by Nikki Lovell
By November I had now saved enough money for my trip and purchased a world ticket. I planned to spend six months in Uganda and then roughly six months in South America. I was so excited after buying the ticket that I went straight to Tom’s to share my good news with him. Tom’s face dropped as I told him. Obviously he had known for some time that I planned to leave the following year; but now it was more than a plan, it was real.
I had been so consumed with everything I was going towards that I had forgotten about everything I would be leaving behind. Tom said that he had been thinking about me leaving and had decided that he wanted to come away with me. He said that he couldn’t imagine a year without me. He couldn’t afford to leave in January, when my flight was booked; but if he worked full-time from now on, he could meet me in Uganda four months into my trip.
This was the first time Tom had mentioned the idea of coming with me and his suggestion at first took me aback. I guess I had just imagined doing the trip on my own, and I also felt funny about the idea of someone making choices just to be with me. Tom was pretty hurt when I stupidly voiced these thoughts.
During the week that followed I began to realise how amazing it would actually be to have him by my side. So finally I told him that I would love for him to come. It would be especially great for him to meet all the people in Namwendwa whom I constantly talked about.
The months passed quickly and, before I knew it, it was Christmas. I spent the day with my family, treasuring each moment in the knowledge that in a month’s time I would be away again. Josh was especially excited and was racing madly about the house. He was 16 now, but in many ways it seemed that he never grew any older than a child. Often this was a sad thought but, at moments like this when he was so full of joy because we were having croissants for breakfast and because he had presents under a tree, I was able to smile at his everlasting youth.
In the evening I met with Tom. I had put together a treasure chest of gifts for him, just small things that I knew he liked such as sandalwood soap. He gave me a photo album filled with photos of us. He told me to pull each photo out of the album and, when I did so, I discovered that he had written little notes on the back of each photo. ‘Memories for while we are apart’, he told me.
So far we had spent our time dreaming up the adventures we would have when overseas together, but had spoken little about the four months that we would first have apart. The photo album was a thoughtful gift, but it also made me sad. I still didn’t want to think about saying goodbye.
At the start of January 2007 One Village was officially launched. My friend Samantha and I had organised the launch party and we hosted it at Tom’s mum’s cafe. It was normally just a lunchtime cafe but she had kindly offered for us to use it for the evening. We had invited everyone from local politicians to all forms of media, all the people who had supported One Village so far, plus possible sponsors and anyone else we thought might be interested.
Most people invited showed up. Both the local paper and the state-wide paper came and took photographs and ran articles. Even the local politicians made appearances, but then told me off for not speaking until later in the evening. They had other places to be and wanted me to get my speech over with so they could leave. I was a little annoyed that they were telling me what to do and wondered if they would make such comments if I was older or if I was male. I didn’t think they were the most important people in the room and so I wanted to wait until those who had actually supported One Village were there. I told the politicians to leave if they needed to.
When I did speak I introduced the Australian One Village Committee and spoke about the people of Namwendwa and the projects we had already initiated. I thanked those who had already shared this passion, and everyone for coming on the night to celebrate everything that was to come. We served wine that had been donated and Tom played acoustic music in the background. It was a great night. Exactly what I had wanted—professional but personal, just like One Village.
When everyone left and we had finished clearing up, Tom and I put all the tables and chairs back in their normal places. Then we sat down together. I was exhausted but content, pleased that everything had gone as planned. Tom seemed quiet, almost agitated. I asked if he was okay, and he confessed that he was a little hurt that I hadn’t personally introduced him to everyone on the committee. He had heard me talk about Allan Wood and some of the others so often that he had been really looking forward to meeting them, but hadn’t had the chance. At first I felt terrible that I hadn’t thought of this, then I felt touched that it was so important to Tom to know the people that were so special to me.
When I went to bed that night, I thought again about what Tom had said and realised that it was so difficult to balance everything. Even with my family, friends and Tom being so interested in One Village, it still felt nearly impossible to find the right way to give each person the attention they needed. One Village was always my first priority. Perhaps if it were a selfish endeavour that occupied all my time, it would have been easier for those I loved to say that I wasn’t always a good friend, a good daughter, a good sister, a good girlfriend. Yes, I was spending all my time trying to help others; but at the same time, unconsciously, I knew that I had often neglected those who cared for me the most.
I felt like the luckiest person alive, but for the same reason I also felt cursed. There were people I loved on either side of the world and it seemed impossible for me to be there for everyone. It didn’t matter where I was or what I was doing, by doing one thing I was in turn always neglecting someone else. This seemed to be the catch 22 of my life.
There were moments when I felt so alive, as though I had the whole world at my feet; but then at other times it felt like the world was on my shoulders. I had become not just empathetic for the people of Namwendwa but for everyone in need, which one way or another was everyone alive. I decided that I had to focus my thoughts and concentrate only on those closest to me—my family and Tom. I had to think of development only in terms of Namwendwa. This alone was overwhelming—the consideration of anyone else or anything more was too much even to try to comprehend.
