First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria

by Eve Brown-Waite

  “Here, watch me do it one more time.” Regina bent over, held Sierra against her back with one hand and then whipped the kitenge over both of them with the other. Then Regina cinched, pulled, and tied the cloth tight over her breasts and stood up straight with both hands free and a smiling Sierra snuggled securely against her back. “It is simple,” she pronounced of the clever papooselike contraption that let women go about their business, hands free to hoe the fields or shuck matoke. It was never simple for me, but I didn't have to hoe fields or shuck matoke.

  Which was a very lucky thing indeed. Because for our first few months back in Arua, it seemed like all I did was nurse Sierra. I began to wonder if, in the long history of motherhood, anyone had ever been nursed to death? When I wasn't nursing—or pumping milk so that John could feed Sierra a bottle laced with her malaria prophylaxis—I was changing diapers.

  As soon as we got to Arua, we made the switch to cloth diapers, which meant that Sierra—and everything she came in contact with—was nearly always sopping wet. Except, of course, when she—and everything she came in contact with—was covered in the mustardy yellow poops that squished down her legs and up her back. John and I felt like total idiots. Two master's degrees between us, and the cloth diaper technology was totally beyond us.

  Luckily, I didn't have to do much of anything beside lactate and change diapers. I could hardly imagine how my friends back home did even this without all the help I now had. Along with the bigger house, we had also accrued a bigger cast of characters around the house. While we got unpacked and settled, we temporarily hired a second house girl to help Regina. Cissie came recommended by another of the Italian families in the neighborhood. She was quiet as a mouse, but such a good worker that we kept her on permanently.

  Besides nursing, I spent most of my time dealing with the nearly unending parade of daily visitors, many of them part of what I called the “Home Shopping Network.”

  “Look, madam, I made this just for you,” said a young man outside my gate who waved a woven tray at me. It was made of bright strips of red, green, and yellow straw—like the two or three dozen other woven trays, baskets, and coasters we already had. Woven into this one, however, were the words “I love you.” What could I do but buy it? And the hat he'd made especially for Sierra; the one that said “Arua Boy” on it. We also bought goatskin drums and carved wooden masks. And the ebony nativity scene with the giant baby Jesus and the three wise men who carried spears.

  “Oh, madam-o,” said Erneste, limping to my gate pushing his bicycle, just as he did two or three times a week. I don't know why he called me “madam-o.” Maybe he learned English from an Italian. “Today I have spinach!” He knew I was a sucker for spinach. And broccoli, lettuce, or carrots—basically any vegetable besides the ubiquitous okra and matoke.

  “Erneste, I brought seeds back from America.” I showed him the seed packets I'd stashed in my luggage. “I thought I'd try to plant my own mzungu vegetables.”

  “Ah, a mzungu growing vegetables!” Erneste laughed. “Mzungu don't know how to farm. But I will come and help you, madam-o.”

  I might have argued that point with him, except for the fact that this mzungu didn't have the faintest idea how to farm. After helping me plant my little garden, Erneste used all my extra seeds to plant his own, bigger garden right next to mine—from which he would later sell me the harvest.

  Reginas husband, Steven, also made the rounds of the Home Shopping Network, selling me enough adungus, a traditional stringed instrument, to start a mzungu adungu band. When our living room was full of adungus, Steven came just to visit and to tell me his problems. Regina cringed when she saw Steven at the gate, but I found his tales of woe oddly compelling and entertaining.

  And then there was Richard, who I found waiting on my verandah not long after we'd moved in. I knew him as “Terry and Pauline's Boy Richard” because that is what all the Ugandans called him. That is, until they all started calling him “Your Boy, Richard.”

  “What is this, Richard?” I asked that first morning when the tall fifteen-year-old handed me a list: aspirin–20 tablets; white shirts with collars–2; black pens–5; blue pens–5. The paper itself was worn but the writing was painstakingly neat.

