Blog 15: Goodbye/ Hello

My last few days at Saint Angela’s pass by in a blur of report writing, training Christine and handing over as much detail as possible to her, so she can continue to run the physiotherapy as the newly qualified physiotherapy assistant.

The girls put on a marvellous display of traditional singing and dancing for me in the physiotherapy room. They wear skirts made from shredded maize bags and underneath have belts made of old bottle tops. When they flick their hips the skirts flare up and the bottle tops jangle. I have no idea how a girl with no feet, one with cerebral palsy and another with hemiplegia are achieving this feat. I can’t get near it without any disabilities.

The boys are huddled in a corner playing chequers, but Christine is having none of it and insists they join the girls in a courtship dance, facing each other in two lines. There is lots of squirming and embarrassment from the boys and several bids to escape, but there’s no getting out of it. The ever laughing Rets drags himself across the divide, but is rejected by his potential partners. Tiger and Phaz fare better and eventually the girls are whittled down to the last one.

Somehow you always know in these situations who the last one to be chosen will be, and sure enough its little Sadi, with only one eye, a withered arm and shortened leg. Life can be so harsh at times. The lines are redrawn and the girls pick boys. Christine pulls me up to join in and I do my own version of Saturday night fever and pick Rets. Fortunately, he accepts and I tell him I am looking forward to him cooking my tea tonight.       

         

Finally, it’s time to go home, but there is on last treat and Christine and Lucky sing a duet. They both have extraordinary voices, and sing a mesmerising gospel song together. Christine has a beautiful soprano voice, while Lucky is an incredible Baritone. You would never guess the sound came from a young man in a wheel chair with brittle bones.

I wander down the dusty road as the sun sets, pondering on the highs and the lows at Saint Angela’s. They have been as contrasting as my last visit here, some of the lows unbloggable. However, when you witness such talent and beauty there is always hope that things will get better. I feel I am leaving the physiotherapy in much better hands than on my last visit and I’m very glad I came back. Even in the last few weeks some of the children have improved and have noticed their own progress. With a lump in my throat I bid them all goodbye on my last evening and move on to the next challenge.

As Manyanye drives me to Phelisanong I feel a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Excitement at the thought of seeing the children again, anxiety about what Tokiso will think about me returning. This was the young boy who had a big dream to walk to school, whose face lit up with joy when he had a chance to walk on a small green zimmer frame that I sourced from Saint Angela’s, and who cried inconsolably when I left, taking his dreams with me (see blog 8).

I couldn’t even promise him that I’d be back, as I didn’t know what the future held. He won’t know how much I’ve thought about him, how hard I’ve tried to find a frame that will best help him. His legs on weight bearing turn into stiff pillars, the feet pointing downwards and in inwards.

It’s a huge effort for him to walk and the more effort he puts in the stiffer his muscles in his legs become. That’s why I’ve brought him a frame with a flip down seat and off-road wheels. The wheels had to be specially made for the frame, to hopefully endure African conditions. I wonder if he’ll be suspicious of me after I raised his hopes a year ago and then left him. It was so difficult to explain my departure to a nine-year-old boy, whose had such rough breaks in life and whose second language is English.

I wonder how the others will be, the children with swallowing difficulties who were being fed on their backs. I taught the care mothers how to feed them upright (see blogs 6,7,8), but what happened when I left? The drive to Phelisanong takes forever and its dark by the time we arrive and bump down the rough track. The surface is worse than ever after all the thunder storms this year.

Mama Jo opens the gate, some boys unload the equipment and we leave, it takes less than five minutes. Manyanye drops me off at the guest house and I find myself staying in the same room as last year. I see myself in the mirror, for the first time in a month and look ten years older than I remember. Maybe the strip lighting doesn’t help.

I barely sleep and am up early the next morning. I pack a small rucksack and leave the house to walk up the track and on to the road, where I flag a taxi down. Soon I am walking down the track to Phelisanong, a beautiful backdrop provided by the Maluti mountains and clear blue skies. I go through the gate and the first person I see is Tokiso, being pushed to school in a wheelchair. It’s an amazing coincidence and he looks at me in disbelief. I crouch down and hold his hand and tell him I’m really pleased to see him and will meet him later for physio after school. He’s wheeled away still looking stunned.

