Is it Weight Watchers or Is It Malaria?

Somewhere around August 13?

Miracle of miracles, the internet modum is working from home tonight! I couldnt be happier because I no longer have any books to read, and being primarily stuck in bed, I am bored out of my mind. The following is what you must suffer to appease my own personal boredom...

I wish I could say that the reason there has been no blogging is that I have been busy working in some far out interesting village, or doing something so worthwhile that I didn’t have time to write. The truth is however, that I ignored vague warnings and contracted a rip roaring case of malaria. Days one and two after diagnosis are pretty bad. On day 3 I felt an obvious improvement. By Day 4 I just felt like I had a regular case of the flu. This is Day 5 and I’m actually up and moving around a bit, having kept down a half piece of bread with honey this morning and a cup of soup this afternoon. Malaria takes 9 to14 days to incubate. This is good news because last week I was having real difficulty walking up a hill that previously had not been difficult. My heart raced and I became light headed. It was the malaria incubating! Woo Hoo! For a few days there I thought old age had finally set in.

I went to bed last Saturday afternoon with a bad headache and sick stomach but had not felt 100% for several days. I got up yesterday morning so sick that I took my wobbly legs to the road and asked a boda driver to take me to a doctor. I was freezing and dizzy and every cell in my body registered some level of pain. Bless the boda boy! (This boda boy is about 19 years old and wore a helmet—most do not. The back of his helmet says “Stoneage” so that is what I call him). Stoneage wrapped my arms around his middle and had me lean my head against his back and then drove as slowly as I’ve known a boda to do here. He took me to Sir Albert Clinic since there is no hospital between here and Kampala. As I fumbled for money to pay Stoneage, he said “sorry sorry” and drove off, refusing my money.

The clinic, like everything else here, is ancient, filthy, and apparently has no running water. The doctor never touched me except to take my blood pressure, and sent me to a room next to his for blood tests for blood sugar, malaria and typhoid. I would note that the blood pressure machine was part of an old, rusty blue metal box. The room had two chairs, a microscope on a tiny beat up plastic table, and paper all over the floor where syringes have been taken out of their sealed packages and thrown there. Above my head on one wall was a picture of Musovini and on the other wall was Obama. There I had blood drawn and within 15 minutes they had their diagnosis. Along with my diagnosis I was berated for waiting so long, now presenting them with a severe case of malaria to take care of. (Had I known what the onset of malaria was supposed to feel like, believe me I would have helped all of us out by coming earlier.)

After the doctor berated me, the man who took my blood presented himself with a large smile on his face and said, “Not to worry Madam, we will fix you”. I later learned that no matter what I asked him, he smiled hugely and said the exact same thing. If I asked when I will feel better, if I ask how long it will take for my hearing to return, no matter what I asked, (big smile…) “Not to worry Madam, we will fix you.” I finally figured it out when I asked him if he had change for a 5,000 shilling, and I got “Not to worry Madam, we will fix you.” These things mess with my confidence in the medical system hereJ On the other hand, Richard Bakker may wish to use this tact when dealing with his own patients. It really cuts down on discussion time and you can see more patients.

You are given a mattress in a room in the clinic. I was freezing and the doctor asked me if I had forgotten to bring a blanket. I didn’t know I was supposed to….then he asked me if I brought water because he had pills he wanted me to take. Not having brought that either, a nurse sold me a bottle of water for 500 Ush, and the doctor took a 50,000 Ush deposit for my treatment. The nurse came back to tell me that she also sold air time for my phone if I needed that. One stop shopping. What I really wished she sold was a stinking blanket because I was freezing…for the next seven hours…it was freezing.

Treatment included a major shot in the butt (tetanus shots don’t hold a candle to the cramping this shot causes!) followed by 6 hours of IV drip. They put in two IVs which slipped out before they switched to one she said was sized for children (and white women evidently). (I repeated this 6 hours of IV drip every day for the next four days.) Finally, alone, I called Paul and woke him up. He came to the clinic immediately armed with juice and digestives and my Ipod and anything else he could think of. I forgot to ask him to bring a blanket. I cried as soon as I saw him, for no other reason than it must have been a tension reliever. I fell asleep and he left, but came back later when I woke up to escort me to the Rydar Hotel in Seeta where he swam and I slept. This day I was truly thankful to have both Stoneage and Paul in my universe.

