We Are One Village

by Nikki Lovell

  My tears started when the Young Women’s Group from the secondary school began singing ‘AIDS is a Killer Disease’ . . . What was it with this song?! Everyone loved it. The girls had such high-pitched voices that, if I hadn’t already known the words off by heart, I would have had no idea what they were singing.

  After the formalities and eating were over, it was time to say our farewells. I was a blubbering mess saying goodbye to Andrew and Moses. They asked me not to cry, but I couldn’t help it.

  Back at home we placed the few belongings we had retained into the bags we had first come with. My shiny-red, newly-purchased backpack had been basically unused while I had been here—it hadn’t really been needed. I put my few clothes back into its capacious interior, along with all my diaries, a novel, my camera and the head torch that I had used every evening.

  We pulled our pictures down off the walls. I held the photo of Josh for a moment, and smiled. There were reasons to go back to Australia. Mum, Dad and Josh had just recently got back there after their stint in Ireland. They were building a new house on Hindmarsh Island and in the meantime living in a small cottage in Goolwa, about an hour and a half out of Adelaide. My older brother Sam was living in a sharehouse in Adelaide. I had no idea where I would live on my return, but that still felt a world away.

  After we packed up our things, we swept the house. It didn’t take long. We had given away all our basins and pots, and the charcoal stove—only our four beds remained. It was back to looking like a house rather than a home. I couldn’t handle seeing it this way, and escaped outside.

  Jane and I played with the kids. At first it was mainly just some of the kids from across the road—Kisashi, Victoria and Mirimu. But as we held hands and jumped around in a circle singing in Lusoga, more kids came and joined in. I pulled off my brown sandals and let my feet twist and turn in the dirt. We raced around in a circle, each of us erupting into giggles as we bounced up and down.

  In all the time I had been here, I still hadn’t been able to work out if the words to the song actually made sense or were only a nonsense nursery rhyme. But either way, it didn’t matter. I knew when I was supposed to bob up and down, and when I needed to run into the middle of the circle and throw my hands in the air.

  There were lots of us playing now, maybe fifteen kids or so. I knew most of them by the sound of their laughter rather than their names. However, Dawoodee would not play. He watched from the nearby tree. He was probably only ten years old, but it was obvious that he felt too old for this game. I remembered how cool and grown up some of the boys had tried to act when I was in primary school. There were boys in Year Six smoking cigarettes and using the lingo of an 18-year-old. I had always wanted to tell them that being a kid was actually a lot of fun and that they were missing out. Of course, I never actually said that or I would have spent the rest of my schooling being bullied.

  I tried to pull myself out of the group for a moment. Mirimu looked up at me and I had to uncurl her fingers that were clinging onto mine. I promised her that I would come back in a minute.

  Dawoodee had his ball by his feet, and I went over and gestured for him to kick it. We kicked the ball back and forth. As the other kids saw what was happening, the singing stopped and instead a soccer game kicked off. None of us could keep up with Dawoodee, but we had a lot of fun trying.

  We played until it was dark, and one by one the kids retreated back to their houses. Jane and I then returned to our room. Lillian and Wemusa were in their beds. I lay down. It was pitch black and my head torch was already packed. I rummaged through my bag, my hands feeling for its distinctive shape, and then I found it. I also unpacked my current diary.

  Jane found her torch too and we lay, as we had done most nights, hidden under our nets, lights on and diaries out. I was too overwhelmed to write and instead lay on my back, pulling the strap of the torch from around my head and holding it in my hands. I shone the light over every detail of the room. There were so many cracks in the cement—lines that broke off into more lines. I felt absorbed by every detail—I wanted to lock it all away into my memory. It seemed that I needed to know, to be able to remember, every single thing, so that this place would always feel as real as it was to me right at this moment.

  When Jane’s light flickered off, and she wished me goodnight for the final time, I switched my own light off too. I lay awake. I didn’t even know what I was thinking. I just knew how I felt, and I felt devastatingly sad.

