style="font-size:15px;"> Martin introduced us to the ufumu, a frail and powerless-appearing man, bearing no sign of authority. He wore a pair of oft mended shorts and an undershirt, the color of tobacco juice. After our greeting, Martin turned to me and said that the headman had asked me to forgive the way that the women were behaving but none of them had ever seen a white woman before.
There had been no smallpox in his village and he had not heard rumors from any other village. Martin was confident that it had been a false rumor and was satisfied that we could now return.
After a few minutes, the women became less intimidated. Eventually a cluster of three or four pre-pubescent girls approached holding out their hands to shake mine. I returned their greeting and they sat down in front of me while we continued to talk with the headman. I began to experience a sensation crawling up my leg like the march of insects. I looked down and found that one of the girl was timidly rubbing her small hand over the hair on my leg. I responded with a smile. One of the other girls laughed and put her hand on my hair. I let each of them in turn touch my dusty, unruly hair and they responded with innocent laughter and mirth. All I could think was how great it would be if there were someone there to share the moment. Then it struck me. Sharing that moment would have removed its uniqueness. As it was, it was my mine and mine alone.
Sitting for a few minutes had relieved my blisters but my throat remained desert dry. In several minutes the ufumu's wife brought out an enamel pitcher and some cups and poured water for each of us. I took a cup and coveted its contents but knew that to drink would risk the three D's: "diarrhea, dysentery and death". I demurely set it aside and daintily manipulated my saliva to give comfort to my sandpapered throat. I obsessed over the thought of a cold shandy, but with quick resolve told myself, "No, Susan, you are not going to join the Club!"
Chapter 9. Trilling Mbumbas
The next morning Martin greeted me, “I have a proper bicycle for you today.” We headed north along the lakeshore road and after a few miles Martin turned onto a narrow footpath passing between two mud huts. Suddenly we were in a village---right in the middle of a compound. It felt just like our Florida vacation when Daddy stopped the car by the highway, paid some money and we entered through a turnstile. Suddenly there it was—a recreated Indian village with living people dressed like Seminoles, doing the things that Seminoles had always done, even before the arrival of the tourist.
In the center of the compound there were about a dozen women, from adolescent to ancient age. Two women pulverized their maize with huge wooden mortars and pestles. Others sat on the ground, winnowing the product of the others' work, artfully tossing it in the air on large round trays, woven from reeds, separating kernels and chaff. Another woman chopped wood and two others bundled the maize flour in cloth, to be stored or, perhaps, transported to market. Around them were flocks of children playing games and toddlers, naked except for a string of beads around their necks, testing the distance they could safely wander from their mothers. A group of five or six girls, too young to work and too old to toddle, played a game that seemed to consist of tossing a rock into the air and then making a funny hop-scotch-type movement to the spot the rock landed, following a set of rules perhaps known only to themselves. At the far end of the compound, boys played soccer with a ball made of straw, wrapped in layers of cloth. Two goats transversed the compound, the only creatures oblivious to our arrival.
"Physics 101" entered my mind at the most unexpected time. Heisenberg's Principle took hold: "You cannot observe a phenomenon without affecting it." The women stopped their work and stared. The younger ones put up their hands to cover their breasts. The older ones did not. I wondered whether this was for Martin's benefit or my own. The toddlers howled and darted back to their mothers’ sides. The girls halted their game. The boys lost interest in the ball and began to circle around us. The women began to trill in unison. Raising their heads back they let out a high-pitched scream, rhythmically affected by the movement of their tongues.
One of the women, who had been pounding maize, dropped her mortar and came closer to examine me, trilling, dancing and clapping her hands as she did. The others laughed approvingly. My attempt to speak their language brought shriller and more excited trills.
A girl about two years old, with puss-filled eyes and phlegm-dripping nose, began to scream. Her mother laughed and held the child up so that she had to behold me. “Mzungu,” the mother explained to the terror-stricken child.
The women signaled Martin, as if to say: "Bring the stranger to us." We rested our bikes against a tree and approached the women. Martin turned to me and said, "They want to know how it is that you are a European lady but you speak their language?"
"Martin, can you explain to them?" I asked.
They exchanged more words and then Martin reported, "They say that they are very glad that you have come to help them."
One of the older, gray-haired women, an agago, asked Martin a question.
"She wants to know if you are married."
I shook my head. They responded with a baleful chorus of "papani", expressing their sympathy. Then the old woman spoke, the other women laughed and Martin interpreted.
"She says that she hopes you aren't looking for a man here because they are a sorry lot, indeed."
I attempted on my own, with a few words and with body language, to convey that was not my intent.
The mother held up the oozing baby again and asked Martin, "What can the doctor do for my child?" I prayed that words could heal. "Martin, please tell them I hope we can help them but it may take some time." I felt my own smallness. I did not know how to help her daughter and didn't have the tools to do so. Would they ever be able to accept me for what I was...someone who came with desires to help but with skills so limited that my impact might scarcely be felt?
Martin explained our role to the women and they appeared satisfied and nodded with approval. He then told the mother that if she brought her baby to the hospital they would be able to help her there.
The mother said she already knew that option but complained, "It is so far and you have to wait so long," giving indication that her daughter would have to be a lot sicker for her to make such a trip.
We learned the name of this village was Samama and the ufumu could be found uko, by following the indicated footpath. We headed down the path, chickens scattering in front of us, children swarming behind us. The trail to the headman was circuitous. He was extremely old and frail, but polite and friendly. We sat and Martin began talking.
The ufumu nodded his head and occasionally responded with an emphatic "Ah! Ha!" Martin turned to me and said that the headman thought our work sounded very good and he would help in every way. He said his people would be supportive because there was a great deal of T.B. in the village and they had seen the suffering it brought.
The ufumu informed us that there were about two hundred huts in his village. He estimated that there were about 900 people, but readily admitted that he had never counted them all. He also let us know, with significant pride, that the village had a school for grades 1-8 which used to be run by the Anglican Mission. These days, they had two government teachers. "The people are very eager to learn about diseases. They do not want to be ignorant any longer," he said.
Several older men, the headman's confidants, joined our circle and expressed their approval. All indicated that they would be active in getting the villagers to accept our help.
We avoided making any commitments but assured the ufumu that we would give consideration to
