The screeching brakes of Charles’ motorcycle beckon me from my house. I go out and am happy I can greet him in English. He straps on his helmet and I clamber onto the back of the motorcycle as gracefully as possible in a skirt. We set off down the dirt road; he attempts to dodge ruts and large rocks as we travel. The equatorial sun blazes and he slows to a crawl when driving on a shady part of the road. Sweet relief, even if just for a few moments. I wonder at his ability to wear long sleeves and trousers in the heat. Every few seconds a cry of “Mzungu! How are you?” echoes in my ears as we fly past mud and stick homes. I’m amazed at how young children are when they learn this phrase. Can I blame them for being excited by such a rare sight though? Who is the crazy white lady on the back of the motorcycle?
I continue to marvel at Charles’ driving skills as we make it up seemingly vertical hills and don’t get stuck in the mud puddle at the bottom of one valley. I remind myself to take in the beauy—the banana leaves, the goats lounging in the grasses on the side of the road, and the mountains in all their majesty. We arrive at the outpatient nutrition site; a concrete building in a clearing with a big shade tree in front. Several women have already arrived and are waiting patiently on the grass with their children. We set up under the shade tree—a woven basket scale for weighing babies, two chairs, a table, and a wooden board to measure height. A blue metal trunk filled with bags of groundnut and soybean paste. Set up and ready for clients!
The women file up to the table, placing the well-worn notebooks assigned to each of their children in front of me. I’m amazed that these notebooks survive and that each person seems to have their own portable medical history written in them. Some fare better than others; one looks like an animal nibbled on it while another has a hole of unknown origin clear through the center of the book.
We begin by assessing those that are new to the program—weighing them, measuring height, and their arm circumference, all important factors in a child’s level of malnutrition as well as their eligibility to join the 10 week program. Sadly, most meet at least one of the criteria. We record their names and information in their notebooks as well as in our books.
We weigh those that are already enrolled in the program. I find encouragement in even the smallest weight increase and find myself concerned for those that hover at an unhealthy weight or even lose a few grams. Charles begins to teach a lesson about antenatal nutrition in Lubwisi. I understand none of it but enjoy listening and laughing when everyone else is laughing. Several little girls catch my eye as it roams over the women listening. They smile and act shy. I go over to them and play peek-a-boo with their little sister. Their mother is nowhere to be found but the big sister cares for her younger sister and the other women of the village seem to pitch in too.
Charles finishes teaching and we hand out the nutritious g-nut and soybean paste. Hopefully they’ll remember the demonstration from last week and mix it in with the foods they cook for their children. The dog-eared notebooks are handed back and the newly enrolled mothers receive vitamins as well. I am greatly encouraged by the father who brought his son today. A rarity I think but a true sign of his desire for his child to blossom and grow. He speaks some English and he thanks me for trying to fumble my way through greeting him in Lubwisi. His son cries when the mzungu gets too close.
Charles and I pack up to leave. We thank everyone and head back to Nyahuka. The storm clouds are rolling in ominously over the mountains. Charles drives over the ruts a little less cautiously but staying dry is more important than a smooth ride. I listen for that sound, like a freight train almost, the sound of the sheets of rain coming right before they pour down on you. I feel the first few drops and it is sweet relief from the heat. The drops become bigger and the sky is about to open up as we pull into my driveway. Last week Charles waited the rain out in our living room but this week he chooses to hurry home, still hoping to beat the total downpour. I say good-bye, run into my house, and listen as the rain begins to beat on the tin roof and rivers come pouring off our back porch. Perhaps this is not home yet but it feels a little more like it today.
