This Ugandan Adventure has brought a few surprises, not least the fact that I am in Uganda, as originally I was supposed to be in Nigeria. Although a few friends might not put it past me, I did not happen to get on the wrong plane at Birmingham Airport and, finding myself in the wrong country, hastily organised a new placement. No, instead, Nigeria proved itself to be too dangerous for the time being; plus, the Anglican Church of Nigeria was not currently happy with the Church of England, and so decided to cut off links with its English friends. So, instead, through chance, luck, or I as a Christian may put it, providential grace, I found myself in the flatlands of Soroti.
One surprise happened a little while ago. I was happily walking the grounds around the Guest House (commonly called ‘The White House’ by the locals, which I feel gives me a Presidential air that resonates with my experience of being given homage…), when I noticed my neighbour’s pigs happily grazing the ground. ‘Ah!’, thought I, ‘the rustic air! The simple life!’ Seeing as he was the Prison Chaplain, my neighbour’s rural idyll gave me notions of how I could be in my own ministry a few years hence. Suddenly, though, one of the pigs looked up at me. Whether it was from murderous instinct or fear of my overwhelming demeanour, the pig made a charge at me. ‘Ha!’ thought I, ‘You shall not touch me! Your leash, you see, binds you to your ground, whilst I am free to roam and wander!’ Unfortunately, however, murder/fear proved the better of the leash, and the pig pulled it up from its sticking place. But rather than attack, the pig rushed passed me, towards the road. I dashed after it, clutching its straggling lead before a motorbike came whizzing past. To be sure, the pig was strong. I had to drag it at first, before it finally attuned itself to me. And within a few moments, there I was, walking a pig down the road as if it were a dog. I finally managed to get hold of the Prison Chaplain, and together we tied the leash into its sticking place a little firmer, this time.
Another surprise happened this Sunday. After a very bad night’s sleep, I had to awake at 5am so as to arrive at the Cathedral in Soroti for its 6am Holy Communion Service. I had been told that I would have to arrive early, as it would be difficult to get a seat. ‘A slight exaggeration, methinks’ thought I, confident that no one in their right mind would want to be up so early, especially considering that most would have to walk a few hours to get to the Cathedral. ‘A few dedicated souls shall be there, and we shall sleepily share in the sacrament of Eucharist together, wearily sharing the peace, and quietly singing.’
I was wrong. Revd David, the Vicar of the Cathedral, picked me up on his motorbike at 5.50am. It’s the first time I have happened to travel to church via motorbike, though it was made very special by witnessing a ravishingly red-orange-purple sunrise. As we arrived at the Cathedral, the sun was still breaking its red streams through the windows. Inside, however, it was already bustling and crowded, distinguishing it from the sleepy serenity in the outside natural world. A seat had been reserved for me, though I noticed I would be having ushers sitting all around. Considering that the Cathedral can comfortably seat two-three thousand, the fact that people were standing in the aisles, at the sides and clogging the doorways is astonishing. Furthermore, that people had walked miles to get here in the early morning darkness puts shame to those (including occasionally myself) who in the UK complain that a 10am service is too early.
The service, furthermore, was lively and exciting. Even as people received the Eucharist, rather than English reflective (quasi-mournful) style, the music was dominated by energetic and joyful hymns of praise. I rather like the idea: instead of the manifestation of eternal mystery, it evokes an image of the raucous eschatological banquet. When I was asked to give the reading (Romans 12) I even got applause! The subsequent sermon was excellent. Revd Sam, who co-ordinates the diocesan Educational Policy, preached on Paul’s command to ‘be transformed by the renewing of your minds’, emphasising that school education must inculcate values rather than simply imparting knowledge. ‘All education without God produces is clever devils’ he wittily said (debate to your heart’s content…). When he directly criticised the government’s nonchalant approach towards the striking teachers, the massive congregation burst out in applause and shouts of agreement.
