t want to say anything but I wasn’t sure that was the greatest idea, given that most people in the community understood little English. Jane must have drawn the same conclusion, because later she asked Lillian for a translation and then wrote the note in Lusoga as well. Not that it made any difference— people weren’t going to change their habits because of a chalk-written sign.

  The next day, we saw Wemusa go in there and urinate. I thought Jane might explode with rage. But she didn’t. Instead, she again tried to reason with Wemusa about the hygiene concerns of urinating in the place where we wash ourselves. Wemusa silently sunk into the wooden chair, staring at Jane with a look of death.

  I couldn’t stand the tension, so I grabbed a skipping rope from my bag and went outside. I hadn’t really skipped since primary school but I used to love it. I had thrown a few ropes into my bag before I left Australia; I had thought the kids might enjoy them, but now I actually felt like skipping too.

  Skipping was hard work, but I soon started to remember all the tricks that I had perfected as a kid. Everyone marvelled at my skipping even though I must have looked a little ridiculous, jumping high into the air and flinging the rope about my body. The children raced over, laughing, and I handed Kisashi (one of Victoria’s older sisters) one of the rope handles. I then held the other handle and we spun the rope, so that the kids could take it in turns to run in and jump.

  It was so much fun. The children loved it and it gave me the idea of taking the ropes to the schools. They had no resources for sport, except for space. I could start a jump rope club, I thought. I had been captain of our jump rope team at primary school. Of course, I had been eleven then. But now, seven years on, I felt that same enthusiasm buzzing inside of me.

  The road to Namwendwa, Uganda where I lived and worked. I loved walking down this track with the lush green surroundings—so, so beautiful. One Village collection

  Families working on their land. What you grow is what you eat. One Village collection

  Cattle on the move. Photo courtesy of Lisa Duffy

  What are you looking at? Photo courtesy of Lisa Duffy

  Local homes in Namwendwa. It’s amazing how many people may live in a single mud hut. One Village collection

  Ugandan family: Wemusa, Lillian, Jane and myself proudly wearing hats that the community made for us. One Village collection

  Community borehole where everyone collects their water. Young children would walk home dragging the heavy jerry cans between their legs. One Village collection

  At the borehole closest to our home. We would use this 20-litre jerry can of water to drink, cook, wash ourselves and wash all our dishes. Photo courtesy of Jane Barett

  Florence and me in the Infant School (bamboo building). Photo courtesy of Jane Barett

  The Infant School (2005) where adorable children welcomed me in song. One Village collection

  Jinja markets; well worth the maze through the mud. One Village collection

  The markets are a
place of spicy delight. One Village collection

  The best way to get around town. ‘Mangu, mangu!’ means ‘quick, quick’ in the local dialect, Lusoga. You can see why I picked the red bike! Photo courtesy of Lisa Duffy

  Cattle trucks are often also used as buses and are probably more comfortable! One Village collection

  Kampala, Uganda’s capital. The city is set over ten hills and its name is derived from the Kiganda expression ‘kasozi k’empala’ (the hills of antelopes), but it still just felt like a big, dirty city to me. One Village collection

  Washing my hair gains spectators. Most people in the community have shaved heads to prevent the spread of headlice. One Village collection

  The photo of my little brother, Josh, that I took with me to Namwendwa. Even in print his smile is contagious.

  7

  Lessons on Love

  NAMWENDWA, UGANDA, April 2005

  ‘How do you define love?’

  Jane and I were teaching love and relationships in the secondary school. Without set times for when we were to teach, we had the flexibility of teaching lessons individually, in pairs or even as a group. Lillian had already left Namwendwa on this particular morning and Wemusa was teaching in the primary school, so I had the chance to teach with Jane. For this class we had given each student a strip of paper and asked them to write down how they interpreted the word ‘love’.

  After we’d given the students a few minutes, I collected all the strips and scattered them upside down on the table at the front of the class. Then Jane asked for volunteers to come, randomly pick a piece of paper, and read it out. Hands were thrown into the air; all of them belonged to males. In class, the girls were always so much quieter than the boys. All the behaviour they saw around them told them that men were superior, so naturally they acted as if this must be true.

  We selected one of those volunteering to come forward. He almost leaped out of the bench where he was sitting, and practically skipped to the front of the class—he was so excited to be chosen. He picked a piece of paper and read, in English: ‘Love is the relationship between a man and a woman.’

  We thanked him and invited another student to come forward and do the same. He picked another piece of paper and read: ‘Love is the relationship between a man and a woman.’

  Huh? We checked the two strips of paper; they did indeed say exactly the same thing.

  Another student came forward, and it was like we were on the movie Groundhog Day, with the moment repeating itself. Every answer was exactly the same. We didn’t want to be judgemental, but at the same time we had wanted the students’ own thoughts, not a regurgitation of what they had once been told. So we handed out new strips of paper and altered the question slightly: ‘What is your meaning of love?’ And we banned the definition that they had each given.

  ‘But that’s the answer!’ they all protested.

  Jane explained that we wanted their individual ideas, that there was no right or wrong answer; we just wanted to know how they felt. Eighty blank faces stared up at us.

  During my own schooling, I had never realised how often we were asked our own thoughts, opinions and interpretations of things. Even in subjects like science when doing an experiment, there were always questions like, ‘What do you think will happen?’ and then later, ‘Was the result what you expected?’

  Developing our own ideas is an integral part of our education system, and it’s woven into every aspect of the curriculum. In Uganda, I found myself faced with students who had always been told what to think and who had only ever been talked at—not with. I supposed this was because class sizes were so large and the focus was on the national exam material, as opposed to improving life skills. The result was classes of parrots, who had rote-learned material. They could quote definitions, but didn’t actually understand the meaning behind such words.

