On Friday, I join some Nyaka staff on a trip out to the
field, where they will test grandmothers and orphaned grandchildren for HIV.
We leave at 8am, i.e. 9:30 Uganda time. Ben, who drives the
Nyaka van, picks me up, and we trundle along the rocky, craggy, water-damaged
“roads.” He slows down often to wave or greet people, and at one point, gives a particularly warm hello
to an older man carrying a basket and walking stick.
“That’s
my brother,” he tells me.
This
being Uganda, Ben could mean this is his actual birth brother, his half-brother
from a different mother (polygamy is still widely practiced here,) a cousin
he’s really close to, or just a dear friend. Either way, after a moment, I pull
out my phone.
“That’s my brother,” I say.
“That’s my brother,” I say.
Ben
is delighted. How many siblings do I have, he wants to know. When I answer, he's astounded. The average birth rate in Uganda is six children per woman. The
first time I asked someone here that question, the reply was, “Twenty-seven.”
*
We
stop at the local hospital to pick up the doctor, nurses and some
counsellors who will join us for the day. I’ve been to the women’s ward here
before - a large room filled with metal beds, plastic basins underneath them,
ragged foam mattresses on top. That’s it. No privacy curtains, no indoor
toilets, no pretty pictures on the walls. It wouldn’t be out of place in a Victorian novel.
We wait in the van, and as usual, I become the local tourist
attraction. Children squeal and wave at muzungu (white person,) and adults
stare. I’m only ignored by the women with giant pregnant bellies, who arrive alone,
on foot, and hang out outside on blankets, presumably until their babies crown.
One has a contraction, casually, leaning against a stair railing.
Soon, though, my muzungu nature takes over. We’ve been waiting 45 minutes. It's hot, and getting hotter. I
wasn’t supposed to come today; I’m only here for another week, I have work to
finish, things to do, the usual. I put on some sunscreen, which, as always, causes
more staring and tittering. (“If she didn’t put that stuff on, maybe she
wouldn’t be so damn white!”) Finally,
the van fills up and we hit the road.
Three minutes later, we stop for breakfast.
Today, this means roasted corn on the cob, made by some
women cooking over a fire pit on the side of the road. I politely decline, but when
Ben returns to his seat and cheerfully hands me a cob, of course I have to eat
it. As the van bumps and bounces, I chew and pray that it will all stay down. I don’t get carsick, but I do in Uganda. The roads here make ours in Montreal seem as smooth as an
NHL hockey rink.
We arrive at the testing site. As soon as the group of grandmothers
and children see the van, this is what they do:
These people are about to learn whether they have a disease that
will affect and shorten the rest of their lives – a disease which has killed
their loved ones and their friends in brutal ways. Humphrey, the head of the granny program,
explains that this song means they are grateful we’ve arrived safely.
I’m so overwhelmed I’m barely able to see, much less shoot. When they
finish, I gaze at them, mutely, wishing I had the vocabulary to tell them
how much they kick ass. Finally, I put my hands together in prayer and give
an awkward half bow.
“She says they are so happy to have you here,” John, my motorbike driver from other granny expeditions, tells me, as he chats with one
of the brightly clothed ladies. “She says you are beautiful.”
“Tell her she’s beautiful,”
I reply, glowing.
They speak a bit more, and John turns back to me.
“Since you’re wearing trousers,” he adds, “she wanted to
know if you were a man.”
And with that, we get on with the day.
*
The
group begins with a discussion about prevention, ARVs and stigma. It is explained,
to them and to me, that HIV can be transmitted through not just sexual contact
and sharp objects, but by untrained “dentists” and midwives, who
often find work in the poorer communities.
Then, the grannies and children form long lines, first to get
registered, then to get blood taken in the half-finished mud house that will
serve as our clinic. They’ll get the results 15 minutes later, which is crucial
out here, where organized files and medical records just don’t exist. After
that, there will be counselling for everyone, not just those who are positive. Most
of these grandmothers are not part of the granny groups Nyaka supports, and
none of them have grandchildren at the school. But this is an important part of Nyaka's work, and they do it with thousands of people in the area.
Some of the smaller kids cry when their fingers are pricked.
Most people just bite their lip and flinch, heroically dry-eyed. But in general, you’d
think they were getting tested for the flu. The heat is stifling. There are
hundreds waiting in line. But no one complains. One granny gives us some more
roasted corn, in case we get hungry. Some have set out picnics in the grass.
I ask John about the children who will find out today that
they’re HIV positive. If they start taking ARVs immediately, how long might
they live?
“Maybe almost thirty years!” he says, brightly.
One tall, slender grandmother carries a tiny bundle. John explains that the woman’s daughter-in-law has just died, and this baby is only
2 weeks old and has to be fed cow’s milk. As if one cue, the bundle starts to
wail. I hold him while the grandmother gets her bloodtest, and as I gaze into his
rheumy eyes, he pops a finger in his mouth and stops crying. This sets off all
the surrounding women, who have already asked, naturally, how many children I
have. Clearly, they laugh, this baby wants a muzungu mother! I hand him back to
his grandmother, but John wants to take a photo, so the grandmother joins me
and we pose.