As it happens, I was sitting next to a man who I later discovered to be the Ugandan Minister of Government for disaster relief, Musa Ecweru. He himself got up to speak toward the end of the service, an heartily agreed with Revd Sam’s sermon, and distanced himself from his governmental colleagues. (Ah… politics…). Afterwards, I got chatting to him. Which produced another surprise: who would have thought, when I was a simple musical composer before I had had a calling to be an Anglican priest, that in a few years time I would be discussing economic policy and swapping contact details at 9am in the morning with a Ugandan Minister, in the heart of Africa? Life (or providential grace…) produces some fascinating surprises.
Showing posts with label Mzungu. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mzungu. Show all posts
Tuesday, 24 September 2013
Friday, 20 September 2013
The Ugandan Adventures: Part VIII: Mzungu Heroically Beholds the Jaws of Death
When I went to bed, I had a slight itch upon my midriff and in my inner biceps. I thought, ‘Insect bite, probably’, and put some cream on it. During the night, the itching got worse, maddeningly so. Then morning came: my waist, arms and inner thighs were covered with a lumpy, blotchy rash. And the itching was even worse. I showed George my housekeeper, and he said that we would go to the medical centre when it opened.
In the meantime, I was fairly Stoically endowed. Whatever it was, I could cope. Then, out of curiosity, I thought, ‘Why don’t I check that most reliable source of information, the internet, to find out what this rash may be?’ So, after initially attempting to check the NHS symptoms website - only to discover that they only address British diseases… bigoted nationalists… - I typed in the immortal words, ‘Uganda skin rash’. After a few minutes browsing, I discovered that I had Ebola, a HIV rash, German measles, meningitis, and skin parasites (that would leave me dead in about eight hours). As one very helpful website put it: ‘Go the nearest Westernised hospital; there is a good chance that if you don’t hurry, you may be dead or paralysed within the next twenty four hours’. So… Ebola, measles, death, meningitis, death, death, skin parasites, death, Death, DEATH!
Thanks internet.
George, my housekeeper was rather optimistically inclined considering the circumstances (‘The doctor give you tablets… you be fine…’). As we walked to the medical centre, I showed the best of English stoicism: ‘Best keep your head up high, eh George? Whatever will be, will be, eh George? Eh? What oh! Eh, George? Nothing to worry about, eh George? …eh?…George…?’ Inwardly, however, I was beginning to make the arrangements for my dead body’s return to Blighty. Robert Browning’s poem, ‘Oh, to be in England’ came to mind, as did Rupert Brooke’s,
‘If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.’
But as I was preparing for Brooke’s ‘English heaven’ (considering I’m a Welshman, this should cause some pause of reflection…), and fearing my long, painful death in a mud hut in Soroti or a hospital bed in Kampala, I arrived at the medical centre. I was not, I must admit, filled with the greatest of confidence. Although it was clean, it was very dark, with dust everywhere, with cracks in the walls and floors, and an old rickety wooden desk and chairs. As I waited for the pharmacist, I read a big poster all about the symptoms of Ebola:
Rash: check.
Headache: do I have a headache? I think I do, yes, yes, I have a headache! I’m certain of it!
Dizziness: now I come to think of it, I am feeling a little dizzy…
Bloodshot eyes: I have no mirror, but my eyes do sting a little…
The list goes on, and by the end, I was certain of my impending death. Then the pharmacist arrived. He looked at my rash, asked if I wanted an injection (the UK government information on Uganda screamed at me from the deeper recesses of my subconscious: DO NOT HAVE INJECTIONS OUTSIDE OF KAMPALA), to which I politely refused. He then gave me tablets, including pirotin for the itching, and told me it was probably a allergic reaction. I subsequently sent a Facebook message to my Auntie Jenn, who calmly reminded me of the amount of medicine I had been taking in order to survive Uganda. Allergic reactions are somewhat common…
And, once the tablets were taken, the itching began to stop, and the lumpy rash began to dissipate. Despite being somewhat drowsy the rest of the day because of taking my pirotin tablet, I was healthy. Nevertheless, this very morning, in the middle of a conversation over breakfast with a Pentecostal Pastor staying at the Guest House, I accidentally took two of the very strong pirotin tablets instead of the recommended one. And just as he was telling me about the institutional structure of Ugandan Pentecostalism in relation to other Ugandan NGOs, I fell fast asleep to the extent that I was afterwards told I was snoring within a few seconds. At which point, George woke me up and helped me into my bed (realising what had happened). For two subsequent hours I slept.
