Holidays

29th September 2006

Chas has been in Zambia for seven months without seeing an elephant, and this situation grieves him considerably. At the beginning of this week, he started agitating for a safari trip. It is now Friday afternoon and he and I are slumped in plastic chairs in the arrivals hall at Mfuwe airport with Mum and Petrie. We have been travelling since 5am this morning, and it is 380C in the shade. All the other tourists going to South Luangwa have been picked up already, but our driver is showing no inclination to take us anywhere, having disappeared to the bank half an hour ago. I am not certain how we ended up booking with the only local safari company that has to undertake such lengthy financial transactions. Chas made the reservation. I have a bad wife moment and consider reminding him of this.

Eventually the driver returns, so we clamber into the jeep, and set off down the road with hot air and dust blowing in our faces. Along the way, we see a herd of elephants in the bush, and Chas is suitably excited. We arrive at the camp, which sits on the edge of a swamp by the Luangwa river. Shortly afterwards, I am sitting in the swimming pool surveying the impala and vervet monkeys, and I spot a giraffe emerging from the bush and walking towards me. In a fit of giggles, I demand that Chas takes a photo of me in the water with the giraffe approaching, because I suspect that I will never have a moment like this again in my life and it must be commemorated quickly. I am very glad we came to this place.

6th October 2006

We have been in South Africa for five days. So far, negotiations regarding the daily outings have been protracted, but today we have unanimously agreed to go Robben Island. It’s something you can’t leave Cape Town without seeing, we all agree. We don’t really discuss why we feel this is the case. Probably it’s about feeling obliged to remind yourself of the ugly recent history of this beautiful place. And maybe the celebrity associations – like Graceland, but more politically sound. Also, my sister Linda has an unhealthy obsession with prisons.

Chas and I are a bit late for the ferry, having been distracted by a gourmet burger outlet en route to the terminal, and the upper deck is already full of other foreign tourists. We sit downstairs, next to a group of elderly black women who are travelling together. They look like they are having a grand day out. Coming here probably means something entirely different for them.

We are shown around the prison by a former political prisoner, who gives a dignified and restrained account of his incarceration. It is moving stuff. He asks us if we would like to ask any questions before seeing the rest of the buildings. A miserable-looking British woman says “When does the ferry leave? I need to be back by five.” He reassures her there is plenty of time, and we move on to view Comrade Mandela’s cell. I look at the urine bucket through the bars, and am reminded of my first day in Zambia, when VSO took us to Kenneth Kaunda’s former house, and we all squeezed into the bedroom to gaze at his stained mattress.

In the end, the tour goes on longer than scheduled and we miss our return ferry. The miserable woman is apoplectic. She complains loudly about our guide to one of the staff members at the quayside. Linda rolls her eyes. “She’d have him locked up again…” It does seem slightly churlish to complain about being detained on this island for an extra half hour, given that Mandela was stuck here for eighteen years. I ignore her, and instead take some photos of Chas, former anti-apartheid protester, standing outside the prison wall with his hand raised in a not completely ironic victory salute.

Too talking

14th September 2006

Jenny calls me to the children’s ward in the morning; Sisko, one of the babies has just died. He had been threatening to do it for the last week. He arrived on the ward in a terrible state, sores in his mouth, ribs almost bursting through his skin, one of these children that might make you reach for the remote control if he appeared on your screen. I lean over his cot to examine his body, while his twin sister sleeps beside him. His auntie is crying, but his grandmother’s face is blank. She has a weary familiarity with this routine, we were both there when his mother died of AIDS three months ago. His death today is not a surprise – most motherless infants do no better than Sisko – but there is something profoundly depressing about watching a young family slowly disappear in this way.

15th September 2006

I go out on my own for a run before work this morning. Usually my erratic attempts at exercise just attract a few curious stares, but today I meet some girls on their way to school. I hear the inevitable giggling and whispering as I thunder past them, and then, less expectedly, I become aware of someone running behind me. One of them has decided to join me in my exertions. Disappointingly, my expensive trainers fail to give me the edge over her, and I try to pick up speed as she overtakes me in her flip-flops. We are joined shortly afterwards by a group of small boys, sprinting ahead on their way to school, beaming at me as though we are sharing some secret joke. I am probably the punchline, but I grin back anyway.

