Friday

Morning

6.55am. Jolted awake by the sound of the alarm, body aching from the wooden slats and thin mattress of her bed, she rises and gets ready for the day. Calls out to Katura that she is ready to leave. But Katura, their new housemate, socially awkward to the point of rudeness, has already left without saying a word. So she locks the door, crosses the yard of sand, and starts her walk to work. Halfway there a flatbed truck stops, as usual, to pick her up. She squeezes into the cab next to the two other passengers. Good morning. How are you? The weather is fine today isn’t it? These everyday pleasantries leave her with a sense of accomplishment for having made a human connection with someone. It is a win.

8.30am. The sounds of African religion drift over the scuffed white cubicle walls, music both haunting and joyful, harmonies drifting in and out effortlessly. The meeting has begun. Bright red, white, blue and green plastic armchairs form rows in the cavernous concrete hall. She takes her place next to the Field Officers scattered haphazardly in the chairs, blank expressions on their faces, and listens to the morning announcements. Grimaces inside as they take the usual form of accusations and aggression before she herself slumps in her chair, mirroring the Field Officers around her, and waits for it to be over. Heavy silence as questions posed to the Field Officers hang in the air unanswered because no one bothers, or is brave enough, to answer. Rage and frustration at the abhorrent management skills wells inside her but she turns it to apathy, there is no point in feeling anger because what can she do? She is tired of feeling unheard and angry and is close to giving up. Fortune’s words wash over them all, as gray and bleak as the concrete warehouse, the dirty cubicle, the sand strewn town. The figures are not accurate. Transport money is not accurate. Sunday is Condom Day, Field Officers are expected to attend local events. Katura stands and opens the topic that is on everyone’s minds, the program closing, contracts ending. He reads the memo sent from the Head Office, poorly written and intended for management, not the Field Officers. Like an embattled politician, he repeats the now well worn, meaningless line,

“The five year funding has ended. This means you contracts will finish on the 31^st of September. The funding is ending but this does not mean that the project is closing. Is it clear now?”

No, it is not clear. But the faces of the Field Officers do not change. Blank expressions prevail.

Afternoon

1100 am. Brian walks through the cubicle door, laden with the familiar backpack, red from heat and emotion, close to tears. In all the time she has known him she has only seen him close to tears three, maybe four times. He is returning from yet another hospital appointment with their old neighbor Trinity. The fight to get the Zimbabwean national onto life saving ARVs, the fight to save her life, is failing and it is taking an emotional toll. They have known that her CD4 count is hovering in the high 80s for two weeks now and she is still not on medication. Setting down his backpack - anger, frustration and helplessness emanating from his voice - he informs her that as of two days ago all non-Namibians are no longer entitled to medical care. In this tiny strip of land jutting into Botswana and Namibia, bordered by four different countries, many of whose citizens have made Caprivi their home, this is serious news. But all Brian cares about is Trinity. He has spent the morning sitting with her, four doctors, and the head of the hospital, fighting to get her access to the drugs she needs. He has sat next to her as she has been informed that the number of non-nationals receiving ARV treatment in the border town with the highest prevalence rate of HIV in the world has gotten too high and needs to be controlled. He has sat next to her as she has been informed that the Namibian government no longer cares about her and so she will die.

Silence. A silence heavy with the significance of this new reality. A silence charged with emotion. Which then erupts into sound as they try to pin down the situation, to create a sense of control, with words. Maybe the CDC could help. Who can we call? Maybe the Red Cross holds some sway. What do we tell our clients in the field? How could they do this to all those people? For the first time Brian mentions leaving, going home. What is the point of getting people tested if they cannot be treated? What hope can we offer them?

Evening

3.00pm. The brightly colored plastic chairs have been rearranged into a horseshoe and the Field Officers stare at the white wall. Together they stand in front of them, ready to begin. Projected onto the wall reads the words ‘Field Officer Survey: Review’. She hands back their corrected quizzes, making sure to avoid eye contact as she reads the names aloud to hide the fact that she does not know who is who. They begin. Confident, passionate, at ease working together and in this format the pair moves through the quiz, using each question as a platform for mini-lessons on the intricacies of the virus they are there to fight. Adherence. CD4 cells. Breastfeeding recommendations. Opportunistic infections. It surprises her how familiar the terms are, just how much she knows about this disease that one year ago was just a term heard on the news.

They try to jolt the Field Officers out of their usual seeming indifference using any means necessary. Used to a top down approach of, at times, aggressive lecture, at first the Field Officers don’t know what to make of these white foreigners trying to instill participation and interest through sheer energy, passion and willpower. When asked to stand if they think the answer to the question is True, no one moves, unsure what to do. Given statements of behavior to place on a Continuum of Risk projected on the wall, they stand looking uncertainly at one another. Laughter erupts when she jumps up and down shouting YES! EXACTLY! THANK YOU! When someone volunteers the right answer. But slowly, she sees signs of participation. She watches as the normal blank expressions become focused. As Field Officers, still mostly men, but nevertheless, begin to ask questions and are rewarded for their bravery. As small groups start to talk to each other about the information they are learning. As they start to approach her with plans to bring their community together, to start Support Groups and youth clubs.

Baby steps. A small win, but a win nevertheless. Smiles all around.

Walking home along the sandy path Brian let’s out a half laugh, emotionally exhausted yet surprised at the positive end to the day. “What a day. Let’s get a drink.”