by Nikki Lovell
We needed to provide transport costs so that all the NGOs could attend. We also needed to pay the counsellors and doctors. On top of this, we needed to be able to provide everyone who attended with a free lunch as an incentive for them to put off working their land for the day. This meant that we needed to employ a cook, buy a whole lot of rice and beans, and thousands of small plastic bags in which the lunch would be served, as we had no hope of finding that many plates or bowls.
The budget for the program was $600, but SPW would only give us $150. They wouldn’t have even given us that if they had known our last funds had gone walkabout with Wemusa. I had written home to everyone and every club that I could possibly think of, in the hope of getting the funds we needed donated.
Jane and I were sitting out the front of our house on the woven mat making our plans when we noticed that a lot of secondary school students were passing us, especially girls. It was too early for them to have finished all their lessons. We greeted the girls as they passed and asked why they were on their way home already. The girls said that they had been sent home because they had not paid the school fees for the new term.
Poverty means lack of choice, I thought. These girls did not have a choice about whether they received an education. Their parents didn’t have a choice about how they spent their days—they either farmed their land or they went hungry. Life here was based around survival. People didn’t even get to make simple choices like what to eat or what to wear, because what was available was so limited.
Something that I had learnt since being in this village was that no matter who you are one choice we always have is how we react to things. People here made the most of everything they had. I really admired that.
I found myself crying again. I only had three weeks of my placement left, three weeks left in Namwendwa. I had so much respect and love for this place and these amazing people. I tried to think about my experience of family life in Australia—hot showers, doona covers, fresh vegetables, muesli, chocolate . . . But as I sat out on the woven mat, with Jane beside me, and the children across the road playing, and the sun smiling down on us, all I really thought was: I’m home. Right here, I’m home.
10
The Hardest Thing
NAMWENDWA, UGANDA—ADELAIDE, AUSTRALIA, August 2005
I was lying in Jinja backpackers, bored out of my brains. Jane’s parents had arrived in Uganda and were visiting Namwendwa today. I didn’t want to be there for it. I was afraid that if I were there I would spend the whole time feeling jealous and wishing my parents could visit too.
So here I was in Jinja. It was the middle of the week, so the hostel was dead. I didn’t have anything much to do, so I spent the day eating and browsing the internet. The good news was that I had received positive responses from my emails and requests for donations from back in Australia for our planned Community Outreach Program. A Rotary Club offered to donate $400, and a Zonta club donated $200. This covered our complete budget, including providing transport for NGOs to attend and run workshops, paying counsellors and doctors to conduct HIV testing, buying rice and beans, and employing cooks for the days so we could offer everyone lunch.
I was pretty stoked. We had already received $150 from SPW but now we wouldn’t need those funds for this program. We would be able to use their money to partially cover what Wemusa had stolen. That gave us time to wait for his possible explanation before deciding whether we dobbed him in or not. If he actually came back, that was.
Today was the big day. Day One of our Community Outreach Program, which we were hosting at Namwendwa Primary School. Jane’s parents were in Kenya by now, Wemusa was yet to return and Lillian was back, but she had seriously annoyed me this morning. Jane and I had been ready at the primary school at 9 a.m., but Lillian remained in bed.
I was close to tears when we arrived at the school and found that nothing was set up. Andrew and Moses were there, but none of the other teachers were present. Nor were any of the counsellors, doctors or organisations that we had specifically requested to arrive early.
Andrew could obviously see the worry written all over my face. When I approached, he was quick to tell me that students were busy collecting benches from the classrooms. And then, as if on cue, primary students dressed in their bright pink T-shirts began carrying the wooden benches from their classrooms to the empty dirt space in front of the rooms. Students also brought benches from St Peter’s, and a semicircle of benches began to take shape. This would be where the community would sit to watch the performances by the invited organisations such as TASO (The AIDS Support Organisation).
Outside this semi-circle, wooden tables and chairs were placed in little hubs. These would be the stations for precounselling, HIV testing and post-counselling. As the young students were racing about, rearranging the chairs at Andrew’s direction, a ute rolled into the school grounds. On the back was the generator and PA system that we had hired from a store in Kamuli. At least someone had shown up on time.
The day had been scheduled to start at 10 a.m.; but by then we only had three community members present, and none of the counsellors, doctors or TASO people had yet arrived. The benches were alarmingly empty. I was running about like a headless chicken, holding my mobile phone high in the air and hoping desperately for at least a single bar of reception. During the brief moments when I had any flicker of opportunity, I quickly called each of the organisations that were supposed to have turned up an hour ago. They all laughed at my concerns and promised me that they were on their way.
‘This is Africa’ was the classic excuse, as if all the problems of the continent could forever justify being horribly late. Yes, there were endless problems in this continent and, yes, I was sure that sometimes such problems could contribute to lateness. But always? No, that was just ridiculous. And this is what I told TASO and the other organisations when at 11 a.m. they had still not shown up and I had rung them for the fourth time.
