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.