by Nikki Lovell
Once in Kamuli, Jane and I headed straight to the medical clinic. As we were walking, Jane switched on her phone and almost immediately it started ringing. She answered it and was grinning as she talked. I tried to play detective and work out who the mystery caller was. I assumed it was another SPW volunteer because Jane talked as if the caller knew both this area and me. I guessed it was Lindy as she had been Jane’s closest friend during our training.
Suddenly my detective work was interrupted as Jane asked if I wanted to go to Jinja for the day and go to the clinic there instead. Lindy and a few of the other volunteers didn’t have to teach this afternoon or Friday so they had headed to Jinja and wanted Jane and me to come too. So it WAS Lindy calling, I mused to myself.
I said I was happy to go although it would have to be just a day trip because, unlike the other volunteers, we did have to teach tomorrow. It also meant that we would spend half the day on buses, but Jane and I were so excited by the spontaneity of our decision that we weren’t really thinking about the logistics.
We turned back toward the matatu station, skipped along the dirt road and then stepped back onto another bus. There were no bobbing-headed babies this time, but a young Ugandan man did declare his love for me and ask whether I was married. I told him that I had a handsome husband and seven children. If I was going to lie, I figured that I might as well make it an interesting one. He laughed at my response, and then asked if I would marry him. Now it was my turn to laugh.
It took half an hour for the bus to fill and then just under two hours to drive to Jinja. Once we arrived, I was keen to get my leg checked out straightaway. Neither Jane nor I had any clue where the medical clinic was, but buda-buda men were calling out to us from all directions: ‘You come and I take you.’ It really did make life easy when you could travel around on the back of a bike.
Jane didn’t like the motorbikes; she said they were dangerous, which was true. I liked to think I was young, wild, free and totally invincible, so I thrived on going as fast as possible and didn’t particularly like wearing helmets. But I did like being diplomatic, so we agreed for two men on push bikes to take us to the clinic. Admittedly, it was quite peaceful sitting on the back of the push bike but I felt terrible for the man having to pedal along, with his weight and mine.
The Jinja Medical Clinic was a simple building. The reception area consisted of a small room with a woman sitting behind a tiny wooden table, and three wooden chairs for waiting patients. Only the middle chair was occupied, by an elderly woman wearing a lime-green gomesi. She had a large lump protruding from the side of her neck. The thing was bigger than a golf ball and looked seriously uncomfortable. I had to keep reminding myself to stop staring.
Jane and I approached the woman behind the desk and I asked her if I could see a doctor. The woman gave me a blank expression so I took a step back and pointed to my enlarged leg. The woman peered over her desk, glanced briefly at my badly swollen limb, and then pointed to the chairs.
Jane and I took a seat either side of the woman with the lump on her neck. As the three of us sat silently, I thought how bizarre it was that we were the only patients waiting. It’s like when you go out to a restaurant—you don’t want to go somewhere that is so busy that you can’t hear yourself think, but you also don’t want to go somewhere that is dead, because what does that say about the food . . .
As I began to wonder what other clinics there might be in Jinja, a man in a white coat appeared. He was Ugandan and quite young for a doctor, early thirties maybe. He gestured for Jane and me to follow him out of the reception and into his office next door. We left the other woman still waiting. She really should have been called first, I thought. I hated white privilege.
The doctor’s office was as basic as the reception room, consisting only of yet another wooden table and a few chairs. He asked Jane and me to sit and then asked what was wrong. I showed him my leg and explained about the bug. The young doctor made a loud ‘hmmm’ sound, as though he was going to say something profound. But instead he shook his head and said he didn’t know what the bug was or why my leg was inflated.
I sat dumbfounded. Is this really a medical clinic? And is this really a doctor? I wasn’t convinced.
Jane pulled out my African health book and began flipping through the pages about insect bites, reading aloud the names of the different creatures, as if it might spur an epiphany from this supposed doctor. But the man just continued to shake his head.
After Jane had read out almost every possibility from my health book, she insisted the doctor at least do some blood tests. He moaned, but then agreed. He popped out of the room, returning a few moments later with needles in his hand. I looked in the other direction as he stepped toward my arm. And then in went the needle. Ouch. But suddenly the needle was out. I sighed in relief and then . . . jab, the needle went in again. What?
I turned my head to face this man and asked him what he was doing. He told me that my veins were too small and hard to find, and then he stabbed me for the third time. Definitely not a doctor, I concluded.
Fortunately, with the third jab, he was able to draw blood successfully. But then he announced that the results would not be ready until the next day. So much for getting back to Namwendwa . . . So Jane and I made the impulsive decision to spend the night in Jinja. We didn’t really have a choice. In the morning we would get my results, and then hopefully we would get back to the village in time to teach in the afternoon.
As we left the clinic, I couldn’t work out what was worse—my magnified leg or my weak skewered arm. But whatever, I followed Jane to the backpackers hostel, which was conveniently only a ten-minute walk away.
As Jane checked us in, I raced straight to the toilet. It was a normal flushing toilet but it now felt a little strange to simply sit down, as opposed to squatting. As nice as it was not to be surrounded by flies, cockroaches or snakes, when I flushed the toilet it felt like an immense waste of water. That would be two trips to the borehole, I thought to myself.
