We are in the high school library doing a final measure up of the boys for their new wheelchairs before I go to Bloemfontein to collect the order the following day. I’ve already brought one wheelchair for Kats which I am using as a test size for Kamo and Thepello and it seems to work well for them. Alex is more complicated; he has brittle bones and despite being twenty years old is about the size of five-year-old. I can easily pick him in my arms, which I do, and put him in Kats wheelchair to try and work out which of the various combination of sizes and parts, that are available to me at CE mobility, will work best for him. I must get it right as these guys have been waiting years for a wheelchair, while theirs disintegrate and injure them. When they finally get their chairs, they will have to last for a long time.
Kats, Kamo, and Alex are all joshing each other, as they always do. I’ve known them since I came to Saint Angela in 2016, when I first arrived in Lesotho to work with children with disabilities. They were young teenagers then, enthusiastic physiotherapy students, always smiling and keen to improve themselves. I remember Alex showing me his taekwondo and doing wheelies in his broken-down chair, Kamo’s amazing spin kicks when doing floor football, Kats leading physio sessions and showing the younger children how to do their stretches. I have watched them grow over the years, and as I realise, as I assess them, they are no longer boys, they are men, even Alex’s shoulders have broadened into manhood. Hopefully they will soon graduate from school, and they all need wheelchairs that will see them into adulthood. Tomorrow, I intend to see they get the chairs they so desperately need and deserve.
“Look at you all” I say proudly, you are now all men.” “Except him” says Alex pointing to Kats, who is the biggest of them all, “he is still a child”. They all burst into laughter, including Kats. I smile and shake my head, these guys!
Folks at home have donated and raised money so that I am able to buy five more wheelchairs to add to the one I have already brought for Kats. Thankfully the occupational therapist, Ntsukunyane, has agreed to come with me again. He rocks up first thing in the morning and we make for the border, which is only just down the road. We both need to get a covid vaccination certificate and join dozens of others waiting in a slow-moving queue at the border. After three and a half hours we finally have our precious certificates and cross the border. Ntsukunyane is driving and we are cruising steadily along the almost deserted long straight road to Bloemfontein. We’ve only been driving for about 20 minutes when Ntsukunyane makes an exclamation. I see a policeman in the long grass by the side of the road with a speed camera, and we are pulled over.
“Speeding? “I ask Ntsukunyane puzzled. “No, I was not speeding” he shakes his head. He gets out of the car and as time ticks by I can see things aren’t going well with the fat policeman who is writing a charge sheet. Ntsukunyane eventually returns with the verdict which reads “dangerous driving” and a thousand rand fine. “No way!” I say outraged, “Did he have any evidence?” “No, he said I overtook before the solid line was broken and if I wanted to argue he’d call reinforcements to take me to Ladybrand cells and lock me up until a judge was ready to hear my complaint.”
“*******” I say, “that is so unjust”.
“There is nothing I can do, unless I want to spend a long time in the cells.” Ntsukunyane is philosophical, I am incensed, but don’t want to go to Ladybrand and spend an indefinite period throwing the rock buns Ntsukunyane has brought through the prison bars for him to eat until he is released. The policemen have us over a barrel and with me still fuming we continue on our way.
After a quick visit to a shop to buy some tools and crutches we go to CE mobility to pick to up the wheelchairs. It takes quite a time to sort the various combination of arm rests and footplates and its close to 5pm when leave. By the time we get to the border its dark and we head down an unlit turning where there are lots of parked lorries, to declare the wheelchairs. Thank goodness we are the only ones in the queue because it takes them at least 30 minutes to sort the paperwork and decide I need to pay a 650-rand duty. They have no card machine, and I am fortunate that I have enough in cash. We go and get our passports stamped, then we must go somewhere else to hand in the invoice so the Lesotho government can claim back the VAT.
Ntsukunyane takes the invoices to customs while I wait in the car, he’s been totally brilliant sorting everything out. I have no idea of the processes that need to be followed, except that I need two copies of the invoices for the border crossing, which I have. Twenty minutes goes by and a worried Ntsukunyane appears asking if I have a third copy of the invoice as customs are saying the ones I’ve given him aren’t the original. “No these are the only ones I have; they are the originals; you saw them printed out at the shop.”
“The lady at customs said they are copies and if we can’t produce the original, she’s going to confiscate the wheelchairs.”
I jump out the car and go with him to customs. The lady behind the desk looks as hard as nails and I try to work out how best to pay it. I temper a desire to throttle her and decide to plead, rather than go for a full-on emotional breakdown.