On Day one I left the clinic at 5PM and went to the Ryder Hotel in Seeta instead of home because the idea of a quiet room and clean bed sounded like the ticket to faster healing. My home is tremendously busy and noisy late into in the night. My VISA card wouldn’t work at the hotel because of the slow telephone lines there but the manager took one look at my hand which still has the IV candula (is that the word? How about “buffalo plug”?) in it, and told me I could pay him in the morning. A nice young bellman carried my backpack upstairs and let me in. Both manager and receptionist and nice young bellman continually said, “sorry sorry Madam sorry”.

My head had just hit the pillow when there was a knock at the door. It was a maid. Instead of turn down service and a chocolate for your pillow, in Uganda you get a maid that circles your room spraying insecticide. When she is done, she looks at your hand and says “sorry sorry” and prays for you. Sometime in the night there was a knock at the door and it was her. She wanted to know if I needed anything. Her knock awakened me and I was freezing. She let herself in and just sort of took over, trying to warm me up, changing my sheets, and saying “sorry sorry” about every 15 seconds. Talking takes energy that I didn’t really have but still I felt the need to reassure her with “okay okay” and “thank you, thank you”. She didn’t speak much English but it was still very helpful having her there.

The “Sorry sorry” thing that all Ugandans do is endearing. All Ugandans say it regardless of whether someone trips or says they are tired…should anyone experience anything vaguely negative, even strangers say “sorry, sorry”. Getting on the taxi for the trip back to Mukono the second morning, the usually crusty conductor saw my hand and said “sorry Madam sorry” and actually helped me on. Thisis very un-conductor like. And he didn’t throw me off prior to my destination. I’m thinking the thing to do from now on is to wear a fake candula on my hand whenever I must take a taxi.

I lost about 85% of my hearing on day 2 and it felt like I was living alone in my head. This is temporary, caused by the medicine. My hearing returned and then was lost again each of these 4 days. The doctor said it is because I am not drinking enough water, that I must consume 3 liters a day. So I am drinking and drinking, and barfing and barfing water, and drinking, and I remained primarily deaf, through yesterday, my last day of “the drip”. Katy, our deaf teaching friend, arrives tomorrow from Bushenyi. Perhaps she can give me some tips on being properly deaf. When I left yesterday I went directly to the Colline Hotel for some clear soup. Just the thought of more water was more than I could stand at that moment.

Yesterday, my daytime roommate at the clinic was released after only half of her iv drip was used. Her name is Florence and she is a young teacher in Rwanda. She was here in Mukono on a one week holiday when she fell ill with malaria. I’ve been bringing her my Ipod to listen to and a book to read because six hours a day in an empty room is extremely boring. You can’t really read, but you try. You cant really sleep. You can’t really do anything. So in between trying to read, trying to sleep, trying to feel better, and barfing, Florence and I have tried talking. Anyway, Florence was released early yesterday. I tell you this because…

After Florence left a young woman opened the door and said “Muzungu!” in the same overly happy tone a frat boy might say “Party!” She then took Florence’s bed and lay down with her back to me. I waited for someone to come in and start her IV, but no one ever came. I fell asleep and awoke needing to use the bathroom. As I started to get up to go, this young woman FLEW out of bed, opened the room door and then opened the bathroom door and stood at attention. I asked her if she needed to use the toilet. She said YES! I waited. She stood there with a crazy grin on her face and continued to say YES! I finally stepped around her and entered the bathroom. When I came out, she seemed to be asleep on the bed again.

Later when my IV bag was finally empty I sat up in anticipation of someone coming to disconnect me. Crazy Young Woman heard me move, FLEW out of bed again and grabbed my hand, attempting to remove the candela out of my hand. I pushed her back gently and told her I would let a nurse do it. She pounded a fist on her chest and said “NURSE!” I knew that she was no nurse. She took another grab at my arm, this time really knocking me backwards. I gave her a hard shove, grabbed my IV bag and ran into the hallway and up to the front where I found the doctor. I told him what happened and he walked back to my room. Crazy Young Woman appeared to be asleep again. He said something to her, walked out, and disconnected my IV line from the hallway. He never said a word about who she was or what the hell she was doing there.

As I left the clinic yesterday there were, as always, 30 or 40 boda boys all yelling and vying for my attention (money) to get on their boda. I stood looking for Stoneage and finally found his helmet sitting on the back of an empty boda. I pointed and asked where he was, and an old man started yelling for him. Stoneage popped out of a store. When he recognized me and realized the Muzungu had actually ASKED for him, he threw around a lot of bravado to the other boda drivers, telling them that the Muzungu was his friend and HIS customer. I am, too. He will be my boda boda as often as I can find him.