There was nothing left for us to do but sit and nervously wait, and hope that everyone would eventually show up. Slowly but surely they did. Lillian rocked up at about midday, and everyone else seemed to follow suit. People from the community seemed to appear suddenly and within a matter of minutes our audience went from a handful of people to roughly 600.
When the counsellors and doctors finally arrived, they set up immediately and began working. The community was responsive to the opportunity to be tested for HIV and there seemed to be a constant stream of people moving through the stages of counselling and having blood samples taken. It was a unique chance for them having these support organisations available, so they could make instant contact if they needed to.
Just when I was about to call TASO for the fifth time, they arrived. They entered on the back of a cattle truck and were chanting and drumming hand-held bongos. The women were wearing grass skirts that tossed wildly about as they danced to the rhythm. Instantly they got the community’s attention, and people jumped up from the wooden benches and cheered at their spectacular arrival. A grin stretched across my face, and it no longer mattered that they were three hours late.
With TASO now here, and the HIV testing well underway, the official program for the day commenced. Moses was acting as MC and he greeted everyone enthusiastically. Then he invited the children from Florence’s infants school to come forward and sing a welcoming song. Florence guided the tiny children, dressed in their smart blue uniforms, to the front of the semi-circle. They stood proudly and sang their well-rehearsed ‘You Are Welcome’ song. They then went on to sing a famous Ugandan song called ‘AIDS is a Killer Disease’. With their young, sweet innocence the children sang: ‘AIDS is a killer disease/Wherever you go, people are dying/They are mourning, they are burying, because of the killer disease.’ As the children sang, they acted out mourning (burying their heads in their hands) and then burying (making shovelling motions).
I had heard this song many times before, such as at our initial training, but it was a different experience hearing
it now. It was extremely bizarre to watch five-year-olds sing about death with the same enthusiasm that a child in Australia might sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. Of course it was only strange for Jane and myself. To everyone else, the performance was normal. The community loved it—they clapped loudly for the children, applauding their excellent singing and acting.
Next, Moses introduced Sam. As the headmaster of Namwendwa Primary, Sam was required to give an official welcoming and make an opening speech for the day’s events. Formality is always insisted upon in Uganda, but I don’t really like it. Sam did though, because it gave him an excuse to talk—and he loved the sound of his own voice.
Sam’s speech started as expected, with him enthusiastically welcoming everyone and emphasising the significance of the day and the importance of health awareness. He somehow stretched this spiel over ten minutes and, just as I thought he must be near ready to hand back the microphone, he suddenly started talking about condoms. Oh dear, where is this going?! He pointed to his genitals and then declared that African men are big. He went on to say that many feared that condoms would break if they used them, because they weren’t made for African men. Oh shit, please stop talking.
I looked frantically at Moses, who was by now standing awkwardly behind Sam while trying to encourage him to give the mic back. But Sam was not finished yet. I looked around at the community members and wondered how much they could understand as Sam was speaking in English, rather than Lusoga. What Sam did next though transcended any language barrier—he pulled a condom out of his pocket and proceeded to blow it up. The condom now looked like a penis balloon and Sam held it smugly above his head. ‘But unless you are bigger than this,’ he let out a satisfied little laugh, ‘it will fit you!’
And then he handed the mic back to Moses, and went and sat down. I certainly hadn’t anticipated that little exhibition, but I had to admit it was kind of brilliant.
Moses then got the program back on track, and all the organisations gave excellent speeches or performances. But TASO was definitely the highlight. They performed a roleplay that demonstrated how to care for someone with HIV/ AIDS; someone gave an informative talk; and someone else, who was HIV infected, provided a personal testimony. Everything was in Lusoga, so it was completely accessible to the community, and everyone seemed extremely engaged the entire time.
The official program concluded at roughly 4 p.m., by which time I was starving. Andrew had insisted that we could not serve lunch until the program was complete. He said otherwise people would simply eat and leave.
We had employed two cooks for the day and bought huge amounts of rice and beans. A middle-aged woman and man prepared the food over two large charcoal stoves. When I peered at the boiling pots, it didn’t exactly look appetising but I was so hungry. Also, compared to porcho, rice was a luxury.
There were over 600 mouths to feed but everyone lined up patiently for a plastic bag with a scoop of rice and beans. With their sweating bags, people happily returned to the benches and used their hands to indulge in the provided feast.
We hosted days two and three of the program in Namwendwa’s neighbouring communities. Given the program contained life-saving information, as well as the opportunity to be HIV tested, we wanted to reach as many people as possible. Days two and three turned out to be very similar to the first day of the program, except that I wasn’t so stressed. When people were two hours late, I expected it and it was no longer a problem. Something that really impressed me, however, was that the teachers from Namwendwa Primary School helped us set up and run the program, even when it was in a different area. I realised that the value of community here extended beyond any village parameters. Life was just better when everyone worked together.