As I was washing my hands, I looked up and was confronted with myself—literally. I didn’t have a mirror in the village and so this was the first time I had seen my reflection in months. My face was rounder. I sighed—Sam’s prediction was proving true and I was putting on weight. I wasn’t quite at the sumo wrestler stage yet, but I certainly wasn’t thin anymore either. It was seriously annoying to be gaining weight from food I didn’t even enjoy—it was all so heavy and bland. If I was going to become fat, I felt it should have been from chocolate and ice cream, not porcho and rice and matooke. Gah.
I forced myself to stop the internal whining and went to find Jane. I popped my head into a dorm room, but she wasn’t there. Then I heard voices from the main room.
The backpackers was a pretty cool spot to hang out; in the main room it had a bar, pool table, stereo and couches. I wandered in and found not only Jane and Lindy but also many of the other volunteers, Luke included. Shit, I thought. So this is how our paths cross next—when my leg looks like a tree stump and I’ve just realised that I’m a fatty. Deep breaths, act cool, I told myself and tried to ignore him. He was also apparently ignoring me. I wondered what Lindy and the others must have been thinking. The last time we had all been together, Luke and I had been best friends, but now we were acting like strangers.
I was making a considerable effort to seem happy when talking to the other girls and I was making a joke of my mega leg, when a good-looking guy asked if I wanted to play pool with him. I was pleasantly surprised that anyone would even talk to me while I looked so repulsive, and said that I would love to play.
As it turned out, he was very friendly, a volunteer on another program. As we chatted and played pool, I couldn’t help but sneak glances at Luke. He looked as uncomfortable as I had felt moments earlier. He’s jealous, I smiled to myself.
That night in bed, it dawned on me that everything with Luke had forced me to seriously analyse my relationship with Jack. I had realised that I had really onl
y been with Jack because I felt a need to be in a relationship. Now it seemed obvious that I hadn’t changed when I came to Uganda—I simply shifted from Jack fulfilling that need to Luke.
Luke had ultimately rejected me, but tonight made me understand that I could find someone else to fill that need if I wanted to. However, finally realising that I did actually have a choice about whether I was in a relationship, suddenly made me feel very happy to be on my own. That was what I actually wanted, and it’s what I had wanted all along—I just had to know that I had a choice.
In the morning, Jane and I returned to the medical clinic. The blood tests had not shown anything and so the doctor decided to start me on antibiotics. He also gave me an injection in my hand, who knows what for.
Before returning to Namwendwa, we went to a shop connected to the internet. I emailed various people to canvass the possibility of the Heart Foundation donating some skipping ropes for the schools in Namwendwa. Jane wrote to her family and friends to see if anyone would donate some money for us to buy new books for the library that we were setting up in the primary school.
Next we popped into the SPW office to see if we had received any post. Irene and I were both on our best behaviour and made polite small talk. I was excited to have a parcel from Mum. I also had eight letters from Jack. He had written all of them before we had broken up and they were all so loving and kind, but I felt detached reading his words. There was no doubt in my mind that I had made the right decision in ending things, but I knew I had treated Jack terribly. It would take me a long time to forgive myself for that.
My leg soon deflated back to a normal size and life in the village was going well. We bought tins of paint and brushes from one of the little hardware shops in Kamuli, and completed the first coat of white for the inside of the library. Nowhere else in Namwendwa was painted. Houses and buildings were either mud-brick or grey from being plastered. Making things look aesthetically pleasing wasn’t exactly a priority for people in the community, so at first I wondered whether it was a poor use of funds to paint the inside of the room. But when I talked to Andrew and Moses about it, they thought that painting was a simple way to make the room special. As we were painting, I realised how true this was.
The teachers really enjoyed helping to paint. It was a new experience for them, and it was magical to see the room being transformed with every brush stroke. I noticed how, if people had a question or comment, these were always directed to Jane rather than me. I told myself that it was because she was older, but it was still irritating. Moses continued to be particularly enthusiastic about the project, and was so kind and helpful. When we completed the first coat of paint, which didn’t take long, he smiled and said, ‘Many hands make light work.’
I loved this philosophy of working together and the cooperative spirit it inspired. I really noticed how the sense of community was valued here. It made me think about how, back in Australia, I had often heard it said that poor people seem to be happy. It felt like this comment was made as a justification for allowing people to continue to be disadvantaged, rather than empowering them.
The problem with saying that poor people seem happy is that it implies that people are happy because they are poor, which is a little ridiculous, I thought. It would be a mistake to think that people who are poor are not aware of their situation and would not wish for better. Which is obvious really—who would be happy to be in a situation where they cannot afford treatment when their child is sick? And yet, people did seem happier here. It appeared to me that the difference with people here, as opposed to people I knew in Australia, was their values. People here valued their health, their family, their friendships, their community and God. My own values in Australia hadn’t included any of these things. My checklist for happiness had revolved around good grades, having a cute boyfriend, being fit and skinny. It felt like these were the things that were generally valued in our society. Even the cartoon movies that I had watched as a child involved the vulnerable girl going from rags to riches, while being swept off her feet by the handsome prince.