  “It is the things I need for school, madam,” Richard answered, looking slightly embarrassed. Elementary and secondary schools were not free in Uganda, and the fees were high enough to keep lots of kids out of school. It was common for foreigners, as well as better-off Ugandans, to pay the school fees of neighborhood kids or relatives. I was still paying the school fees for Jane, one of Erneste's daughters, and a couple of other neighborhood girls.

  “Two jars of skin lotion? One comb? These are not exactly what I consider school supplies.”

  “Well, I will use these things in school, madam. And Madam Pauline always bought them for me.”

  “Chloroquine?!” I asked.

  “No doubt, I will get malaria this year, madam.”

  “Let me get this straight. If you get malaria, I have to pay for your medicine?”

  “Well, only if I get malaria while in school, madam. Then it is a school fee. If I get malaria while on holiday, then I will have to find the money elsewhere.

  “I will do what I did for Madam Pauline,” Richard continued softly. “In exchange for your assistance, I will work at your compound on weekends and holidays. I used to help Madam Pauline with the garden. See,” he said, pointing to a small stand of young banana trees in the far corner of the yard. “Madam and I planted those banana trees.”

  “Well, John was talking about putting up a paillote right next to the banana plantation. I guess you're hired.”

  So our house was getting fuller by the day. Regina had started to bring her one-year-old son, Billy, and Billy's babysitter, or aya. We turned the back room, where Solomon used to live, into a nursery of sorts, with mats on the floor, a bed, and lots of toys. Sometimes Coby and her new son, Job, would come by, as did an American woman and a British missionary woman and their new babies. Soon, we had our own Mommy & Me group—expat style, which meant after we nursed the babies, our ayas took them so we could play tennis.

  Alison, a young, single Brit who'd recently come to town, didn't join our mommy group, but she did join us on the tennis courts. Alison was a volunteer with VSO, which is the European equivalent of Peace Corps. She reminded me of myself when I was in the Peace Corps. Or rather, of how I would have liked to be.

  “Fuck's sake,” Alison yelled. “It really throws off my serve when the goats wander onto the court.”

  “Ah, quit yer bellyaching!” I yelled back. “Just serve.” Alison gracefully set up a picture-perfect serve to my side, and I, of course, missed it. “Wow, I guess I was too busy admiring that to hit it. Where'd you learn how to serve like that?”

  “Miss Haversham's Finishing School for Girls,” she snorted. “Hey, Coby, take over for me. I need a ciggie.” She walked over to where she'd parked her motorcycle, pulled a packet of rolling papers and a tin of tobacco out of her saddlebag, squatted in the dirt, and expertly rolled herself a cigarette.

  “Hey, I found lemongrass growing in my yard. I'm going to make lemongrass fettuccine this afternoon. Why don't you guys come over for supper?” I asked.

  “Oh, I was wondering who had the pasta machine,” Coby said.

  “I got it when Daniella was through with it. And I'm supposed to pass it to Anna Hatchard next.” The hand-cranked pasta maker belonged to one of the Italian families, but it—like someone's ice-cream maker—got passed around so much, it was practically community property. “And, Alison, I have some yogurt for you.”

  “Thanks. It never comes out right when I make it.”

  “Well, first you have to pasteurize the milk. Then let it cool down to body temperature. Just stick your finger in it—it shouldn't feel too hot or too cold. Then mix in a spoon full of yogurt that you already have. Wrap the pan in a towel, then put it in your sleeping bag and leave the whole thing overnight. It's
simple, really. Anyway, come over later and I'll give you some. And stop by the CARE office on your way home and tell John we're having a party at his house tonight. And invite Mark, too.”

  So this is what my life had come to: philanthropy, gardening, cooking, and tennis. I felt like I was thoroughly enjoying my retirement; having skipped the whole bothersome thirty-odd years of working first. But John was working hard enough for the two of us. His project was progressing so well that CARE was talking about extending our two-year contract for a third year. Which was a good thing, because with the help of my very own African village, I was starting to get the hang of life in Arua.