The day I left Adelaide to return to Namwendwa came soon enough. My mum, Dad, Josh, Tom and a few friends came to say goodbye to me at the airport. I was going to miss everyone to such an unbelievable degree. My only consolation was that by leaving Australia I was returning to those in Uganda whom I also considered my family and friends.
13
One Village
NAMWENDWA, UGANDA, 29 January 2007
As the plane sweeps down into Entebbe airport, I smile at the sight off the lush jungle below. It is as breathtakingly beautiful as I remember. We land, and it is strange to walk into the tin-shed airport knowing what to expect. I pass quickly through Customs, and am soon back outside in the humidity. It is only early in the morning but still taxi drivers swarm me.
I could take a local bus to Kampala and then onto Jinja, but that would take more hours and effort than I am willing to give. So taxi it is. I speak to the drivers in Lusoga and barter for the best price to get me to Jinja. Lusoga is not the local language in this area but it is similar enough for us to be able to converse. I am slightly proud to surprise the taxi drivers; they did not anticipate that this young white girl would know this place so well.
Once in a taxi, I stare outside and realise immediately that in Australia some of my memories had been romanticised. Now that poverty surrounds me, its familiarity does not ease how confronting I find it. Perhaps that’s a good thing.
Along the way, I ask the driver to pull over and I buy a SIM card from a small phone company store. SIM cards are cheap and easy to buy almost anywhere in Uganda. Inside the car I slip the SIM into my phone and text Tom to let him know that I have arrived safely.
Natalie and Lindy, friends from my first trip, are also in Uganda and are staying at a Jinja guesthouse. I decide to go straight there to meet them. Natalie was originally an SPW volunteer from the UK, but in 2005 she
fell in love with a Ugandan man and I don’t think she ever went home. Or, more accurately, she found herself a new home. She is staying at the guesthouse only temporarily, while she moves places in Jinja.
And Lindy? Well, like myself she too had returned to Australia and I think struggled to slide back into the life she had left behind. She flew back to Uganda only a few days ago, and I think she plans to stay a month or so.
The guesthouse has a high gate and a security guard. Such features are supposed to make me feel safe, but they have the opposite effect—I don’t want to believe that such precautions are really necessary.
Natalie and Lindy are excited to see me. As I walk to Lindy’s room to dump my bag, I notice a sticker on her door. It reads: ‘Are you here as the solution or as part of the problem?’ The words stick in my head as I drop my bag and then follow her into the lounge area, where she, Natalie and I gossip away the hours.
I become aware suddenly of the time. It is nearly midday now, and I am eager to get to Namwendwa. I collect my bag, give the girls my new Ugandan phone number and then disappear back out through the high security gates. I am wearing my oversized red backpack. It is a strange shape and sits so high on my back, with its top far above my head, that I am in danger of toppling backwards as I attempt to walk. Of course, I have always known it was uncomfortable but I am desperate to make use of this silly bag that I once thought was so essential for me to purchase.
It is only a five-minute walk from the guesthouse to the main street in Jinja. Buda-buda men call out to me but, despite the discomfort of my bag, I want to walk. It’s an opportunity to re-adjust to my surroundings. I pass a large metal bin, at least 3 metres wide, and it is overflowing with rubbish. Later it will be set alight, but for now large storks forage through it. The birds look like they belong on top of an old haunted castle.
The storks are not the only hunters in there. Small children also rummage through the scraps. The little clothing that the kids own is as dirty and torn as the rubbish they are searching through. I hate being another person who just walks on by, but what else can I possibly do?
I am surprised when I arrive at the main street and immediately see many white faces. Foreigners are meandering down the street, admiring the souvenirs at shop fronts, popping into internet cafes. I stand a little bewildered, and then realise a child is pulling at my skirt and holding out their other hand for money. I didn’t remember Jinja as being like this. I shake my head and say ‘Mbe’ (no). The child lets go of my skirt and mopes away.
There are definitely more street children now than there were two years earlier, and more foreigners too. Is it a coincidence? I doubt it. I think of the sticker on Lindy’s door . . . Are you here as the solution or part of the problem? I know that good intentions do not always equate to effective and sustainable development, and so I make a mental note to always think about not only how potential projects are identified and implemented but also how they will be monitored and evaluated. These thoughts are a little overwhelming while I’m still in my jet-lag state and now I am feeling uncomfortable and unsure of things.
I leave the main street and walk down to the matatu station. I hop straight onto a bus going to Kamuli. While we wait for more passengers, I pull out my iPod. This trip has a whole new soundtrack. No more Missy Higgins—now it is Holly Throsby’s soft voice flowing through me.
I feel more relaxed now that I am on the bus, surrounded by locals, with people chatting away. Outside there are people selling everything from plastic hair combs to fried bread and ladies underwear. They crowd around the buses, carrying their goods on sticks that they rest behind the backs of their heads. I nod toward a man selling chapattis and he immediately comes to my window. I pack my iPod away, push open the slide window and make my purchase. The man hands me a small sweaty plastic bag, and I leave the window open as I indulge in my snack. The chapatti is greasy but delicious in its simplicity. I tear off small bits to eat.