I’m sure the Pentecostal Pastor will now think twice now before deciding to talk about institutional structures over breakfast.
I was one of the lucky ones. The tablets I took cost me 4000 Ugandan shillings (about £1, or $1.30 roundabouts). It would stop me scratching, and thus mean that I was unlikely to be infected by anything worse. I thought it was remarkably cheap. By Ugandan standards, however, it is not. For many, that might have been a week’s pay. For others, it might have been a month’s. Let me give you an example: in one of the village churches I had visited, the gathered weekly tithes and offerings of a congregation of over three hundred would be about 1000 shillings (about 25p, or 40c). This was not the type of giving you expect from a Church of England country parish where elderly ladies may give 25p because when they were told to give as much when they were little girls (currency revaluation and fifty years of inflation not withstanding). Instead, this is all these people can afford to give. The Ugandan teachers are currently on strike in that they are paid so little that they cannot afford to send their children to school (irony not withstanding). In that context, my 4000 shillings is a fortune. Or let’s put it another way: if my pirotin and prednisolone costs so much to the average Ugandan, how should my dear Ugandan friend cope, whose wife has got severe cancer with basic treatment costing £1,500, and whose daughter has got typhoid with treatment costing a further £200?
Sorry to get political, but privatising medicine can only work if the average citizen can pay for it. Otherwise, you get poorly invested hospitals and sick citizens, which, once considered, is a moebius strip of a problem.
In the meantime, I was fairly Stoically endowed. Whatever it was, I could cope. Then, out of curiosity, I thought, ‘Why don’t I check that most reliable source of information, the internet, to find out what this rash may be?’ So, after initially attempting to check the NHS symptoms website - only to discover that they only address British diseases… bigoted nationalists… - I typed in the immortal words, ‘Uganda skin rash’. After a few minutes browsing, I discovered that I had Ebola, a HIV rash, German measles, meningitis, and skin parasites (that would leave me dead in about eight hours). As one very helpful website put it: ‘Go the nearest Westernised hospital; there is a good chance that if you don’t hurry, you may be dead or paralysed within the next twenty four hours’. So… Ebola, measles, death, meningitis, death, death, skin parasites, death, Death, DEATH!
Thanks internet.
George, my housekeeper was rather optimistically inclined considering the circumstances (‘The doctor give you tablets… you be fine…’). As we walked to the medical centre, I showed the best of English stoicism: ‘Best keep your head up high, eh George? Whatever will be, will be, eh George? Eh? What oh! Eh, George? Nothing to worry about, eh George? …eh?…George…?’ Inwardly, however, I was beginning to make the arrangements for my dead body’s return to Blighty. Robert Browning’s poem, ‘Oh, to be in England’ came to mind, as did Rupert Brooke’s,
‘If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.’
But as I was preparing for Brooke’s ‘English heaven’ (considering I’m a Welshman, this should cause some pause of reflection…), and fearing my long, painful death in a mud hut in Soroti or a hospital bed in Kampala, I arrived at the medical centre. I was not, I must admit, filled with the greatest of confidence. Although it was clean, it was very dark, with dust everywhere, with cracks in the walls and floors, and an old rickety wooden desk and chairs. As I waited for the pharmacist, I read a big poster all about the symptoms of Ebola:
Rash: check.
Headache: do I have a headache? I think I do, yes, yes, I have a headache! I’m certain of it!
Dizziness: now I come to think of it, I am feeling a little dizzy…
Bloodshot eyes: I have no mirror, but my eyes do sting a little…
The list goes on, and by the end, I was certain of my impending death. Then the pharmacist arrived. He looked at my rash, asked if I wanted an injection (the UK government information on Uganda screamed at me from the deeper recesses of my subconscious: DO NOT HAVE INJECTIONS OUTSIDE OF KAMPALA), to which I politely refused. He then gave me tablets, including pirotin for the itching, and told me it was probably a allergic reaction. I subsequently sent a Facebook message to my Auntie Jenn, who calmly reminded me of the amount of medicine I had been taking in order to survive Uganda. Allergic reactions are somewhat common…
 |
| Hero of the day: the optimistically minded George |
 |
| My medicine, in the packaging given to me at the pharmacist |
I’m sure the Pentecostal Pastor will now think twice now before deciding to talk about institutional structures over breakfast.