I go to the hut that I was using part of for last year for physio, sharing it with the clinic and social worker’s office. The space I was using is filled with metal fruit driers, a washing machine, drier, a wardrobe, tools and boxes of apparent rubbish. There is up roar as I insist it all goes. A battle ensues with Mahali, the man who organises the sports here, says the boxes are full of football stuff. Some of them are, some of them not.

“Look rubbish” I say pointing at empty plastic bottles. “Yes rubbish” chorus the social worker, clinic lady and care worker, taking up the cry.  Eventually there is a compromise, the wardrobe and football kit get to stay and everything else goes. The social worker, Nthaza, helps me unpack all the kit I have brought, frames, crutches, a corner seat, bowls, soap, water containers, blenders, cutlery, cups, toys, books, games, therapy balls, tools. I had no idea I had so much stuff and assembling it and clearing the room takes the best part of the morning.

I then go with Nthaza to look round the houses and decide which of the many children I will pick for physiotherapy over the next month or so. The setup of the houses has changed since last year and children have swapped rooms. I start in the house which has some of the youngest children in and most disabled. I have already decided that I will be continuing to work with Lineo (blog 7) and Malafane (blog 8). Last year I got Lineo standing and beginning to feed herself and want to continue her progress and get her walking. I’m in for a surprise, the staff have beaten me to it and she has been able to both feed herself and walk for some time.

Lineo waddles across the room and gives me a friendly thump. It’s lunch time and I can’t believe what I am seeing. Not only are the children being feed upright, but Malafane is managing to feed himself. This is the child who last year was being fed on his back, the house mothers forming a trough under his chin and scooping the food into his mouth before his large tongue could push it out again.

He looks at me triumphantly as he manages to get most of an entire spoonful of food into his mouth. I have tears in my eyes at his incredible feat. I feel that teaching the house mothers to feed the children upright and them continuing to do this and progress it, is one of the most worthwhile things I’ve ever contributed to. Feeling rather emotional I move on to the next house.

In the afternoon, Tokiso, Marsala and Kolosa come to the physio room. After Malafane’s amazing exploit I am eager to see how they are all getting on with their walking. It’s a big disappointment. They all seem worse than I remember, the boy’s muscle spasm and Marsala’s uncontrolled movements make walking terribly difficult for them. “Look Mme Jan I am training,” says Tokiso excitedly as he struggles a few yards down the path. I try to smile and encouraged him, but can’t see how he will ever be able to walk to school. His legs are so twisted they wrap around each other as he tries to move them.

The afternoon finishes on a brighter note as I go back to their house with them and read all the children the Three Little Pigs, with Nthaza translating and using the finger puppets. Florence rises to the occasion and the children laugh delightedly as we run around pretending to be the wolf with our bottom on fire. I say goodbye to them all and that I’ll see them all tomorrow. Tokiso has shyly told me it’s his tenth birthday, so of course I won’t be missing it.

Saturday dawns and I manage to find some pens, a note book, a bar of chocolate and a car building set, like the one I gave Alex, with a screw driver and spanner. I go to Tokiso’s house and give them to him. He clutches the plastic bag to his chest without even knowing what’s in it. I think it’s unlikely that he, or the other children, have much experience of receiving birthday presents.

It takes him the best part of a couple of hours to patiently screw the vehicle together and he is delighted with it. After he has had lunch I go to his house with Ashton, who is here doing some voluntary working teaching the children to hand sign. She on guitar and drums and I’m on sax. Some pretty wild dancing ensures from the children who are able to stand and ear splinting screaming from one of the children who can only lie in bed, who joins in the only way she can.

I walk back up the track with Ashton and we catch a taxi being driven by a man in a red plastic builders hat. He tells me he remembers me from last year. I don't remember him and wonder if I should be wearing a hat like his, but he delivers me safely to the guest house without the need for it. Hard hats are sometimes necessary on the emotional roller coaster ride Africa can throw at you, but I got away with it this week.