The bus is now crammed with people. There are goats squashed under the seats with their legs tied; there is luggage stacked on the roof; and I’m sure I can hear some chickens squawking, but I can’t see them. We rattle on our way. I think that all the drivers here are actually wannabe racing car drivers as it is constant mayhem on the roads. Dirt is now flying in through my open window and getting in my eyes. I push the window shut again. Without the flowing air, the humidity is intense. Sweat gathers between my legs and under my skirt; I feel myself sticking to the vinyl seat. But I’m too distracted to care—my thoughts are in Namwendwa, which is now only a few hours away.
We arrive in Kamuli and I wait by the bus as mattresses and all sorts of random items are lifted off the roof. Somewhere among this assortment is my pack. Buda-buda men are already calling out to me, asking where I am going. But I don’t answer. I’m still looking for my bag. Finally it is passed down to me; it is more brown than red now. I am amused at how sweaty and dirty I am, yet I haven’t even been in this country for 24 hours. Everyone around me looks so clean and, as they would say, ‘smart’. Even the women in their full-body gomesis, seem to cope with the heat. I look a little ridiculous.
I heave my bag onto my back and approach one of the buda-buda men who had earlier called out. It would be cheaper and safer to get a matatu to Namwendwa, but it is already getting late in the afternoon and I would likely be waiting for several hours for a matatu to leave. The motorbikes are still as dangerous as last time I was here—no helmets, and most of the drivers swerve about like madmen—but I am more impatient than I am sensible, and so I opt for the fast but possibly riskier option. The buda-buda man and I quickly agree on a price, and I haul my skirt up and clamber on. There is no way that I am going to try to side-saddle while wearing my enormous top-heavy bag.
We begin to cruise down the dirt road. My bag is strapped onto my back, my arms are wrapped tightly around the buda-buda man to stop me falling off backwards, and my skirt is provocatively high. Dirt is flying onto my face and bare legs. This is the sort of moment where I would expect to be feeling seriously uncomfortable, but instead I am deliriously happy. I love the feeling of the wind sailing through my hair—it’s exhilarating.
My heart is beating quickly with nervous excitement as we approach Namwendwa. When I see the phone tower beside Florence’s home, I ask the buda-buda driver to stop. As I am climbing off the bike, Florence is already racing out to the road to meet me.
‘Madam Nik!’ she exclaims, hugging me even though I still have my bag on. She is crying and tells me that she can’t believe that I have really returned. She says that she is so, so happy.
My bag was not the only thing hindering our hug and, as I take a step back from Florence, I realise that she is pregnant. She had not mentioned this news on the phone. I tap her round belly and she laughs. She is expecting her baby any day now. She tells me that her motherly instinct tells her that he is a boy and she is naming him Nicholas, after me. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want her to feel that she owes me anything or that she needs to show her gratitude. But when I say that it’s not necessary to call him after me, she gives me a hurt look, and so I smile and say it’s a lovely name.
Now Florence is happy once more, and she tries to take my bag from me. No way am I letting her carry my heavy bag while she is carrying a baby inside her! I take her hand and she guides me up the little dirt path to her home. It feels like déjà vu until I see the infants school. What was once the bamboo classroom has collapsed and is now a heap of rubbish on the ground. As we stand there, she shakes her head and mutters something about the termites.
I tell her that soon a new building will be built there and her school will be stronger than ever. She squeezes my hand. There is a lot we need to talk about, but it is late in the afternoon now and I still want to say hello to Andrew and Moses. I tell Florence that I will be back tomorrow and then I start the 2-kilometre walk to my old home.
The route is as magnificent as ever—orange dirt and overflowing greenery, the colours of On
e Village. As I walk, children call out to me and many race onto the road and join me. They each want a turn to hold my hand, and I am honoured that they remember me.
When I reach my old home Andrew and Moses are sitting outside waiting. They stand up when they see me, and Moses starts jumping and clapping with joy. I love his childlike mannerisms. I greet them and they are so excited to open the doors for me. Unlike when I first arrived two years ago, this time the house is ready. Andrew and Moses have already cleaned the place out and put in a bed for me, as well as a charcoal stove and basins. I thank them and then ask them where the landlord is so I can pay rent, but they won’t allow it. It seems a little strange to be in this same home without Jane, Lillian or Wemusa, but I smile when I recall that in a few months Tom will be living here with me.
After I have put my things inside, the children from the house across the road come and visit me. At first they are shy, but when I lift Victoria into the air, cuddling her and spinning around, the others soon come and join in. Mirimu has grown taller, but still wears the same torn navy blue dress. I can tell that Kisashi is still as moody as ever, but she nods her approval that I have returned and to suggest that she has forgiven me for leaving in the first instance.
I notice Dawoodee by the tree. He still seems unsure—as if he doubts that it is really me. Then I see that he is holding something; I wonder if it his ball, but then I realise it’s photographs. I gesture him over and he comes and sits beside me on the wooden chairs out the front. He greets me quietly and then holds out his hands, revealing his treasures. He is holding all the photos and letters that I had posted back to him. He has kept them all. He then confides to me that he didn’t really believe I would come back. He asks how long I will stay, and I tell him six months. He nods slowly. We are both thinking the same thing—it’s not long enough, it never is.