  Debrief was at a campsite next to the Nile river. It was a beautiful spot. When we arrived though, the place was swarming with people, certainly a lot more than had volunteered on our program. Jane, Wemusa, Lillian and I entered the chaos to discover that the debrief was also for a much larger group of Ugandan SPW volunteers who had all just done a one-month placement. I was pretty disappointed. I felt a need to discuss and reflect on all the experiences of the past eight months, but it was immediately clear that wasn’t going to happen.

  There was an area with tables and couches where we all ate dinner. It was a similar set-up to when we had been on training. Luke was with a new girl now. Apparently she was a UK volunteer from another program. It felt very strange watching him interact with her in the same way as he had done with me. It was also just peculiar that he had brought her here. Who brings a date to debrief?

  Luke and his girlfriend disappeared after dinner. Out of sight, out of mind, I thought, and now, after everything, out of my life. I was disappointed but relieved to see him go. He probably thought I was just some fling—a foolish girl whom he had so easily strung along. But I supposed that, in a way, I had used him too—to help me let go of Jack. Or perhaps it was just easier for me to tell myself that was the only significance he had played in my life. But whatever he had or hadn’t meant to me, now he was gone. Gone for good.

  Jane too was leaving. She had to go to Uganda’s international airport at Entebbe. She was flying to Kenya to meet up with her family for a holiday before returning to cold England. Jane and I said goodbye quite casually. We were probably too exhausted from our earlier farewells to be overly emotional now. And of course we planned to stay in contact—we still had the scholarship scheme tying us together.

  Lindy had decided that she was sick of the debrief, so she headed for Kampala. This wasn’t how I had expected this journey to end. It was all very anti-climactic. I went to bed early, feeling somewhat abandoned. The place was overrun with people I didn’t know. This had been the last opportunity for all of us volunteers, both Ugandan and international, to be together, and now that moment was lost. It was also strange being able to reach my arms out of my bed into open space; I was so used to Jane being only inches away.

  After breakfast in the morning, Irene asked to speak to me. Oh god. I had had little to do with Irene since our training, but I still felt uneasy around her. I followed her outside, where I spotted two wooden chairs facing each other. Irene sat in one and I sat opposite her. Then Paul appeared and stood behind her. What was this all about?

  Irene didn’t bother trying to make me feel comfortable; she seemed to crave power. She immediately questioned me about Lillian and Wemusa. She wanted to know how much time they had actually spent on placement. She wanted to know about how the SPW funds had been spent. She suggested to me that perhaps some of our funds had been misused.

  Jane wasn’t here now for me to turn to for answers, for an understanding of the right thing to say. I wondered what would happen if I told the truth—if I said Lillian was hardly around and if I admitted that Wemusa had stolen 100 000 shillings. Would they just talk to Lillian and Wemusa about it? That was what I imagined would happen in a similar scenario in Australia. But I didn’t really know how things would be handled here. I especially didn’t know how Irene would respond. She was such an odd character. I suspected that she actually had a really low self-esteem to be as controlling as she was, but that made her completely unpredictable.

  I shuffled in my seat for a moment and then I said that Lillian so
metimes went away on weekends, but that she was always around for our classes. I said that Wemusa and I didn’t get along, but that he had always been on placement. I said that we spent all our SPW funding as planned and beamed a little when I talked about the Community Outreach Program.

  I lied. I wasn’t really sure why I was lying. I didn’t even like Wemusa, but I thought, We are all who we are for a reason. I knew Wemusa’s dad had multiple wives and that Wemusa had a zillion siblings, but beyond that I didn’t really know anything about him. Maybe if I did know more, there would be an explanation for his behaviour. It wasn’t that I thought anything and everything was excusable. More to the point, I didn’t know what I thought.

  After I had finished my cosmetic little gloss, Irene gave a sly smile and announced that they already knew Lillian had another job and that Wemusa had taken the project money. What? Irene went on to tell me that they had forgiven Lillian and that Wemusa was going to pay the money back to the organisation in time.