  Dear Mom,

  Well, Sierra is finally sleeping through the night and in her own room, too. Although John absolutely refuses to let her cry herself to sleep, so it's hard to get her into bed at night. John finally finished making the crib he's been working on for … well, longer than it took me to make Sierra! It's really beautiful, with tiny carved elephants on it and a side that's hinged so mommy can reach in. It is incredibly special. Do you think Sierra will somehow be shaped by her unusual beginnings? Will she even have memories of this place? Will she know she spent the first months of her life in a crib that her daddy made for her, totally by hand?

  John brought me a small desk and chair from the CARE office and we made me a little writing space in Sierra's bedroom. It feels nice to sit here and type away quietly while she sleeps. I'm starting to write some short stories. I have a fantasy of writing the next Out of Africa. Okay, it's just a fantasy, but it gives me something to do—besides nurse—and gives me hope that maybe someday I can combine motherhood with something else.

  There's a swarm of nasty African bees that live in a hive that's right outside of Sierra's window. If one of them gets in here, I swear, I will kill it with my bare hands. There's a beekeeper at CARE who has promised to come and take this hive away for over a month now. If a bee stings Sierra, I swear, I'll kill this beekeeper with my bare hands! Is this what you meant by maternal instinct?

  I'll keep you posted,

  Eve

  Package Hell

  Sierra was healthy and happy as long as she was attached to my boob or being held. Now that I was no longer actively looking for work, it came looking for me. The Peace Corps occasionally hired me to conduct in-service health trainings and to facilitate COS conferences for departing volunteers. I'd also gotten several requests from USAID and various other agencies to work with them on trainings, conferences, and evaluations. Of course, this usually meant traveling down to Entebbe or Kampala—which could be somewhat problematic with a baby attached to my boob.

  Luckily, most women in Uganda seemed to have an infant attached to some part of their body at all times, and when I wore Sierra on my back to a job interview, everyone cooed at her and I got offered the job. Luckily, I didn't have to wear Sierra while I was working; Cissie, who unlike Regina had no family of her own to look after, usually came with us on out-of-town jobs.

  When Sierra turned six months old right before Christmas, I began to try to interest her in something other than breast milk. I borrowed a food mill from one of the Italians (what would we have done without the Italians and their well-stocked kitchens?) and began mashing bananas, grueling rice, and pureeing peas. I became so fond of pureed peas that I started serving them to John. But Sierra smeared the baby food on her face and showed no interest in giving up nursing anytime before kindergarten.

  John's work was going well, but as a few of his counterparts at the bank became more and more possessive and demanding of CARE's resources, he began to figure out that not everyone was involved in the project for altruistic reasons. But missing computers and AWOL vehicles aside, things were progressing more or less as hoped. The opening of the brand-new bank building in January was marked, of course, by great fanfare. The ensuing ceremony was complete with visiting dignitaries and long, wordy speeches. John was pleased as he sat through the ceremony up on the dais. And I was proud of him as I watched with Sierra from my seat of honor. By February, the new bank was bustling and entrepreneurs were starting to make use of the credit and loan program.

  As Sierra spent more time with Regina, Billy, and Cissie, I spent more time writing: my usual long, newsy letters home as well as short stories about life in Arua. Most nights I'd charge up my laptop computer when the power came on, and most days there'd be something to write about. In Arua, you never knew when something ordinary, like a trip to the post office, would end up being anything but ordinary.

  “Sierra,” I sung over my shoulder one day as we walked home from the post office. “Who do you think sent us a package?” The post office service counter was already closed when we found the three little notices in our mailbox. That meant we'd have to wait until the next day to collect our packages.

  “Bahbahbahbah,” Sierra drooled down my back.

  “Maybe your Christmas and Hanukkah presents arrived. It is February.” It could take a few days or months for a package to arrive from the States. There seemed to be no reliable pattern.

  “Gahgahgah,” Sierra said.

  “It could be just another box of ant and roach traps.”

  “Gaaa!” she screeched. We'd been receiving packages of ant and roach traps ever since I'd sent home a videotape of the thumb-sized humming ants that surrounded our house one day.