I was one of the lucky ones. The tablets I took cost me 4000 Ugandan shillings (about £1, or $1.30 roundabouts). It would stop me scratching, and thus mean that I was unlikely to be infected by anything worse. I thought it was remarkably cheap. By Ugandan standards, however, it is not. For many, that might have been a week’s pay. For others, it might have been a month’s. Let me give you an example: in one of the village churches I had visited, the gathered weekly tithes and offerings of a congregation of over three hundred would be about 1000 shillings (about 25p, or 40c). This was not the type of giving you expect from a Church of England country parish where elderly ladies may give 25p because when they were told to give as much when they were little girls (currency revaluation and fifty years of inflation not withstanding). Instead, this is all these people can afford to give. The Ugandan teachers are currently on strike in that they are paid so little that they cannot afford to send their children to school (irony not withstanding). In that context, my 4000 shillings is a fortune. Or let’s put it another way: if my pirotin and prednisolone costs so much to the average Ugandan, how should my dear Ugandan friend cope, whose wife has got severe cancer with basic treatment costing £1,500, and whose daughter has got typhoid with treatment costing a further £200?
Sorry to get political, but privatising medicine can only work if the average citizen can pay for it. Otherwise, you get poorly invested hospitals and sick citizens, which, once considered, is a moebius strip of a problem.
Thursday, 19 September 2013
The Ugandan Adventure: Part VII: Mzungu and his band of followers
I happened to be reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. In this novel, there’s a character called ‘Mad-Eye Moody’ who has a magical eye that can see almost anything. And so, whilst I’m reading about this character, I get the sensation I’m being watched. You know that feeling, when the hairs on your back and arms seem to lift? I thought, ‘It’s my imagination, nothing else - of course Mad-Eye Moody isn’t watching me.’ Nevertheless, the feeling continued.
And so I looked up.
And before me were about twenty-five children. And they were simply staring at me. Nothing more, nothing less. They were standing there, bewildered by this strange phenomenon in front of me. Many of these were younger children, from a village in the Palissa district. They had heard of ‘Mzungu’, white people, but they had never seen them face-to-face, nor by television. And when I reached my hand up to wave and smile, a few even shrank back. One brave child walked over to me and poked my arm. She was fascinated: for some reason, my browning skin would turn even white when she touched it. She laughed and showed her friends. Next thing I knew, I had a dozen children poking and pinching me to see the reaction of my skin. Their skin, on the other hand, dogmatically remained the same shade.
I’m used to this by now. I will sometimes be writing this blog, and notice about ten children peering through my window, looking for me. I will often walk down the street and children simply stop and stare. They sheepishly raise their hands to wave, and when I wave back they run away in fits of giggles. If I’m riding a boda-boda (Ugandan taxi service… via bicycle), I will hear delighted squeals of ‘Mzungu! Mzungu!’ It does elevate one’s opinion of oneself somewhat to be an automatic celebrity. Occasionally, I will be simply standing still, and I will feel a tiny little hand tentatively grasp my own; when I look down, I see a little child beaming at me, as if holding my hand was the most wonderful thing that can be conceived (mind you, a good case can be made to say that it really is…).
The children here love bubbles - they will happily spend hours chasing after them. I’ve never heard search a mass of delighted high-pitched squeals and giggles. The older boys, however, have found their love in football. I bought a ball in Soroti so that they could play, and at first I happily joined in with the game. After all, they were only six and seven and eight. They were very good as well; when I wasn’t concentrating they could make a swift tackle and get the ball from me. I didn’t mind, and could only laugh.