  I sat there stunned. She had interrogated me for nothing more than her own pleasure. She really did have issues. I had had enough. I stood up and walked away. It was a mystery to me how they knew everything. Then again, I did not have a very good poker face.

  I no longer felt any need to stay at the debrief, and so I decided to leave. I walked straight to the dorm room I was in and grabbed my red pack. I said goodbye to Lillian, giving her a hug and promising to stay in touch. My farewell to Wemusa was a lot briefer—I was glad there was no forced display of emotion; neither of us mentioned the money situation.

  I walked out of the campsite and onto the nearby road. Buda-buda men quickly encircled me and, after I had bartered for the best price, I clambered onto the back of a bike. I had my large backpack on and so I had to put my hands on the buda-buda man’s waist to hold my balance.

  This was it. I was going back to Kampala. Back to the airport in Entebbe. Back to Australia.

  Me teaching at Namwendwa Primary School—even here the kids were taller than me. My expression gives away how nervous I was. Photo courtesy of Jane Barett

  The handwashing facilities that we made for the primary school. This came about after I had been teaching hygiene and the kids said they had nowhere to wash their hands. One Village collection

  Victoria and Sara. They attached groundnuts to their ears to have earrings like mine. Cutest kids ever. One Village collection

  My friend Dawoodee with younger brother Michael. One Village collection

  Dawoodee. One Village collection

  The Community Health Day that we hosted in Namwendwa. One Village collection

  Family and friendship are one and the same in Namwendwa. Photo courtesy of Lisa Duffy

  A room we found in Namwendwa Primary School and decided to turn into a library (the room, left side). One Village collection

  The room, right side. One Village collection

  In Jane’s and my room sewing ribbon borders onto the wall displays that we made for the library. Photo courtesy of Jane Barett

  Namwendwa Primary School library completed (left side). A little hard work can make a really big difference! One Village collection

  Namwendwa Primary School library completed (right side). From sacks of maize to AMAZING! One Village collection

  The first eight scholarship girls (2005) in the scheme that Jane and I founded. One Village collection

  Teaching Andrew how to use a digital camera (2007). One Village collection

  The Infant School destroyed by termites (2006). A sad day. One Village collection

  The Infant School new building (2007) and a lot of very happy kids. One Village collection

  Local boys sit among the maize. In Namwendwa maize is a staple food and is roasted, boiled, used to make porridge and also porcho (or as I prefer to call it, flavourless glug). One Village collection

  The community celebrates the work of One Village (2007). A beautiful moment. One Village collection

  11

  The Phone Call

  ADELAIDE, AUSTRALIA, September 2005–June 2006

  I walked into the arrivals hall at Adelaide airport, following the other passengers like a lemming. My mind was completely silent but I didn’t feel like I had reached enlightenment. I felt empty.

  And then, there they were—Mum, Dad and Josh. Dad recognised me first and had to point me out to Mum. She had been too busy looking out for the person with the red backpack, forgetting that I hadn’t collected my luggage yet. I had flown home via Sydney, so this final leg of my journey had only been a domestic flight.

  I walked over to them smiling, and gave Mum the first hug. She had sent me at least one letter every month while I had been away, including posting me word puzzles and sudokus, even though she knew I didn’t like anything with numbers. She had also sent me parcels with marshmallows to roast and many other goodies too. She was the most thoughtful person I knew. She cried when we hugged; she was so excited to see me. I could feel her warmth.

  Next I hugged Dad. We had only spoken once while I was away, which was when I rang to ask how many laxatives I could take without doing damage. The box had said two; Dad said as many as it took to do the job. It came in handy having a doctor for a dad and I ended up taking twelve. I had been expecting something pretty grand to follow, and was disappointed when I produced nothing more than a pellet. But at least it was something.

