Blog 24: One journey ends

Blog 24: One journey ends

We all look at the temperature gauge, and it doesn’t matter whether you read it in Sotho or English the colour is definitely red. The driver, Paul, shakes his head and we have to stop. He’s made it through two road blocks, bribed a fat policeman, sweet talked another one, but the engine is proving a more to be a more obdurate problem. We’ve got as far as Pitseng, 5 km before the ultimate destination of a year’s journey in raising money for physiotherapy equipment and getting it sent out to Africa. 

We all get out and Pauls mate lifts the passenger seat, allowing Paul to reach out a telescopic arm and undo the water cap. The 3 of us leap back in respectful admiration of the volcanic eruption of boiling water that fills the lorry’ s cab with steam. Eventually it stops, and Paul goes to a nearby house to get water to refill the tank. It’s not looking good and I decide to phone a friend.

I normally contact the manager, Mamello, at Phelisanong via Facebook, but she’s not picking up. I need her local number and the most likely person I can think of to get the number is Garry in Canada. So, I call Garry in Canada, from a roadside in Lesotho, who gives me the number which Mamello answers. This is a fine example of modern communication and the brilliance of telecoms over here. Back in Wales I can’t even get signal to call somebody living in the same village as I do.

Very quickly Teko, the Phelisanong driver, arrives with the truck and we unload half the equipment into it and take it on to Phelisanong. By the time we return for the second load Paul has managed to nurture the vehicle to the top of the track at Phelisanong and we offload the last of the equipment.

The track down to Phelisanong has turned into a deeply rutted river bed and is bad as I’ve ever seen it. We lurch down the track with a static bike and standing frame wobbling precariously on top of a medical couch. Finally, we reach the little hut I’ve been using for physiotherapy for the last 2 years at Phelisanong and bundle the equipment inside. 

The room has been thoughtfully prepared and cleaned but by the time all the equipment is in it there’s no room for anything, certainly not physiotherapy. There’s barely any light left, and I decide I must investigate my accommodation, Garry’s hut on the hill above Phelisanong. Malineo, the physiotherapy assistant I trained last year, is there to welcome me with a broom and a big smile.  It’s great to see her and she disappears in the dark and I start to investigate the fundamental needs of man … power!

There’s a wire coming out of the wall, suspiciously attached to a cable lying on the grass outside. I can actually put 3 plugs in at once, which I'm not sure is wise, but I risk it. A rusty toaster provides my cooking facilities, while my phone is on charge and out of the gloom Mahali appears with a lamp. I go for broke and have toast, light and working phone, who needs more? Tea of course! Mahali has a gas stove, boils some water and I’m sorted.    

A spectacular thunderstorm erupts resulting in little sleep and the loss of my precious electricity supply. It also reveals that the roof leaks, but fortunately not over the bed. The morning brings low hanging mist over the mountains and thick mud wherever you walk.

I squelch my way down to the centre and start to unpack the kit with the help of Malineo and a new physiotherapy assistant, Joalane, and Mamello. There is cardboard and chaos everywhere, added to by dozens of tables and chairs outside the door. We brought them with us yesterday and at the time I had no idea why. Action Ireland provided me with a vehicle and trailer to get the equipment to Phelisanong and the truck was also stacked with tables and chairs which I thought were just along for the ride.

Now it turns out they were thrown in as an additional gift because it was thought they might be useful. How right they were! The children eat off tiny plastic tables here, which they can’t get their legs under. Now with the aid of a welding torch the tables are stuck together and voila!   

The pandemonium of the day continues as I try and sort the equipment in the tiny space and get the children fitted with their new boots, which give them ankle support. The shoes are leather and specially made costing around £60 a pair. I’ve got about 30 pairs with me, all second hand, but you wouldn’t know as they’ve barely been worn.

The children tear up and down the path in them using the new frames, some trying to run on their twisted legs in their excitement. They want to ride the static bike, play with the all the toys and stand in the standing frame, all at once. I’m losing control of the situation as I try and a tools to punch a hole in a shoe buckle, whilst tripping over the equipment and bumping into the men welding the tables.

I hear a familiar voice behind me, “Mme Jan, we must talk.” It’s the builder, Mr Chabalala, with a smile that is impossible to be cross with, despite his outrageous quotes and the ridiculous space I am now trying to work in, having failed to negotiate a reasonable price for the building of the physiotherapy house.

