We Are One Village

by Nikki Lovell

  I raced inside and grabbed some toy cars that Jane and I sometimes used when playing with the other kids. Then Jane and I approached the girl; we sat on the dirt about 3 metres away from her. A rag-like dress hung off her dirtcovered body. She wore no underpants and the distinctive smell of urine filled the air. I was surprised to see that her breasts were large, because the rest of her body looked under-developed. She was not a child, but a young woman. She lay with her face toward the ground. Her body was unnaturally twisted and her feet, in particular, appeared small and deformed.

  Jane and I greeted her in Lusoga, but she did not look up. When a child raced past, skipping on her way home from church, we asked her if she knew the name of the young woman in front of us. The child paused for a moment, and then told us that the woman’s name was Kigali. The child then continued on her way.

  Jane and I added the name Kigali to our greeting and eventually the young woman looked up. As she did so, I was startled to see that she was clenching a stick in her mouth and it was dripping with saliva. I took a deep breath and then started playing with the little cars, pushing them back and forth, making the relevant car sounds. The stick fell to the ground as Kigali laughed. Her smile was big and beautiful.

  Jane and I moved a little closer and together we sang, ‘If you are happy and you know it, clap your hands . . .’ Once more, Kigali laughed.

  More people were now returning from church, so Jane and I retreated to our house. We watched helplessly as people walked past Kigali. Most ignored her, but some kicked her or spat on her—it was horrifying. I allowed myself to cry. At first it was just a few tears and I wiped them away with my arm. But then the tears came flooding and I raced to my bed. I had been on such a high recently, viewing everything positively, but I couldn’t do that now.

  I lay on my bed, my body curled up, facing the cement wall. Again, I found myself face-to-face with the photograph of Josh. My little brother who could light up my world with just a smile. My little brother who gave the warmest hugs imaginable. My little brother with Down syndrome.

  In that moment my two worlds—my Australian life and my Ugandan life—came crashing together. I buried my face in my hands. Every part of me was aching; my mind was a collision of thoughts. Fuck. I didn’t know how to cope with this intensity of emotions. I looked at the photo of Josh again and wondered if it could really be a coincidence that my house was opposite Kigali’s and that our paths had now crossed. While I was thinking of Josh, and missing him, in my heart I also made a promise to Kigali—I will remember you.

  I was restless trying to sleep that night and my dreams were strange. I dreamt of my dog, Chicago. She was a beautiful dog with energy and cheekiness in excess. But in my dream she was weak. Not at all like the Chicago I knew and loved. I woke at 1 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. Something’s wrong, I just knew it. By 9 a.m. I couldn’t stand the anxiety any longer, and I walked to the trading centre. During May the promised telephone tower had been built near Florence’s home and school so now I had phone reception. I desperately wanted to speak to Mum.

  I dialled her number. It was only the second time that I’d called her since being away, the other time being after I had ended things with Jack. She picked up straightaway and, from the slight tremble in her voice, I knew immediately that something really was wrong. She told me that after I left Australia Chicago had become increasingly ill. She had developed a tumour and ultimately lost all her senses. Mum told me how awful it had been to watch Chicago bumping into things and falling over. Yesterday afternoon she had been put down. Just like that, my beautiful dog was gone. I was grateful that I hadn’t seen her deteriorate, and that I had only happy memories. But I also wanted to find a way to say goodbye.

  I returned to my Namwendwa home and sat on my bed and cried. Once I had calmed down, I wrote a eulogy for ‘the crazy black beast’, as Dad had often referred to her. It seemed like the only way to deal with my feelings was by putting them on paper. I didn’t know if Chicago visiting me in my dreams meant anything of significance, and I didn’t really care. I just hoped she would visit me again.

  The next day Jane and I went to the health clinic in Namwendwa to ask the doctor-in-charge some questions about disabilities. The health clinic was located along the road between Kamuli and Namwendwa trading centre. It was a government health clinic for four villages and was terribly under-resourced. There was one doctor and four nurses for a population of over 55 000 people. Not surprisingly, there was never enough time for people to be informed, consulted or treated properly. If someone showed any symptoms of malaria, which could be anything from a fever to a headache, then they would be given treatment without even having a blood test to confirm they actually did have malaria. Treatment was given out so frequently that many people in the village suspected that the mosquitoes were now actually becoming resistant to the treatment. It was all pretty scary and concerning, but this was not the reason for our visit.

  We had a million questions for the doctor, but seeing the never-ending line of patients waiting outside, we tried to prioritise our queries. We wanted to know whether babies were diagnosed with a disability at birth; if so, was a record kept? What knowledge was there in Namwendwa about different types of disabilities, and was there any support for people with disabilities and their families?

  The doctor was helpful but understandably rushed in responding to each question. We learnt that a baby might be diagnosed with a disability at birth, but normally only if it was a visible physical disability. Sometimes a record was kept of this, but he wasn’t sure where. There was a little bit of knowledge about physical disabilities in the area. If someone could not walk, or had some other obvious physical disability, then they were called lame. There was no knowledge at all about intellectual disabilities. Most people in the community believed that to have a child with a disability was to be cursed by God. And there were no forms of support for people with disabilities.

