After a week of late night overtime, my voice had started to go and when I woke up yesterday morning I was completely mute.  A swift trip to the doctor sees me prescribed an enforced 48 hour silence (not that I could talk if I wanted to!) and  much hilarity ensues as I present myself at the office armed with a notebook and pencil and spend the day writing down anything I wish to convey.  Many jokes are made at my expense, and everyone seems to be resoundingly enjoying the peace and quiet.

 

I may not be able to speak, but I as I sit here in silence I can see the screen on my monitor glowing, an email notification flashing up as a message is delivered.  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Laura checking her emails.  Behind me, Pete is telling a terrible joke and Jillian is on the phone to yet another hotel checking the accommodation for our visiting artists.  Somewhere outside, the office cat is complaining loudly about the rain.

 

Rewind to last week, however, and the contrast could not be more marked.  In preparation for the arrival of Nalaga’at - the world’s only professional deafblind theatre company - who will be in residence at artsdepot over the festival, I attended one of Sense’s BSL and deafblind awareness courses.  When asked to introduce myself, I am already able to do so in sign language, and feel quite pleased with myself.  We move on to the alphabet, and here too I am pleased to discover I still remember how to sign.

 

Half an hour later, however, the tables have resoundingly turned.  Blindfolded, and, thanks to a huge pair of ear defenders, completely deaf, I sit in confusion as my group try to work out how to communicate with me.  They take my arm and make me stand to see if they can lead me somewhere.  But how do they tell me where we are going?  They raise my hand to my mouth to see if they can offer me a drink.  But how do they ask me whether I want tea, or coffee, or a gin & tonic?

 

Without sight or sound, I find myself clinging to the reassuring arm of the person next to me.  This, at least, is real.  When our session leader Alison leads me away around the room, turns me round several times, then leaves me, I have nothing.  Someone else bumps me hard, jostling my arm.  Something flutters in my face.  My first impulse is to reach out for something, anything.  Reaching wildly around me, I come into contact with the wall, and stand pressed against it, waiting for rescue.  I call out for help, and as I do so I feel a strange conviction that everyone has left me and I am alone.  How can you speak when you don’t know that anyone is listening?

 

But as I stand there, I become very aware that I can feel the movement in the room- a vibration in my feet.  Somewhere else in the building, loud music starts to play and I feel the rhythm of it through the wall.  I concentrate hard on the sensation, learning to measure the direction of the vibrations to sense where people are.  By the time Alison returns to collect me, I am able to turn in her direction and reach out my hand.

So what did I take away from my short experience?  I learned that it’s not enough to be lead aimlessly around.  I wanted to be engaged in the discussion.  I didn’t want to be the problem that had to be tackled, or to be looked after.

 

Deafblind, yes.  Without voice, certainly not.

 

I wanted to be informed, asked, questioned, challenged.  And this is exactly how Nalaga’at came into being.  The company of Not By Bread Alone may be deafblind, but they have stories to tell, experiences to share.  In Not by Bread Alone, the actors invite you to ignite your senses with a mixture of music, mime, magic and story telling.

 

This remarkable experience is coming to London for the first time as the Nalaga’at company bring not only their show, but also Café Kapish, staffed by deaf waiters, and BlackOut, a restaurant in the dark where blind waiters provide the service, t o artsdepot in North London, and you can book tickets now.

 

Nalaga’at are talking to you – listen.