“Look,” I say pointing to the boxes stack to the ceiling, “I have been working all year to buy this equipment and get it here. I need a physiotherapy house to put it in and a good price. Cheap, cheap because you are already onsite building a community hall and making lots of money.”

“Yes, yes show me what you want”

We begin negotiations all over again, interrupted by a gang of Welsh teachers and students from Cardiff who start singing in Welsh in the middle of it all.

“Are you Jan the physio? asks one of the teachers very excited.

“Err Yes”

“It’s so good to see how the money is being spent on the ground. Look!”

She thrusts a leaflet into my hands produced by Dolen about the all the work they are involved with in Lesotho. This includes my physiotherapy work at Saint Angela’s and Phelisanong and the proposed physiotherapy building for here. I read it rather bemused while she runs off to find a teacher who has run a marathon for Dolen. He is equally thrilled to find out what the money he has raised is supporting and thinks that he will be able to keep going next time he does the marathon and hits the wall.

I suppose raising money for charity can often be a disconnected thing and I’m glad that they are not disappointed with what they see. I return to the mud, sweat and dribble and the reality of a builder with a tape measure and a note book, pleading with me to let me know what quote he should make that will be accepted. I tell him I don’t know, and he must speak to Manyanye, Dolen’s man on the ground, who is coming tomorrow.

Manyanye duly turns up the following day with a special theatre group from Wales, Hijinks, who are on tour performing in Lesotho. I meet with Manyanye and Mr Chabalala, and bash out a simple plan of dimensions and materials that can be quoted for. I leave them to it and go down to house 8 to start checking out some of the new children. So far, I have only seen the ones I’ve been working with the last two years

There is nothing objective in my method, I just go into the house and stand there looking at the children rolling around on the floor. I notice a little boy staring at me blankly and question the house mothers. I find out his name is Tebo, he’s 5 years old and only came to Phelisanong yesterday with a young single mother. She has told the staff he doesn’t walk or talk. I can’t see anything particularly wrong with him apart from the fact that he looks like he has a learning disability.

I pick him up and his legs jack knife. I bounce him a bit and encourage him to stand, which he can with support. I take him back to the physio house, find him some boots, get Malineo to hold one hand and he stands between us and we walk out the door. Tebo doesn’t appear to have worn shoes before and his legs are doing strange high steps at the peculiar feeling its giving him.

We walk down to where the Hijinx’s people are dancing with the children. It is difficult to describe what happens next, but some sort of light bulb comes on in Tebo’s head, and he starts bouncing up and down with a big smile on his face trying to join in. I see the little boy that lies within the apparent blank exterior, that’s never had a chance to shine. I think his problem is that no one has nurtured him, talked to him or encouraged him to develop at all.

I find a little girl, Tula, who seems to have had a similar start in life and feel that both her and Tebo will learn to walk and talk with encouragement. They just need practice, stimulation and a little love. It sounds simple, but you have to have the time, the will and the education to do these things. That’s not a given when there is little help available to young mothers who have their own problems and difficult circumstances to cope with.

Other problems I see are not developmental, they are a result of complex medical problems which need expert surgery. Mamello brings me a boy with a brain tumour and girl with Spinae Bifida with a club foot that some surgeon has butchered, leaving an open hole that I can see right into the foot. I think its been like that for a couple of years. I remove the filthy bandage and I am very tempted to try and debride the wound. For the moment I make do with getting an oversized pair of shoes and padding them out with socks which enables her to walk.

The pace of work continues unabated in the afternoon and the children from house 5 are sitting outside the door calling to me each time I pass asking to come to physiotherapy. I keep saying “Yes, soon, I’ll be back,” but so far, I can’t find any time to keep my promise. They take matters into their own hands. I am walking with Bokang and when I look back they are all crawling up the concrete path following me.

Lesojane head is wobbling around furiously as his knuckles dig into ground and he drags his body along. He shows a remarkable turn of pace as he goes for broke determined to get to physio. He makes it all the way to the physio house as do the rest of the hard core crew from room 5. It’s a beautiful day and we all end up sitting on the small patch of grass outside playing with the toys and listening to some music.

It’s a moment to savour. Finally, the huge stress of getting the equipment here rolls off me and I can relax knowing this part of the journey is over. Tomorrow’s another day and the next stage of the journey to get it installed in a decent physiotherapy house begins. Just for now, though, I can take a little bit of pleasure and watch the children playing.