And that’s all it takes. Everyone wants a photo with the muzungu. One woman tells me she found the boy she's with abandoned
in the forest as a baby, so she took him home and called him
Moses. Another granny’s son is an alcoholic and has no contact with her since
his wife died. She named her grandson to mean “he who is meant to be cared for
by me.” Death is mentioned so often that no one even blinks. They just ask for
more photos, then gather excitedly around the tiny screen, gazing at their miniature
selves.
*
After lunch, the heavens open. It rains dramatically, forebodingly,
until early evening. As the sun sets, the clinic set-up moves outside for
light. The doctor, who’s been at this for 6 hours, continues to cheerfully
greet and joke with each patient. At one point, he stops, takes off a glove,
and sticks a label on one of the testing strips. I lean in to get a closer
look. The label says, “HIV.” He hands the strip to a counsellor, who takes it to
another spot on the grass. A name is called.
I shoot until it’s dark, desperately trying to capture what
I know I can’t.
Soon, the doctor is taking blood by the light of his cell
phone, and the counsellors sit with people in the pitch black. I try to help,
holding phones for light and hovering around, but soon I’m just getting in the
way. I go back to the van and say goodbye to departing grannies and kids, which
puts a smile on most of their faces, although some don’t meet my eyes – I can
only imagine why. One grandmother approaches the window and hands
me a basket. I know she’s woven it herself: many of them do this for their
livelihood, and Nyaka sells the handicrafts back in the States to support the
granny programs. I also know it probably took her several days to make.
“She wants to give it to you as a gift,” Humphrey translates.
“To thank you for being here.”
Once again, I’m at a loss for words. I want to tell her that she and
all the people here have more compassion, and more courage, than I thought existed in this world. Instead, I gabble one of the few phrases I’ve learned to say in the local language: “thank you very, very much.” I point out that Nyaka’s colour, purple, is
woven into the basket, and when Humphrey translates this, and the grandmother’s
smile widens. Then she walks off into the night, her long dress and shawl
fluttering, followed by two small children.
*
The United States, and several other western countries, have just halted or re-directed about $118 million in aid to Uganda, because of the bill
the president recently passed condemning homosexuality. I understand why they did this. I also understand, now, that the bill is a purely political
move: the president wants to show the world that Uganda isn’t going to buckle to international
pressure.
And yet, almost 90% of Ugandans can’t read or write.
About 85% of the population live in rural areas. The vast
majority of these people are severely affected by drought; and lack access to education, basic
healthcare and medicine. They also have to deal the afore-mentioned road
conditions, which result in a lot of deaths, particularly of women with
difficult pregnancies who don’t make it to the hospital in Kampala in time.
These people don’t care who’s gay or straight.
If we’re fighting for equal opportunity and acceptance, shouldn’t
they get their basic needs met before we punish them for a decision they didn’t
make?
International aid to Uganda is not a simple thing - many of
the funds sent through government to this country will never get seen by the
people who need it.
But I wonder: if the politicians making these decisions joined us
today, in the mud house clinic in the field, would they stand firm?
I wonder, if they stuck around for a week and saw what an
enormous difference just one organization is making, what they might choose to do with that money.
I wonder if they'd feel they'd changed in ways they
don’t yet understand.
If they’d notice themselves falling in love with people they
barely know – a love they can’t really understand, but is pure and real and without
question.
If, maybe, they’d promise to come back as soon as possible.
If, like me, they'd begin to suspect that the people of this country, with everything they have to deal with, have enough joy and
kindness inside them to share with the whole planet.
*
We close up the clinic, say goodbye to the last few patients
heading for home, and pile back into the van. The roads have mostly dried, but after
the rain, there are even more craters, boulders and miniature dirt mountains to
snake around, over and through. And it’s begun to thunder, loudly. I’m pretty
sure that if it starts to rain again, we’re stuck out here for the night.
Without warning, Ben turns the bus off the main drag and
down a hill, onto a barely worn path we at home might loosely call a hiking
trail. I hold on for dear life as tree branches slap against the windows and
roof, and rocks scrape the underneath of the bus and shoot off in all
directions. No one explains what’s going on, but I eventually piece together
that he’s driving one of the nurses home, so she doesn’t have to walk in
the dark.
There is a deafening crack of thunder. I clutch my basket
like a safety blanket, look up at the stars, and imagine the dance the
grandmothers and grandkids did for us this morning. The bus creaks and groans,
and, against any law of gravity I know about, we make it back uphill and onto
the road.
Soon, the muzungu is in her warm, dry guesthouse, where plates of food
and a jerry can of hot bathwater are waiting.
Outside, the winds pick up, and the storm begins.
Thanks so much for sharing this story, Nathalie, along with all the photos and the amazing video! I have wonderful memories of similar dances & music from my time in Zimbabwe, years ago. I love the way you start of your post giving readers a real feel for the people (27 sibilings! ha!) and then manage to include the serious stuff as well (90% of the population illiterate, yikes). Tanya
ReplyDeleteThank you Nathalie for all the love, the compassion. Thank you for your contribution to the world. Love from Athens, Fotini Sianou
ReplyDeleteI can but echo both the above comments muzungu - thank you for sharing these experiences...
ReplyDelete