When Wemusa returned home he had a new watch. Hmm, I wonder how he got the money for that, I thought sarcastically. He also returned with malaria. Since coming back, he hadn’t moved from his bed, but that wasn’t exactly anything different for him. Perhaps I should have felt sorry for him, but you become a bit immune to words like ‘malaria’ when everyone around you seems to have it all the time. It would be like someone in Australia telling me they had a cold. Except, obviously, malaria is life-threatening. It was astounding how easy it was to forget that.
I couldn’t help thinking that it was quite convenient for Wemusa to have malaria—it would make Jane and I seem horrible if we now questioned him about the money. Perhaps I was nasty anyway for doubting his honesty and querying whether he had malaria at all, but history showed I had every good reason to be wary of him.
Jane and I did not have much time left in the village by now. As we started to get organised to leave Namwendwa, we decided that we wanted to set up something ongoing to support the community. We asked the teachers and other people what they thought might be a good idea. Everyone wanted to empower females and felt that the most effective way to do this was through education. Male enrolment consistently outnumbered female enrolment at the secondary school. The teachers suggested that we set up a sponsorship program with acceptance criteria based on academic merit, rather than a needs basis. Everyone was in equal need.
Jane and I decided to set up a scholarship program as the teachers and community had recommended. We would sponsor eight girls from Namwendwa Primary School to attend St Peter’s Secondary School. These were the two schools at which we had taught, and where we had the connections. The girls would be selected based on their exam results in their final year of primary school. Jane would cover the cost of four of the scholarships, and I would also fund four. We figured that even if no-one at home supported us we would be able to afford this amount.
The girls were selected while we were there, and we gave them letters of congratulations and took their photographs. The girls were so excited! We arranged to transfer funds for each year of their education through an organisation in Kamuli. It felt good to be able to offer them and the community something special. The scholarship program would hopefully not only provide the opportunity of education for the selected girls, but also help females generally to feel recognised and empowered in the general community.
Soon we had only one week left in Namwendwa and so Jane and I decided to work out which of our possessions we would be leaving behind—clothes, stationery, cooking items and so on. We organised these into individual piles and gave them to each of the families that we were closest with. I felt a little bit funny choosing people to give my belongings to, but I knew it would have felt weirder to return home with these things simply because I was afraid of being unfair.
The families were very grateful for these gifts and all insisted on giving us something in return. We received so many groundnuts! The kids had a ball dressing up in our old clothes and parading them back and forth. I gave one of my skirts to Kisashi—now she had an outfit to match her Aussie accent. I gave my nicest skirt and top to Kigali. Her mother put the clothes on her and she was gentle and kind. It was heartwarming to see her acting in such a loving and caring way toward her daughter. Kigali was now being treated like the special, beautiful girl she was. Maybe if people in the community started to see this shift in Kigali’s family, it would start a ripple effect. I truly hoped so.
I wished that I had been able to organise another Community Outreach Program based on raising awareness about what it means to have an intellectual or physical disability and having support organisations available. But the days had flown by like pretty birds and disappeared into the blue sky. And I was left feeling like I never had enough time.
After visiting the families, Jane and I walked up to Florence’s infants school. Florence was so excited to see us, but her happiness turned to concern when she realised we were there to say goodbye. I gave Florence a big hug, and then gave her my mobile phone. Given there was now a phone tower right next to her house, it felt only right for Florence to be able to make use of it. It also meant that we would always be able to stay in touch. Florence was so excited by the gift that she was jumping up and down whil
e clapping her hands. Jane and I each hugged her again, and then turned back down the dirt path to return home.
It was heartwarming visiting each family, playing with the kids and especially saying goodbye to Florence. But afterwards the tears flowed. How was I ever going to leave?
Wemusa had by now recovered from malaria and was being suspiciously nice. He was obviously trying to win us over, in the hope that we wouldn’t tell SPW he had stolen our project money and bought a watch. I wanted to tell SPW. Wemusa had no reason for stealing the money, and he had been inconsiderate and selfish for the past seven months. (With the exception of the week leading up to his birthday. What a coincidence! Not.)
Jane was unsure about saying anything to SPW. She raised the point that it wouldn’t actually achieve or change anything if we did. Sometimes it was so hard, even impossible, to know what was the right thing to do. But before we knew it our very last day in Namwendwa arrived. The next morning at 6 a.m. a matatu would pick us up from our home and take us to Jinja, where we would meet up with all the other SPW volunteers for a debrief. Countless thoughts and feelings were racing through me that day—and there was plenty of tears. This place had become my home. These people had become my family and friends. And, unlike when I left Australia, when or if I would ever return to this magical country was uncertain.
Both the primary and secondary schools put on separate parties for us, each involving a massive lunch and a little concert in our honour. It was overwhelming having so many special people in the same space, and the rarity of Lillian and Wemusa both being around made it all the more wonderful. Despite my mixed feelings toward Wemusa, he was part of my family here too. He and Lillian would also leave Namwendwa tomorrow, but of course it would only ever be a bus ride away for them. For Jane and me leaving was a lot more emotional.