The last morning of my treatment I was sent back to my room, I lay on my bed, and SOMEONE HAD PISSED ALL OVER MY BED. I believe yesterday’s Crazy Young Woman did this in retaliation for getting her in trouble. I got onto Florence’s bed and waited for someone. My bed could not be fixed as there are no sheets and the mattresses are all foam rubber. I then spent my day wearing clothes that smell like Eau du Crazy Young Woman Piss. For all of the wonderful things about Uganda, it is best not to get sick or injured here.

P.S. One more endearing thing about my Ugandan family and neighbors. When I finally returned home after being gone for two days, the women I live with and members of four of our closest neighbor families came to greet me. As ill as I felt, their Ugandan Body Slams felt great. Everyone tried to do something for me, even tho I just wanted to go to bed. When I awoke I noticed that while I slept, Alice snuck in, took my shoes and washed them. She just had to do something! . . . the neighbor man—the one who magically appeared with a cold beer last week—brought me apples and mangos. Apples are also difficult to find and expensive here…and little Diana’s mother made me an African wrap skirt.

Thursday, August 13

Last night Isaac awakened me at about 9PM and demanded I get up so that we could speak. The neighbors had come to him very angry that he allowed Paul and I (only Paul actually) to roam the streets at night. Three nights ago three people were robbed and murdered with iron bars on Mukono Streets and everyone has been warned not to be on the streets after dark. Isaac hadn’t previously heard this news but it seems all the neighbors had and they were worried for the Muzungus being targets. I thought of our deaf friend Katie who is staying at the Golden Crane Hotel, who goes for her 5 mile runs alone every night after dark because it is too hot during the day. She was out running the back roads somewhere as we spoke. In the end, Paul and Katie both made it back safely and have heeded the warnings, but we are all now on lockdown after dark. This is not a problem for yours truly who has resolved that since the mosquitoes hit after dark, she won’t be out there after dark anyway. Ever.

The following was written before I got sick and is just now getting posted...

Thursday, August 6?

Acceptance!

Although the children continue to call me Muzungu, many of the adults have started to address me differently. When I am in villages where people recognize me—whether they know me or simply recognize me—I am now starting to hear “How ah you today Sistah?” or “How ah you today Deeya?” (as in How are you today Sister /How are you today Dear?) I mentioned this to Paul and he said that in the hospital among colleagues he insists on being called Paul instead of Muzungu. One of the nurses who doesn’t care much for him was talking to another nurse and he heard the word “Muzungu”. Paul turned to her and said “My name is PAUL”. He said several of the younger nurses started to giggle and applaud. The older nurse has addressed him as Paul ever since.

I know the real names of very few adults in this village. When they address each other they address them by either Momma or Daddy, followed by their eldest child’s name. Isaac and Scovia’s baby is named Happiness. Therefore, children and adults address Isaac and Scovia as “Momma Happiness” or “Daddy Happiness”. I finally put two and two together and now understand why Ahanna—who runs the Bushenyi orphanage—is called “Momma Africa”. There are too many children to assign her just one name.

Paul is finding work in Budebika, the state mental asylum, interesting and will be writing a paper when he returns. At the end of every day we have tea and bring each up on our individual days. He says that much of the treatments for mental health are the same here as in the UK, but there are also old beliefs and practices here that are ancient and highly institutional. Patients must all wear uniforms. They eat beans and matoke for every single meal regardless of the length of their stay. Most are given nothing to do during the day. One woman told him she begs for work but she is not allowed to even clean the floor. One 22 year old man has been there for six months. Paul, having worked with him for a while now, decided to take him out of the hospital and into town for lunch and caused a minor uproar over his insistence that the man be allowed to wear street clothes. Epilepsy is considered a mental disorder. Many here still believe that mental disorders are either curses or demons and send them to churches for healing, so those in Budebika are lucky. Paul has started taking his own supplies and teaching crafts. They have started making origami animals which is a big hit. Later in August Paul will do a presentation to a number of NGO’s regarding mental health awareness. Too many people here still believe all would be fine if the demons could just be cast out/beat out of the sick individual.