  We left the clinic disheartened. I wondered how many kids were hidden away in houses. I thought that there was a clear difference between simply imposing my morals on others and offering more information about such matters.

  Back at our home, I grabbed the photo of Josh from my wall and took it to Kigali’s house across the road. Her father, Paddy, was out the front. I greeted him, and then I showed him the photograph of Josh. I told Paddy all about Josh—not just about his disability, but everything he was capable of, and how special he was to me. Paddy was surprised by what I said. I got the impression that he hadn’t realised that there were people with disabilities in the Western world too, and that we didn’t consider such disabilities to be God’s curse. He really listened to what I said. I didn’t mention Kigali. I didn’t need to.

  The second coat of white paint for the inside of the primary school library had now been completed. The bookcases had also been constructed. We had employed a local labourer to make two of them out of local timber and they looked amazing. He’d even varnished them. It cost $100 for the wood and the labour involved. Jane and I covered it but we told the school that the money was from SPW and told SPW that the school paid for it.

  Even with just the paint and the bookcases, the room looked unbelievable. Jane and I were hopeful that we would be able to fill the new shelves with books, and we also planned to make wall displays. I was so excited. This was definitely my favourite project.

  But even this delight and the joys of the rainy season— mangoes and avocadoes—were no longer enough to keep me smiling. It was mesmerising to sit inside the house and watch the rain pounding down outside, but it was terribly inconvenient when you actually wanted to do something. It continued to be warm, but it could literally rain all day. It was basically impossible to teach. At the primary school, the rain would flood in. The dirt ground on which the kids sat would turn to mud, and it was impossible to hear each other because the hammering of the drops hitting the tin roof was deafening. Kids would just run home.

  It was hard to go about daily t
asks as well. We normally cooked outside because the house had little ventilation, but with the rain we were now forced to use the charcoal stove inside and the house quickly filled with smoke. It was hard to see with all the smoke. Sometimes it was hard to breathe too.

  Going to the latrine was also difficult. You would have to tread slowly to get there because of the slippery mud and so, each time you went, you got saturated. But the thing that bothered me the most were the toads. They were everywhere! Giant, slimy toads. Sometimes the floor in our house was almost covered with them, and we had to keep sweeping them out! At least the rats would run away, but the toads just sat there and you constantly had to watch your step. Yuk!

  It was Wemusa’s birthday. Birthdays were not normally celebrated here, but Jane and I wanted to do something special for him. Wemusa absolutely loved music and we had bought him a Walkman from Kamuli. Our friends in the supermarket had even wrapped it for us.

  When Wemusa left for the latrine this particular morning, Jane and I grabbed his present and carefully placed it on one of the wooden chairs in the main room. Then we moved the chair so that it was blocking the entrance to his room. When he returned from the latrine, his eyes widened with disbelief and excitement. He was frozen still, staring at the wrapped box.

  Eventually Jane and I grew impatient. We made it clear that the gift was for him and encouraged him to open it. When he finally tore open the floral paper, his reaction could not have been better. He was so happy. It was the sort of happiness that shows in every part of your face and body—he was beaming.

  During the day, Lillian returned from her latest disappearance and so we had a full house. We planned to take Wemusa out to dinner at the trading centre but when it came time to leave, he couldn’t be found. Lillian said that she thought he was planning to meet us there, so we started the walk.

  Of course it rained and by the time we reached the trading centre, 2 kilometres away, we were drenched. Lillian wore a plastic bag on her head to protect her hair. She really made me laugh. It was nice to have her home, even if it was only fleetingly. Once we got to the trading centre, we still couldn’t find Wemusa but we were starving, so we decided to eat anyway. Rice and beans was the only thing on offer. God, I missed variety. I was seriously craving vegetables.

  Dessert was more exciting. My aunty, Sharon, had sent me a parcel which included a packet of Scotch Finger biscuits. They were absolutely divine—but I didn’t want to think about the effect on my waistline. I could almost imagine my whole body expanding with every bite. And yet we still managed to gobble down every biscuit, even licking up the crumbs. They really were irresistible!

  When we were finished, there were still no signs of Wemusa and outside it was rainy and dark. The thought of walking home was not at all appealing. So we ended up paying for a matatu conductor to drive us home. It felt extremely lavish to have the entire bus to ourselves, when we were normally squashed into some uncomfortable position. But we didn’t feel guilty—we enjoyed our lovely ride home.

  Back at the house, we were surprised to find Wemusa. He told us that he had had a good night, but he didn’t reveal any more details. He was a real dark horse, that boy.

  9

  How We Cope

  NAMWENDWA, UGANDA, July 2005

  I was in Jinja, sitting in my favourite internet cafe. I had come here for a day trip to check my emails and check in with SPW. The rain was bucketing down outside and the bus ride had been pretty scratchy. The matatus were manic enough when the roads were dry, but muddy roads made for a slippery ride. It didn’t really bother me though—I felt stupidly invincible.

