ANNE
The journey back:
Having left
Sunderland and the gorgeous Jamie at 5am on the 31st January, all went well until we
arrived at passport control in Yaoundé. Hamish was picked out of the queue to
explain why we had gone to Britain, why we had come back and how long we planned
to stay – all done in the usual slightly intimidating way that encourages sweat
to break out, mouth to go dry and complete memory loss of any French you might
ever have known. Once released from there, we fought our way through the
overeager porters to our pre-booked taxi. There we waited for quite a long time
before being joined by an unexplained third passenger. We then drove through
torrential rain for an hour to allow our passenger to deliver a letter. His presence was never accounted for. En
route for the hotel we were stopped by a gun-toting policeman and asked to show
all our papers. Once we had done that and Félix, the taxi driver, had mentioned VSO, we were waved on
courteously. At the hotel, we headed for the bar where I ordered a gin and
tonic. There was no tonic, only some mixer with an incomprehensible name.
Feeling slightly jaded, I said that would do fine. Gin and Schweppes arrived –
no ice, no slice – the norm here. And so to bed. At 6am next morning, Félix collected us to head for the
airport for the Maroua flight. Strangely enough the taxi journey only took half
an hour this time.
Yaoundé International Airport was deserted and dark, though the doors were open.
Other passengers started to arrive at 7 and the staff at 7.30. It gave us a
great boost when the lights were switched on. At last we headed for check-in
clutching our tickets. It should be easy now surely? No. Our names were not on
the list. We were asked to stand aside. Eventually we were allowed to check in
but having been first at the airport and first in the queue to check in, we were
almost last to reach Departures. 45 minutes into the 75 minute flight, we were
given dry croissants. 15 minutes later we were offered beer or tea without milk.
Jean, the hospital driver, was to collect us in our car at
Salak Airport. The first sign of trouble was the arrival of the
hospital car. Ours had broken down en route. Welcome home! And another thing –
our printer is bust!
Work:
While Hamish had a horrendously busy first week back, I
didn’t have enough to do. The schools have been in a frenzy of preparation for
the 11th February, International Youth Day. They started practising
their marching and song and dance routines at 7.30am and then closed at 10. Nobody can give me a good reason
for this but absolutely no school work was done right up until the day itself
which was followed by an unofficial holiday next day and the day after that was
Friday, so……..This year, however, the new girls’ literacy class took part
instead of just spectating. They were almost as excited about it as Godam. He is
now self-appointed head teacher of what he likes to call the “Ecole
d’Alphabétisation”, which translates as “the school for the elimination of
illiteracy” (?!!) and has written a song which the girls used on the
11th. They struggled with the lyrics. While he prepared the
“mouvement” I had to prepare a plaque for one of the girls to carry in the
parade of 14 schools. Predictably Godam wanted Ecole d’Alphabétisation on the
small wooden board and I had to point out that it is a very long word. He
reluctantly agreed to “Ecole des Filles” – Girls’ School. The girls were given
the honour of opening the proceedings by singing the National Anthem in front of
the Chief. Our second literacy class in the
village of Boudoum gets underway on Monday, 16th with a volunteer teacher
from VSO’s partner organisation.
Godam arrived this morning to tell me that his wife had
given birth to a little boy yesterday and to ask me to pay the hospital bill. I
am delighted it is a boy as some of the volunteers have had babies called after
them and may now be expected to support these children for the rest of their
lives. Godam has chosen the baby’s name but will not reveal it for a week as is
the tradition here. His wife had no say in the matter as is also traditional
here. When I went to the hospital to meet the new arrival, they were just
leaving after paying the bill (patients are not allowed to leave before doing
that). Granny was carrying the baby followed by Godam’s wife. Other friends and
family members came behind, one of them carefully carrying the afterbirth,
wrapped in a pretty cloth. Lydia told me that it will be buried at home and then the
mother stands on top of it to be washed down with very hot water by other women.
Godam needed money to pay these women and to buy meat for his wife – another
post-natal tradition.
Home:
Home is now very quiet and very tidy without the
Ferries.
Boring!
Market:
We are spoiled for choice at the moment with carrots,
sweet potatoes, tomatoes, onions, mandarins, bananas and the first of the
mangoes coming up from the south. Life’s not all bad.
Random fact:
- Predictably, on our first weekend trip into Maroua
there is no water or electricity for the whole of Saturday – bang go our
internetting plans.
Hamish
Anne mentioned that our car had broken down.
I thought I would be really clever and arrange to have it serviced while we were
back in the UK. After the service the cooling system stopped working (bit
of a problem in temperatures of 40+!). The mechanic got a replacement
part from the market in Maroua, but it lasted about 5 minutes, which would
suggest it was made in Nigeria! They've had to send to Yaoundé for a
proper part and we're still waiting 2 weeks later. Ah well, back to the
joys of motos and bush taxis!
One of the biggest challenges working here is
communication, given all the language barriers. Sometimes this has interesting
results. One patient was in the
hospital in December and I decided he had recovered sufficiently to be
discharged home. When we returned
from our trip to Sunderland I was surprised to see him back in again. I subsequently discovered that he had
been brought initially to the hospital from the prison in Mokolo (our
“county town”) but I had not known this.
When I discharged him, naturally he headed for his home village to stay
with family. When he learned the prison authorities were coming for him
he had a sudden relapse and returned to the hospital ! Conditions in the hospital although very
basic are streets ahead of a prison.
I only discovered his true status when the prison governor paid me a
visit to enquire when he would likely be ready for discharge! Back home, when I was a junior hospital
doctor, if we had a prisoner admitted he would be handcuffed to the bed and
there would be a prison officer at his side – no such formalities
here!
Photos show: the “classe d’alphabétisation” singing the
national anthem on 11th February; the “laid back” lamido in his
reclining throne; performers and spectators at the fête; a child at Boudoum
school with toys made of millet stalks (note the wheels made of mud!) and
finally a close up of the toy
chair.