  I had always assumed that the way my brain worked was just part and parcel of who I was; but now I was realising that I had been taught to develop my own ideas and interpretations, which was why I was now in Uganda, rather than at uni. Life was not black and white, nor did I believe it to be a shade of grey. I saw life as a limitless number of colours.

  It dawned on me that I shouldn’t feel intimidated when teaching, because I didn’t need to know every single fact about HIV or malaria or even basic sanitation—all of this could be learnt from a textbook. But a textbook could not teach these kids how they might feel if a loved one or they themselves fell ill; a textbook could not make the boys in this class understand how it felt to be under-valued simply because of being a female. But maybe I could help these students develop their own thoughts, feelings and sense of empathy. At my own school I had learnt about these things through inclusive teaching. Lessons were structured so that there were various levels of difficulty within the set tasks, so that each of us students could participate regardless of our level of ability.

  Now I had become a little lost in my thoughts; suddenly I realised the time. Class should have finished five minutes ago. Jane had snuck out of the room early as she was trying to establish a Young Women’s Club. Her idea was to facilitate a space where the female students from the school could come together and talk about things that interested them.

  I announced the end of class and the students handed in their strips of paper as they left the room. I glanced at the two on top of the pile. The first read: ‘Love is the sexing of a girl.’ The next read: ‘Love is to live on the vagina.’

  These students were 16 years old, or older, and I was shocked that this was their understanding of love. Then I thought that perhaps this was unfair of me—perhaps they did have different thoughts and feelings about love as we understand it, but they didn’t attach such emotions to that word. Then again, who was I to judge anyone’s interpretation of love, given my recent behaviour?

  I pushed such thoughts aside and went to the corner of the classroom where my skipping ropes were awaiting me. It was lunchtime, so I decided to test the waters and see if any students showed an interest in a jump rope club. It was just my ropes and me. I looked about outside. At home I had always skipped on asphalt. Here the options were limited to dirt or grass; but skipping on grass was practically impossible, so dirt it was.

  I stood on the dirt, threw all the ropes down except one and started skipping. The students all stared at me; some were pointing and laughing. I stopped skipping—this wasn’t meant to be entertainment. I held out the rope I had just used, and encouraged some of those staring to give it a try. One girl came forward and told me her name was Harriet. I gave her a rope and she started skipping. She jumped with both feet at once, lifting her knees high; her feet came about half a metre off the ground. Every few jumps, the rope would catch on her feet, but she didn’t seem bothered—she simply smiled and tried again.

  Four other girls ended up joining in as well. Everyone had to take it in turns as there were only a few ropes, but it was good fun. While only five girls actually participated, there were about 50 onlookers. Perhaps they would join in the next week.

  • While Jane and I had been preparing the lessons on ‘love and relationships’, I had kept thinking about Luke. I missed him. So much happened every day here and I wanted to be able to share things with him.

  Back in Australia, I had never really missed Jack because he was never that far away. I could always pop in the car and visit him; I could call him, email, send him a Facebook message. I always knew that I could reach him almost instantaneously. Here I couldn’t even call Luke, because neither of us had phone reception.

  Teaching and jump rope had at least temporarily distracted me, but now it was Friday and I had the whole weekend ahead of me. Jane had decided to spend the weekend in Jinja and invited me to join her. It was a tempting offer—some of the other female volunteers would be there, plus Jinja had nice food, internet and phone reception, and the backpackers hostel had a shower (although it was only cold water). But these things didn’t seem that great compared to the thought
of seeing Luke.

  Fuck it, I thought, I am going to visit Luke!

  I had no idea where the village was that Luke was working in, but I could remember the name of it (at least I hoped I was remembering it correctly). Saturday morning Jane and I caught a matatu to Kamuli, where she jumped onto another bus that was going to Jinja. I wished her a lovely weekend and she wished me good luck. I needed it.

  I went around to every matatu driver, repeating the name of the village where I thought Luke was working. You know you are not doing well at pronouncing something when everyone repeats your words back to you. Each driver pointed me to a different bus, so then I would go and ask that driver. There would be another pause, a confused expression, and then the village name repeated back to me. At which the driver would point somewhere else, and I would repeat the entire process.

  I had done two full laps of the matatu station and was about to give up hope, when another bus pulled in. I waited for the zillions of passengers, including goats and chickens, to shuffle out and then I went and said the village name to the driver. He tilted his head back and let out a little sigh, which in Uganda seemed to be a common way of saying yes. I said the village name again and, once more, his head went back into the air.

  Well, all right then. I clambered into the matatu. Let’s see where I end up.

  Being spontaneous felt significantly less exciting when I had to wait over an hour for the bus to fill with enough passengers to satisfy the driver. But finally we were on our way. Once more, being the novelty white girl, everyone wanted to talk to me. No-one cared that my Lusoga was so basic— they were happy that I could say a few words. One young man spoke English and it was as though we were playing the game Twenty Questions. He wanted to know everything. Where was I from? Where in Europe was Australia? Did we all have robots? Were the people in Greenland actually green? His questions were fascinating and it made me wonder what I would have asked if there were a Ugandan on my bus in Australia. But then I thought that I would never have met anyone on the bus in Australia, because I would have purposely sat on my own, deliberately looked out the window, and been listening to my iPod. It bothered me to think that when I returned home I would probably still act in a similar way, because everyone would look at me like I was crazy if I engaged in a conversation with a stranger.