  While my emails were downloading, I was indulging myself with a cookie. It was a peanut butter and chocolate cookie, and it was divine. I contemplated having a second cookie. When I tilted my head back I could see the jar of them sitting on the counter, luring me. I was about to give in to temptation when I realised my emails had finished downloading.

  One of them was from the mum of one of my friends. She worked in the canteen at a primary school in Adelaide and had written with the good news that the Heart Foundation was happy to donate ropes for Namwendwa, and that the school she worked for had held a casual clothes day to raise the money to post the ropes to Uganda. At first I was delighted, but as I read the email again I wanted to bang my head against the computer. I had been a complete idiot. Somehow I had managed to forget the very obvious fact that there would be postage costs; while it was kind of the school to donate this amount, it suddenly made this whole idea seem ridiculous. I could have just purchased the ropes in Kampala, the capital of Uganda, for the same cost as posting the donated ropes. That would have been more time-effective and in a minor way it would have supported the Ugandan economy too. Gah! Why didn’t I think of this earlier?

  I sighed. Really I should have asked the teachers at the schools whether they thought skipping ropes were even a good idea and, if they did, I should have asked their opinion about the best way to source them. They probably would have suggested we just buy ordinary rope from Kamuli and cut it into different sizes as required for the students.

  But it was too late now for contemplating what I should have done. The school in Australia had already posted the ropes. I wrote back and thanked my friend’s mum. Then I promised myself that the next time I had a grand idea about what was in the best interests of someone or a group of people, I would actually ask them first. I also decided this was the first and last time that I would arrange for things to be posted from Australia. I suspected that people would generally prefer donating objects as opposed to cash. However, the reality was that it was more cost-effective, time-effective, sustainable and beneficial for the local economy to buy items in the country for which they were intended.

  On my way back from Jinja, the rain finally took a break. I was hoping it would stay away until I got back to Namwendwa—I didn’t feel like a mud-sludge-water-ride of a walk home.

  By the time we got to Kamuli, the sun had come out. I bumped into Lillian there—she was on her way to her teaching job, but she had some spare time and so she invited me to her family home. I had actually forgotten that Lillian was from Kamuli; it only took a few minutes to walk to her house. I was a little bit taken aback as we entered her home. There were a few bare cement bedrooms around a central open dirt area that Lillian told me was used for cooking, washing and relaxing. With the rain, it had turned into a muddy mess.

  Obviously our living conditions in Namwendwa were even worse, but this was different. I knew that Lillian had received a scholarship to go to university; she was a qualified teacher and she had a job. Yet this was her home. It felt like Lillian had done everything in her power to improve the situation for her family, but she still struggled to be able to afford to send her younger siblings to school or get them medication if they were ill. It seemed like Lillian had tried— and was still trying absolutely everything—to support her family, but it wasn’t enough. It saddened me to think that realistically there wasn’t much else that Lillian could do.

  While we were at Lillian’s home, she continued to get ready for work. I noticed that she put talcum powder on her face and asked what she was doing. She told me that she wanted lighter skin. I laughed and told her that I wanted a tan.

  When I arrived back in Namwendwa the ground had nearly dried and it was getting late. I walked home quickly, keen to get there before it became dark. Jane was outside cooking when I arrived and to the left of our house four women were kneeling in a circle. They wore bangles around their wrists, and around their necks they had each tied a large seed, which had hair dangling from it. One of the women was smoking an old wooden pipe and they all seemed to be both chanting and squabbling at once. Witch doctors! Witch doctors were sitting out the front of our house! I stood near our door, not wanting to be intrusive, but also ensuring I had a clear view.

  I asked Jane what was going on but she was as clueless as me. She said the women had been there for over an hour. She had noticed them pushing ob
jects between each other but she hadn’t been able to work out what the objects were. I was wide-eyed watching, but Jane suggested that perhaps I shouldn’t stare quite so obviously—witch doctors were not the sort of people you wanted to upset.

  I leant over the stove and stirred the beans while keeping the women in view. But it seemed I was already too late and had missed the magic, because the women soon stood and wandered down the dirt road. When they had completely disappeared, I charged up to Andrew’s shop at the opposite end of the cement block to our house and questioned him about the women. He informed me that they had not actually been performing any magic; rather, they had been distributing the payment from their last job.

  It was all very mysterious and intriguing. I asked Andrew what sort of work they did and he informed me that their speciality was removing demons from people’s bodies, a pricey exercise. He said they also performed rituals to cure more common illnesses and that this service was more affordable. I wanted to know more. What exactly was pricey? What did these rituals consist of?

  Andrew did not know exactly—he did not like to use their services himself. It seemed very strange, but then I suppose that different forms of alternative medicine are used all around the world. However, just as I was pondering this, he went on to tell me that he had heard that some witch doctors sacrificed children to keep the spirits happy. He added that the witch doctors claimed that the spirits demanded both human blood and human organs, especially the heart. Whoa! This wasn’t just strange anymore, it was seriously concerning. I queried why the police didn’t do anything and Andrew told me that the police were scared of the evil spirits too. Shit.