After just a few days of teaching, Mum is achieving something close to rock star status in Mpanshya – everywhere we go, kids from the school come up to greet her. This afternoon, there is a knock at the door. It is Maybeen, one of the older schoolboys. He has been a frequent visitor ever since he received a football from Chas (whom he now refers to as “my father” – I think mainly out of respect, but also in the hope of more donations of sports equipment). Mum comes to the door, and he remonstrates with her for not coming to teach his class today, telling her “We were waiting for you, madam”. Mum smiles and tells him next week, maybe.

18th September 2006

The Landcruiser is packed this morning. Mum, Chas and I are going to town, but we also have to take Sr Josepha to her eye clinic in Mulamba, and one of the patients, Anna, needs a lift home. I am at the wheel, and three minutes into the journey, Sr Josepha comments “Ooh, Dr June is very gentle driver”. I am not certain if she is expressing displeasure at my lack of speed , and then I remember that she usually does outreach work with Father Leschek, who drives like a maniac on these dirt roads. I decide to accept it as a compliment, and proceed slowly.

We reach Sinjela, Anna’s home, and I help her unload her luggage and her food supplements. We now force all our malnourished HIV patients to consume two jars of enriched peanut butter a day, which is fine when they’re still in hospital, but taking a month’s supply home is tricky. She can’t carry all this back to her farm alone, so I pick up her suitcase and follow her through the woods, while she balances the food bag on her head, like an outsized turban. We walk along slowly together, and as we approach her house, two little girls come running towards us, squealing with excitement.

It’s always nice to see your mum again.

19th September 2006

Petrie arrives in Lusaka early in the morning. Barely giving her a chance to get her luggage off the carousel, Mum and I take her straight to Bauleni to meet Ann, another VSO volunteer who is working in an educational project for local streetkids. The school itself is a little oasis of order on the edge of a scruffy compound. Ann takes us for a tour, and we stick our heads around the doors of various classrooms. One of the teachers invites us in, and asks the kids if they would like to sing and dance. Thirty children leap to their feet simultaneously, and perform for their visitors. It is one of these unexpectedly lovely Zambia moments that could reduce you to prickly-eyed embarrassment, but the sleepless newcomer copes admirably.

We arrive back in Mpanshya that evening, and unload our many backs of shopping from the back of the truck. The women staying at Alendo House (the shelter for patients’ relatives) line up to watch as we carry it all into the house, and we feel vaguely ashamed of our supermarket excesses. We have requested various provisions from home – Chas’ order of HP sauce and potato scones has arrived intact, but my pesto has leaked all over Petrie’s suitcase, leaving an oily green residue on everything. Fortunately she has also brought enough duty-free to anaesthetise a horse, so this mishap is soon forgotten in the rush to get the lemons sliced.

24th September 2006

Another big Sunday in Mpanshya, the St Anna Catholic Women’s Society are having their annual celebration. We manage to arrive in time this week, and we all sit together at the back, watching the women sing and dance. Mum has been to church a few times now, but this is Petrie’s first visit to St Joseph’s. I look at her face and I remember how I felt the first day I came here. Like me, she doesn’t understand the sermon, she can’t join in with the singing, and she doesn’t take mass. But she is not one to miss a party, and so she dances, first swaying tentatively in the pew and then getting to her feet to join the other women during the last hymn.

27th September 2006

The mobile clinic goes to Shikabeta today, and Mum and Petrie come along for the ride. Shikabeta is in the mountains, at the other end of a rough gravel road, and it takes about an hour to get there. The visitors travel in the back with Sister Valeria, Maggie and Brenda, and talk about their experiences in Zambia, while I attempt to negotiate the potholes. I grip the wheel and try to concentrate, half aware of the chatter and laughing going on behind me.

We arrive at the rural health centre, and emerge from our airconditioned cocoon into the baking heat of Shikabeta. Chas takes Mum and Petrie off to see the local school, which is notable for having a classroom with a roof and two walls missing. Brenda and I set up the clinic, and I suddenly realise she hasn’t said anything since we left Mpanshya. Her English is pretty good, but not quite up to breakneck Glasgow speed. I smile at her and say “Big talker, my mum” and she laughs. We get started.

By the time the clinic is finished, Mum and Petrie have introduced themselves to the teaching staff, purchased most of the local store’s stock, and done some adventure off-roading with Chas. Mary the cleaner insists we all stay for lunch, and then we set off back through the hills. The pace of conversation in the back does not falter. Halfway home, Brenda nudges me in the ribs and whispers “Your mother, she is too talking”. I find I can’t argue.