met me at the hospital, "Are you ready to go to the village today?"
I assured him I was, but we faced a logistics problem. "Do you have a bicycle?" he asked.
The Peace Corps was going to deliver a bicycle and laboratory equipment in about a week, but no, I did not have a bicycle yet, I explained.
Martin arranged to borrow a bike from the supply clerk and then decided it would be best for us to visit a village quite close to the hospital. We had only gone about a half-mile when my tire went flat. "No problem, Madam," Martin said. "We can go back to the hospital and get it fixed." We walked our bicycles back to the hospital and the storekeeper produced a patch kit. He and Martin worked on the bicycle for an hour and then gave me their collective wisdom. "Susan, the tube is too old and the hole is too big."
Martin promised that we would try again the next day.
Again, my role was to sit and wait.
The next morning Martin greeted me, "Susan, today I must go to a health center in Namwera. We have a report of a case of smallpox in the area and it is my job to investigate." I pictured myself with another day of waiting but was surprised when he asked, "Do you want to ride with us to see the area?
"Of course, I'd love that," I responded, forgetting my disappointment at not being able to go to a village to begin my project.
The Land Rover was packed with supplies for the health center. A nurse and one other health assistant joined us for the trip. Namwera was a district across the river and up the escarpment toward the border with Mozambique, a Portuguese colony. As we climbed the escarpment, I got my first real view of the lake. It had been easy to tell from a map that the lake was huge, but it was only by viewing it from the mountain road that I realized how vast it was. The opposite shore was difficult to distinguish. Several villages could be made out, but all else lacked definition. Mountains rose quickly beyond the shore, the lake having been formed millions of years ago by an upheaval that created the Rift Valley. From our perch I could see the funnel to the south where the lake narrowed and its water drained into the Shire River. Then, after passing Fort Johnston the water spread into the shallow lakebed, shortly afterwards to hurl itself violently into gorges, creating thundering waterfalls as it fought its way into the Zambezi River and then into the Indian Ocean beyond.
As we continued our ascent, the road worsened and the terrain became hilly and tree covered. We passed a parade of women, carrying huge bundles of firewood on their heads and babies on their backs, as they retraced our tracks down the escarpment and across the ferry to Fort Johnston, where, for a mere shilling or two, they would sell their loads to the mzungu to cook their meals and heat their bath water. Afterward, they would probably rest briefly or shop at a duka before beginning the homeward journey to their villages.
We traveled along the dusty road for another half-hour, much of that time on the flat surface of the plateau. The health center was located in a small town made up of three stores on one side of the road and two on another. Africans congregating along the road took nonchalant note of our arrival.
The health center was small and clean with a tin-roofed central waiting area where the sick were protected from the heat of the sun and heavy rains. We were greeted by the medical assistant, a young man, probably a recent graduate of the training school, undoubtedly resenting his assignment to such a remote location.
Martin approached me after speaking with the medical assistant for a few minutes. "They have received reports from villagers coming to the health center that there is smallpox in the villages west of Ngonji. We must go and investigate," he explained, adding that this was one of the few areas of the country where cases of smallpox still occurred---five cases total in the last year. He was hopeful that last year's vaccination campaign had been successful. Part of the difficulty with vaccination effort in the area was that the people were mistrusting of outsiders. In addition, villagers were continually moving back and forth across the border with Mozambique.
A health assistant from the center joined us. We immediately left the main road. The Land Rover began to traverse what appeared to be little more than a widened footpath. The progress was slow and bumpy. I could not refuse my honored position in the front seat, no matter how forcefully I tried. The bouncing began to take its toll on my unseasoned derriere, but the ride was clearly even more unpleasant for Martin and the other health assistant in the rear of the Land Rover.
After what seemed like an hour, I asked the driver whether we were getting close. "Pafupi," he exclaimed emphatically, "It is very close." We traveled another half-hour and suddenly the driver stopped. Ahead was a gully and a bridge, made of frail-looking logs, just wide enough for a vehicle. The driver did not even get out of the vehicle but simply proceeded ahead after a casual examination. The bridge held us, but not without emitting cracking sounds of protest as it did. Soon afterward we reached Ngonji village.
We stopped and I got out of the Land Rover to stretch my legs and air my bottom. I was covered with dust and my throat was dry and hoarse. "This is as far as we can go with the Land Rover," Martin said. "I will talk to people here and find out what they have heard about the smallpox. I think they will be honest with me as they have seen how useful the vaccine has been. They used to feel hopeless against smallpox that has killed so many, many people. Now they seem to understand that we are helping".
Martin talked with several men who had gathered upon our arrival. Soon he returned. "They tell me that they, themselves, have just heard a rumor of smallpox in the Mhilanji area, but they do not know whether it is so."
"We must walk from here," he explained. "This man will come with us to show the way." The path narrowed. We had to walk in single file. Tall brush grew along the path. We met only a few people along the road and we passed no villages. I heard our leader tell Martin that the village is now pafupi. By now I no longer trusted pafupi. We walked another twenty minutes, encountering a stream too broad to jump across. Our barefoot guide crossed without hesitation. Martin stopped, "Perhaps we should take off our shoes."
I noticed that his heavy leather oxfords, which he appeared to polish daily, were covered with dust. I surveyed the stream and estimated the water to be mid-calf in depth and about four strides across. Another health lecture replayed in my head: "Never, never, walk in the water!" I vividly recalled the diagram, showing how the parasite entered through the skin and then traveled through the blood stream finding a desirable resting place in the bladder or large intestine, slowly eating its way into the liver, culminating in a slow, painful death of its host.
Looking around, I saw no hesitation on the part of the others. Surely Martin would understand my dilemma. He did not appear to take notice. I took off my shoes and waded through the water, sensing death-bearing little bilharzia parasites penetrating my skin instantaneously. On the opposite shore I fastidiously dried my legs with my socks, while the others politely waited.
A blister began to form on my heel; my throat was parched. The others appeared fresh and occasionally turned back to me as if to estimate how much they would have to slow their pace to keep from leaving me behind.
By now it was almost noon. The sun did not leave a shadow. I was perspiring, tired, thirsty, and totally at the whim of those who found nothing particularly foreign or frightening about the situation. Finally, the path split and we took the one leading us to our intended village. Martin and the volunteer from the village proceeded ahead of us, but soon returned to take us to meet the ufumu.
We entered a compound, a circle of mud and wattle huts linked with reed fences. Small stools and mats were immediately brought to the shade of the gigantic banyan tree that marked the central meeting place of the village. We were instructed to sit, as women and small children peered out from their huts, shy but curious. Daring young boys approached us, shrieked and ran away.