And then some of the older boys joined (nine, ten, eleven, twelve). They, you could say, were just a little bit better. Indeed, they even got the upper hand of a fantastic football player like myself… at about every encounter, tackle and pass. For some strange and mysterious reason, I decided at that point that what the game needed most was a referee, and that I would be more than happy to take up that role. By the time the teenagers were involved, I had no chance. A depressing thought: nine year olds were considerably better than myself at the beautiful game…
I’m often given toddlers and babies to hold. I’m still not used to being passed one after they had been publicly breast-fed, but nevertheless, it is wonderful to be surrounded by all these beautiful children. I was given a toddler to hold yesterday. He was waddling about like a little penguin, excited by almost everything. On my lap, he poking me in the face (what is it with all the poking???), and making gurgling sounds.
And then I realised that he had a growth protruding in his stomach about as big as both my fists put together.
And then, the other day, I was passed a newborn girl so utterly tiny, weak and fragile that I was suspicious that she would not last the month.
And then I hear of yet another burial of a child, this one of a four-year-old; on another occasion that of a newborn.
The infant mortality rate in Uganda is 62.47/1000 (in the UK it is 4.5/1000; in the USA 5.9/1000. Information from https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2091rank.html?countryName=Uganda&countryCode=ug®ionCode=afr&rank=27#ug). Whilst the annual number of births is 1,545000; the average mortality rate for those children under five is 131,000. (Compare that to the UK’s 761,000/5000, or the USA’s 4,322,000/32,000. Information from http://www.unicef.org/infobycountry/uganda_statistics.html).
There is a sickening feeling that overcomes me on occasions when I realise that many of the younger children I see and play with will not survive beyond their fifth birthday. It is something I cannot escape as I stay here: not a day has gone by since I have arrived in Uganda in which I haven’t heard of a bereaved parent, or a very ill child, or yet another child’s burial. There is a sombre sense of pathos to those bubbles.
And so I looked up.
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| The ever-staring eyes |
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| There is no escape from the staring eyes... |
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| Playing cards on my porch |
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| 'The most wonderful thing in the world...' |
The children here love bubbles - they will happily spend hours chasing after them. I’ve never heard search a mass of delighted high-pitched squeals and giggles. The older boys, however, have found their love in football. I bought a ball in Soroti so that they could play, and at first I happily joined in with the game. After all, they were only six and seven and eight. They were very good as well; when I wasn’t concentrating they could make a swift tackle and get the ball from me. I didn’t mind, and could only laugh.
And then some of the older boys joined (nine, ten, eleven, twelve). They, you could say, were just a little bit better. Indeed, they even got the upper hand of a fantastic football player like myself… at about every encounter, tackle and pass. For some strange and mysterious reason, I decided at that point that what the game needed most was a referee, and that I would be more than happy to take up that role. By the time the teenagers were involved, I had no chance. A depressing thought: nine year olds were considerably better than myself at the beautiful game…
I’m often given toddlers and babies to hold. I’m still not used to being passed one after they had been publicly breast-fed, but nevertheless, it is wonderful to be surrounded by all these beautiful children. I was given a toddler to hold yesterday. He was waddling about like a little penguin, excited by almost everything. On my lap, he poking me in the face (what is it with all the poking???), and making gurgling sounds.
And then I realised that he had a growth protruding in his stomach about as big as both my fists put together.
And then, the other day, I was passed a newborn girl so utterly tiny, weak and fragile that I was suspicious that she would not last the month.
And then I hear of yet another burial of a child, this one of a four-year-old; on another occasion that of a newborn.
The infant mortality rate in Uganda is 62.47/1000 (in the UK it is 4.5/1000; in the USA 5.9/1000. Information from https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2091rank.html?countryName=Uganda&countryCode=ug®ionCode=afr&rank=27#ug). Whilst the annual number of births is 1,545000; the average mortality rate for those children under five is 131,000. (Compare that to the UK’s 761,000/5000, or the USA’s 4,322,000/32,000. Information from http://www.unicef.org/infobycountry/uganda_statistics.html).
There is a sickening feeling that overcomes me on occasions when I realise that many of the younger children I see and play with will not survive beyond their fifth birthday. It is something I cannot escape as I stay here: not a day has gone by since I have arrived in Uganda in which I haven’t heard of a bereaved parent, or a very ill child, or yet another child’s burial. There is a sombre sense of pathos to those bubbles.
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