Yesterday I went to meet John to begin our business training. When he was 15 minutes late I called him and learned that he had gone to Kampala for business in the morning and was still stuck in traffic trying to return. Inasmuch as it took Paul nearly four hours to get home on Monday night—two of those hours stuck in gridlock in Kampala proper—I knew he wouldn’t make it back to Kampala anytime soon. So we rescheduled for today. Isaac has a burial to attend and so our schedule today is thrown off kilter anyway. I tried to understand but I am still uncertain if it is Isaac’s uncle or his cousin who died.

Today I walked into town to meet John again and AGAIN he was a no show. I waited 20 minutes and left and went home. I was home about 50 minutes after our appointed meeting and he called to say he was now ready to meet. I told him I may be able to see him after I return from Gomba. He was disappointed. I’m still a little frosted. My American style is “ready, aim, fire” or occasionally more personally, “ready, fire, aim”. In Uganda I’m finding the culture is often “ready, aim, aim, aim, aim…” I am trying to accommodate this culture but not doing all that well at it. Not in this case, not today.

I’m in a bad mood, likely because of the heat and dust from walking into town and back—three times today! The roads are absolutely swimming in caloric heat. I envision that if you looked at me from a distance my head, arms, body, legs and feet would be radiating little heat waves too. Add that at to the dust today. The dust suffuses every rhinal cavity, permeating my very insides…I feel my gizzards sizzling.. Aarrrgggghh!! I’m done bitching now. Im home and gradually cooling off (literally).

August 7, 2009

Success in finally getting a post office box!!! I have been trying for two weeks but the Ugandan government does not make it easy. In order to secure a postal box one must fill out a long security form, provide two original passport photos for each director, provide a copy of your organization’s governmental approval certificate and then…wait…and wait…I finally have a post office box! We wont have a key to the box until one is made—about six weeks wait—but they gave me a form to present if I want to check my mail prior to that. They will keep our mail in a filing cabinet until they can give us a key. I am learning that anything to do with the government here takes a long time and a lot of paper. Tomorrow I will send several US newspapers invitations to rural American children to write letters to our village kids, hopefully for an exchange. Secondarily, I will be asking for letters from American children to the children of the Northern Uganda displacement camps…these will be “one way” letters with no response. These are simply to let the children in displacement camps know that American children are thinking of them and send them best wishes for a better future. If anyone reading this is interested, let me know at geomeld@gmail.com and I will send you the letter of invitation for your school, newspaper, etc. (Note to Gabbie: You are already covered! I will send your mother our post office box number the next time I can access email)

I was officially out of shampoo and finally found some to buy. It cost approximately fifty cents for one full liter, attractively presented in a thick plastic jerrican. I am sure it is only the finest shampoo and my beauty will know no limits once used.

Tomorrow is Saturday and I am in desperate need of something Western. Therefore, I am going to go to Seeta and check into the Ryder Hotel, which has quiet rooms which I think are air conditioned. They also have televisions and a pool. The plan is to buy a book, check in, swim, shower and then collapse on a real bed in an air conditioned room. Later I will toddle down to their real restaurant and see if I can find something on the menu in addition to matoke, posho, rice and beans. I would give my left arm for a chicken breast or a dinner roll! Mostly I just want to sleep!

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Our planned trip to Gomba next week has been postponed for God-knows-what reason. My best guess is either lack of planning or something better came up for Isaac. At any rate we have yet another week to entertain ourselves. On Tuesday we are going to meet with social counselors in Kampala with Tony. After that Paul and I are going to visit an orphanage we accidently came across waaaaay out in the boonies.

Today I took my computer to the Colline Hotel swimming pool once again. I can sometimes pick up internet there, but not today. Paul was there with a young Ugandan woman named Rachel who I believe is in hope of nabbing a white husband. We were sitting having coffee and chatting when two soldiers rushed in with their AK-47’s and in full bush uniform, and hurried around the pool. One went in to the men’s locker room and the other into the women’s. Let me tell you how happy I am that I wasn’t in there putting on a bathing suit! In the short time they were in the locker rooms—perhaps 20 seconds--the pool area cleared entirely of black people--they evaporated--with the exception of the young woman with us. We all sat perfectly still. They came out and left—walking slowly with their rifles pointing down this time--but it does give one pause for thought. It is one thing to see soldiers on the streets. It is different to see them rushing into hotel areas, assault rifles in tow, looking for God Knows Who or What. Maybe I’m just a sensitive Muzungu.