A Long Walk

I'm in a truck in a world I've never been in before; a world not many people like me are privileged to see. I'm beside one of the trustees of the Nana Foundation, and in the back is an 8 year old girl and her mother. The child is sick with malaria. We're in a remote village in Southern Malawi.

I spent the morning helping in the Chipwaila health centre. It's a small, simple building with two rooms that serves this very rural community. There is usually one doctor here for whoever turns up on the day. As part of our work, we support the clinic with manpower and resources. Many people were waiting when we arrived, one of whom was this young lady.

One glance told us she was sick. Semi conscious, dehydrated, and very hot. We established that she needed urgent treatment for malaria and intravenous rehydration. This is treatment that cannot be offered in the village. Her mother told us she needed to go home to collect her things. She was not clear about where home was. Fortunately, my Trustee colleague, a Malawian, recognised that there may be some distance involved. This child needs urgent treatment.

And now I'm about to find out where home is. We follow unmade tracks across vast expanses of dusty land. We see people walking, carrying huge quantities of sticks on their backs, buckets of water on their heads. The occasional bike. Dogs. Goats. As the tracks get smaller, so do the homes, changing from brick built structures to mud huts with straw roofs. At the beginning of our journey there was a small shop or two, selling basic items. Now those have disappeared. The dwellings are fewer and farther between. We see children collecting water at the pump. They wave at us. Many will not have seen a car; hardly any will have seen a white person.

We arrive. We're outside a circular mud hut. It's about 8ft across. There are one or two other huts within a few hundred meters. The child's grandmother comes to greet us. She grabs my hands, looks into my eyes. She talks to me in Chichewa. We don't understand each other's words but the meaning is clear: thank you for your help. Look after my granddaughter - she's precious. I will. I promise. I later find out that she has lost three of her eight children. She can't lose her granddaughter as well.

Within moments, children have gathered to say hello. They're intrigued by us. They wave, and the more confident ones come and touch my hands. I've been taking a few photos and they're excited by the phone, overwhelmed when I show them the pictures, especially the ones of themselves.

The child's mother returns. I'm struck by the tiny quantity of possessions she has collected. I compare this to the vast amount of belongings most UK families bring into hospital, even to the bits and pieces I carry around every day.

As we retrace our journey, I am struck my the distance. This mother and child must have walked for hours, over harsh terrain, the child in bare feet. This is the reality for many of the poorest people in one of the world's poorest countries. Hours, sometimes days, walk to reach any sort of healthcare. Is it any wonder then that people access help late, sometimes too late?

Context is everything. Today I've been granted a privileged insight into a world not many like me will see. It's an experience I won't forget and one which I hope will make me better at what I do.