“Look this is the original invoice, I say, slightly tearfully, you can see it has the receipt stapled to it.” She turns the sheets of paper every which way suspiciously and seems particularly displeased with the slightly faded “Paid” stamp the shop has used.
“Yes, I can see the receipt she says impatiently, but this invoice is a copy, and I will have to confiscate the wheelchairs until you can return with the original invoice from Bloemfontein.”
I imagine the guys faces when I tell them their wheelchairs are locked up in customs. I renew my pleading, I can’t understand her argument at all, even if she doesn’t like the look of the paper the invoice is printed on, surely she only needs the number to claim back the VAT.
“Did you pay for them?” she asks me sharply
“Yes”
“And where are you staying?”
“Maseru”
“Full time?”
“Yes”
“What is your address?”
She takes my address resentfully
“If there is anything wrong with the paperwork we will come and find you”
I resist the impulse to say something rude, thank her and make a sharp exist before she changes her mind.
“What was that all about?” I ask Ntsukunyane
“She thinks you might be running a business scam.”
“Well, if I was, I could think of something better than trying to get five wheelchairs across the border! No wonder they are so hard to get hold of in Lesotho.”
It’s taken over two hours to get through customs and after another 55 rand we finally cross back into Lesotho. I drop Ntsukunyane in town and arrive back home exhausted and totally stressed out by the whole drama of the day.
Two days later I am with the team to hear the results of the Assistive Technology (AT) Capacity Assessment Lesotho. This report has been drawn up by UNICEF Lesotho, CHAI, (Clinton Health Access Initiative) and the Ministry of Social Development (MoSD) and our team has taken part in the interviews which have been conducted with stakeholders over the last 5 months. Since I have been coming to Lesotho, I have seen little evidence of equipment supplied by MoSD and that which I have come across has not been fit for purpose. This is not surprising as the supply chain seems to have completely broken down and there appears to be no connection between the need for AT, individual assessment, and supply response (hence the need for my trip to Bloemfontein two days previously).
The report concludes, Lesotho has no existing policy on AT regulating standards, no central data base, a lack of skilled AT personnel, inadequate financial resources, interventions are fragmented and uncoordinated and there is a pressing need for an overall national AT strategy. MoSD says it has a budget of 3 million rand a year, spread between the districts and all AT needs. Admittedly that not a lot, but I feel the first step is to try and use what budget there is efficiently and effectively. I am very glad I went to Bloemfontein to get the wheelchairs, rather than wait for years for the MoSD to supply them. I’m also very glad that the team is making the bespoke seating out of cardboard, for children with seating difficulties as specialised seating is not even on the list of equipment procured by the MoSD. The rest of the day is taken up by discussion groups trying to find a way forward and as most of the conference candidates are from MoSD I leave with a heavy heart.
While is it difficult to change long standing problems and administration inertia at government level, action at grass roots level can change people’s lives. Good fitting wheelchairs that work properly not only improve a young person’s independence but also prevent longer term skeletal problems and associated pain, they are a fundamental need for going to school if you can’t walk. The wheelchairs which are being replaced have broken backs and are all too small for the guys. Thapelo’s is so small he sits with his knees up to chest; this is not only painful but very undignified for him as a 16-year-old. I can’t wait to replace these clapped-out chairs with new ones properly measured and the great day dawns sunny and bright.
The original plan was to just take the four wheelchairs I have for the high school boys, do the final adjustments there and take a few pictures. I arrive to find the principle has a different plan and has decided to mark the occasion with a full school celebration. Hoping the guys won’t be too embarrassed by this I give out the chairs. They are standard sizes so there is limited adjustment on them. The wheelchairs for Kats, Kamo and Thapelo fit well, and I can see they are made up. Alex looks little uncertain, it’s a big change for him, and we will have to see how it goes.
So, it’s time to celebrate and fortunately, Ntsukunyane, Thato and Ntseliseng can join us along with the whole high school. Harmonious singing, dancing and a few speeches follow. It feels very joyous, and I think the guys enjoy it too once they leave the podium for the school choir and dancers take centre stage. While the celebrations last about 45 minutes the benefits of the wheelchairs should last the recipients years and with the help of the school hopefully the old chairs can be repaired so even more students can benefit. I will remember this morning for a long time, the singing the dancing but especially Kamo’s face when he tried his new chair for the first time. He closed his eyes and sank back into the chair. “Is it okay?” I asked him anxiously.
“Its wonderful” he said with a blissful smile.