  It was a little awkward hugging Dad. I had spent my last year of school resenting him for leaving our family for his Antarctic adventure. It was a time when I had felt we really needed him around, but he hadn’t been. I had told him this many times and he had become defensive, arguing that he was working there. This was true, but there were plenty of jobs in Adelaide. While I had been away I had forgiven him for leaving, as I felt that there are things that as individuals we just need to do. For me, it was going to Uganda; for Dad, perhaps it was Antarctica. This was a thought that I should have vocalised, but I never did.

  When Dad stopped patting my back, I realised the hug was over and I turned to Josh. He was happy to have me back and was singing his version of ‘We Are Family’, ‘I’ve got my sister with me . . .’ I laughed, and took his hand. I asked him to help me get my bag.

  My older brother, Sam, hadn’t come to the airport. He had to work that day.

  It was all a bit surreal. I looked at the moving ground beside me—a travelator—totally ridiculous. But, of course, Josh wanted us to run along it, and to race Mum and Dad as they walked with only their legs to carry them. I let Josh pull me onto it, jumping off my moral high-horse and chasing my little brother.

  I collected my red pack and mocked Mum by asking her if I was now more recognisable. Josh and I followed her and Dad out to the car. It was a typical winter’s afternoon, wet and cold. Mum, Dad and Josh were all in jeans and jumpers. I was wearing a red skirt that I had had tailor-made in Jinja from some material I had found in Kamuli, and a black tank top. In other words, I was freezing. The ludicrous thing was that I had actually put a lot of thought into my airport outfit. I had wanted to wear something flattering, but which also reflected Africa and my time away. What a tourist! I hadn’t even considered the weather. My stupidity had plummeted to a whole new nadir.

  We raced to the car. I lagged behind, blaming my pack for weighing me down. Josh yelled at the sky for being naughty—he didn’t appreciate getting wet.

  It was an hour and a half’s drive to their cottage in Goolwa. Dad drove, Mum sat in the front, Josh and I in the back, with my bag in the boot. I was a little envious of my bag, because I felt like hiding away. I couldn’t be bothered with small talk. Mum was firing me with questions, all in the name of motherly love; but I was just not in the zone. Yes, the flights were good. No, they weren’t too long (I was lying now, but it was only a white lie). Yes, they had served me vegetarian food . . .

  I gazed out the window. Through the rain I watched a slideshow of buildings. I wasn’t really here. I wasn’t sure where I was but it wasn’t here, in this car
with the heating, my brother singing, and my mum twisting in her seat to give me concerned looks.

  As we drew nearer to their cottage, Josh’s hunger was growing and he asked at least ten times what was for dinner. Dad suggested that we get a pizza. Suddenly I was in the moment and my mouth was salivating a little. Perhaps a lot. It was the cheese in particular that I was craving. Without electricity in Namwendwa, refrigeration had been impossible to come by, which meant that I had had few dairy products while away. Mmmmm, cheese.

  We stopped for pizza. Fortunately it had stopped raining, and I stood by the open boot, rummaging through my bag for a jumper. Then I remembered that I had given almost all my clothes away but I had kept my lightweight rain jacket, so I put that on.

  The pizza place was primarily a takeaway joint but had a few tables with chairs around them, so we took a seat. Mum did the ordering, and Josh kept us entertained while we waited. Once the pizza arrived, we wasted no time in diving in. The cheese was good, the mushrooms and olives were also a treat, and I didn’t even used to like olives.

  After annihilating the pizza in about five minutes, we were on the road again. It was dark when we arrived at the cottage. I followed my family into their temporary home. The cottage had two bedrooms, a small lounge room, a tiny kitchen and a laundry. Josh’s room had bunk beds. Josh had always chosen to sleep on the bottom one when we’d been like this before, and so I clambered up onto the top bunk. It was nice to have Josh so close, but at the same time I immediately thought that there was not room for me in this place. That thought was a little ironical, given the shoebox home that I had shared in Uganda. I supposed that whether I liked it or not, I had in-built expectations of how things should be here.