  It was after four o'clock the next day when I left Sierra with Cissie and Regina and set off down the road to get my packages. I should have wrapped a kitenge over my shorts to make it look like I was wearing a skirt like most Ugandan women do. But even in a kitenge I attracted attention. It was hot and the post office was just at the end of the road; I'd decided to throw modesty to the sub-Saharan wind.

  “Ife mani sende! Ife mani sende!” a flock of neighborhood children greeted me just outside my gate with their familiar chant.

  “Ife mani sende!” I yelled back at them. I put the emphasis on me, which sent the children laughing and scattering in all directions.

  Arua's new post office was cool and airy, and had a long wooden counter with six half-moon windows cut into the glass partition above it. Each window had a wooden sign that listed the services available there. I thought most of it was just wishful thinking or flat-out lies. Imagine purchasing a money order or making an international telephone call in Arua!

  There was only one clerk behind the counter. He was seated behind the window labeled “Stamps/Post Office Boxes/Registered Mail.” I jaunted up to his window, greeted him, and presented my slips like winning lottery tickets.

  “You have to go over to that window,” he said, pointing to the window below the sign that read “Small Packets/Packages.”

  “But no one is over there,” I said. He leaned out of his window and pointed to the wooden sign above his head that read “Stamps/ Post Office Boxes/Registered Mail.”

  “This window is for stamps, post office boxes, and registered mail,” he said. Then he pointed to the window next to his underneath the sign that read “Money Orders/Telex/International Telephone.” “That window is for money orders, telex, and international phone calls.” Then he pointed once again to the window at the far end of the counter beneath the sign that said “Small Packets/Packages.” “And that window is for small packets and packages.” I didn't dare to ask what was available at the three windows beneath the signs that were still blank. I just headed to the other end of the counter.

  “Bloody hell.” I looked over my shoulder and saw John Hatchard standing by his post office box, reading a letter.

  “Problem, Hatch?” I detoured over to him.

  “I keep telling these idiots we need an underground water storage tank.”

  “USAID turned down your request to fund a swimming pool again, eh?” I asked.

  “Well, if ya tell 'em it's a swimming pool, of course they're gonna turn ya down. But I keep telling 'em that Arua needs an underground water storage tank. We need an underground water storage tank. Wouldn't you agree?”

 
“Yeah, definitely. And have them put it in my backyard while you're at it.”

  “Yeah, I might just do that. You've got the big compound. Would go nice there.”

  I walked over to the Small Packets/Packages window and, wouldn't you know, the same clerk from the Stamps/Post Office Boxes/Registered Mail window came over and took my three package slips, went into a back room, and came back a few minutes later with one small box. “Fifty shillings for this one, but you will have to go see the customs officer about these.” He handed me back two of the package slips. “He is at the Customs House, over on Transport Road.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “To get to Transport Road you go out of the post office and—”

  “No. I know where Transport Road is,” I said. “I just don't know where on Transport Road the Customs House is.”

  “Oh, it is right at the end of the road. Where the Uganda Revenue Authority is.” I thought I knew where that was, having seen a sign once.

  It was now 4:30 and I was desperate to get my packages before the post office closed at 5:00. I nearly ran the two blocks to Transport Road and I was now painfully aware that I was wearing shorts. I found the corner where I remembered seeing the Uganda Revenue Authority sign. But all the signs had been removed since a 2,000 Ush tax had been imposed on signs. Even the Uganda Revenue Authority—the Ugandan tax collectors—took down its sign rather than pay the tax.

  It took a few minutes, but I finally found the customs officer. “Good afternoon. How are you?” I offered my hand and the usual Ugandan greeting that I still found annoying as hell. In New York City I had perfected the art of not even making eye contact with people. Now I was expected to shake hands with and inquire about the health of every stranger I met.

  I was expecting “I am fine. How are you?,” which was so automatic people often answered before they were even asked. But he just grunted at me and continued drinking his tea.