When I was in Year 12, I was achieving all the things that society applauds—I was School Captain, I was academically soaring, I had a boyfriend who hid flowers in my school locker, I had a reasonable part-time job . . . life should have been perfect. But instead I was the saddest and most confused that I had ever been. My instinct was nagging at me, at first whispering and then shouting. It told me that there were no clear-cut criteria for happiness. And what I perceived society to consider the good life might not in fact be the good life for me. At school, I was happiest when I was helping other people, my community.
That was the truth, and perhaps an important explanation for how I had ended up in Uganda. For me the fairytale was in losing the prince, standing strong on my own two feet and living simply. My life here in Uganda was based purely on the values of family, friendship and community. And right now, in this moment, I was the happiest I had ever been.
It was strange how I had become so used to life in Namwendwa that I almost stopped noticing things that a few months earlier would have been obvious. This happened to me one afternoon when teaching basic sanitation in the primary school. I had been talking about the importance of washing your hands after going to the latrine, when one of the students raised his hand and pointed out that they had nowhere to wash their hands at the primary school. I felt awful and embarrassed when I realised he was right. There was no running water in Namwendwa and the nearest borehole to the primary school was kilometres away. While water was collected for cooking and drinking, it was not made accessible to the students.
The latrines the students used were extremely dirty, probably in a worse state than the community latrine near my house. Add to this that everyone in the community ate with their hands, so having clean hands was essential—and yet was not even a possibility for the kids with the current set-up.
Jane and I spoke to Andrew and Moses about this and together we planned how we could create some basic hand-washing facilities. The four of us went to Kamuli, where we were able to buy large green tins and some taps. A local labourer was able to attach the taps to the tins for us. Andrew and Moses then used sticks to construct stands for the tins. It was an extremely simple design—each tin’s lid could easily be lifted so the tin could be filled with water every morning. Then the kids could just turn on the tap. Andrew and Moses even drew up a roster so that different kids would collect the water each day.
When I saw the students washing their hands, it was amazing. Something so simple might prevent the kids from getting sick. It was also an incredible feeling—the kids themselves had identified that having nowhere to wash their hands was a problem and then, after brainstorming and working with the community, we had created an effective and sustainable solution. This was development at its best.
Wemusa had been strangely nice lately. He had even cooked us dinner a few times. It was still just rice, but he made it at 6 p.m. rather than at 10 p.m. and he actually made enough for all of us. By Wemusa’s standards, this was a pretty big effort.
He had also been showing appreciation when we did things for him. It was so nice to feel the tension within the house disappearing and a bond forming between us. I had seen a glimpse of this side of him when he played the warrior and killed the rat, but now he seemed to be that cheerful guy all the time. I had no idea what had brought about this sudden change, but it was bliss. Now the only thing missing was Lillian.
In fact, every day just kept getting better. One day Jane and I were walking to the trading centre when we stopped under the shade of a giant tree to have a drink. While we were standing on the side of the dusty red road, behind us an aged man sat outside his house watching us. Finally, he gestured for us to come and join him.
He was a tiny man; his skin clung to the bones of his aged body and the few teeth he had were rotten yellow. Yet he had the most friendly and welcoming smile we had ever seen. He happily chatted to us in Lusoga and we made hmmm and
ahhhhh sounds when we thought it appropriate. Finally he said a word we understood—avocado. Our grins widened and, almost in unison, we replied, ‘Nyenda avocadoes.’ (We like avocadoes.)
The rainy season had just started and so we had enjoyed a few avocadoes up to now. But before we knew what was happening, the fragile man was hobbling back into his house. His home, like most around here, was a small mud hut with open spaces for a door and windows. Jane and I looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, wondering whether we should continue on our way, when the man suddenly re-appeared. He was cradling six large perfect avocadoes.
Jane and I stared in amazement as he placed three of them in Jane’s hands and three in mine. We thanked him repeatedly and he flashed us his golden smile. It was an incredible gesture, and the sort of kindness I would remember for life. He had basically just given us, complete strangers, everything he had.
Now that I felt like I had truly found my place within the village, I no longer thought it was necessary to do things I didn’t actually believe in. In other words, I stopped going to church. Namwendwa felt deserted on Sunday mornings; Jane and I were possibly the only people not worshipping. On this particular Sunday morning we had just finished having some porridge. It was beautiful and peaceful outside and Jane was sitting on the woven mat, while I was standing closer to our house washing the morning dishes. Jane seemed strangely quiet, fixated on something. I followed her stare— across the road, lying in the dirt was a child.
I knew straightaway that this child had an intellectual disability and probably some physical disabilities too. It pained me to watch her. Not because she couldn’t walk or because she was lying there helplessly. It pained me because I had been living here for months now and this was the first time I had seen her. Every night I played with her siblings— Victoria, Mirimu, Kisashi and Dawoodee. I had spoken to her father several times about his children, but never had this child received a mention. I realised immediately that this child was not to be spoken about and not to be seen. I knew that she would be considered a shame on the family and therefore she was to be hidden away. Today, however, her family was at church and she had used her elbows to drag herself outside.