A VSO Evening

VSO volunteers may be older and more cosmopolitan, but they don’t really change – they are driven by idealism that spins between striving to help and respect the locals to telling bizarre stories of ‘those crazy natives’.
An Australian volunteer invited me to dinner with other VSOs tonight. Mel’s kitchen reminded me so much of my old house in Chilonga – cockroaches and bugs of ever colour. Mel knocked a cockroach into the sink and I looked at it horrified, wondering whether the water was hot enough to kill germs from the dishes and where the rest of these creatures lived.
But I used to live like this. At Chilonga we had cockroaches in the toaster – in the morning we would bang it once and watch them scatter before we popped in our bread to make toast. Heaven knows where else they had been – coffee percolator, pots, they definitely lived behind the fridge.
Anyway, Mel asked me to make a salad. I washed it at the tap but, given that we’re not supposed to drink the water, I didn’t eat it. I hope no one got sick the next day. I stuck to eating Mel’s pasta – it was cooked, but I hope I’m okay.
The conversation was rather old colonial. One of the volunteers has been here 3 years, one year working with a charity as an expert. She would consider herself sophisticated and enlightened. But tonight she told tales of the Lusaka fire brigade and how water drips out of their truck on the way to fire. I’m sure the Zambian firemen know about the leaks, they probably want them repaired. But this woman presented the story as a sign of local ineptitude and her presentation would cheer many a white South African.
A Ugandan doctor was at dinner. George is in his fifties and volunteered for VSO because, he said, he wanted a change. He’s working on HIV prevention. When he traveled to Zambia, he redeemed his air ticket for cash and traveled from Uganda to Zambia by bus. He is now using the rest of that cash to bring his family on holiday to Zambia – again by bus. His wife is visiting at the moment. I asked about the bus trip. I’ve traveled London to Athens by bus, but Uganda to Zambia! George laughed and said it is a great trip – Kampala to Nairobi – stay overnight – and then you reach the Tanzanian border at sunrise, with Mount Kilimanjaro as a backdrop – and you meet so many people, he said. I had to confess – it does have its appeal.
Someone asked why I had left midwifery. I hate the question – it requires telling too much about myself. But I gave my spiel – I grew up desperate to travel – a speaker to a school group talked about her experiences as a midwife in Papua New Guinea with VSO – and I thought it had the perfect blend of travel, adventure and benevolence. I was never great at nursing, or midwifery, but I worked hard – loved what I did. But after two years in Zambia - I don’t mean to sound dramatic - but I never wanted anyone’s life in my hands again.
The room fell silent, and I felt the need to explain more – five stillbirths in a weekend! You know it’s not your fault. You know that it’s the rainy season, which brings on malaria, which brings on premature labour. But you still blame yourself.
No one said a word, but George nodded his head. “I understand,” he said. “I have experience this which is why I now work in medical administration.” He talked about not being able to save premature newborns.
I wanted to cry out – “So it wasn’t just me.” I had thought I was weak, stupid, incapable of coping in a tough world and a failure. 25 years ago I left Chilonga feeling as though I hadn’t made the grade. Now this Ugandan doctor who has lived through countless civil wars says the responsibility you feel when someone dies – no matter how irrational – is real.
I wanted to hug him – but tears pricked my eyes.