The Scan

I had an MRI scan done recently on my neck.

It took 4.5 hours over 2 days.

It cost US$500.

There are only 2 working MRI machines in Zimbabwe; the other is at the Pariranyetwa Hospital (previous post) and a scan on that one costs $1000.

“I was there 3 hours” said the swarthy man in the waiting room upon hearing what I was there for. So I was prewarned. Whatever, I did not have much else to do and after an hour’s wait for the previous scan to finish I was duly called to change out of my clothes and into a “dressing gown” (fortunately not the surgical type that leaves ones back and bum exposed and feeling vulnerable).

I am not at all claustrophobic so I settled down to wait under the MRI with a large dog collar like “coil” around my neck. I asked if I could go to sleep and was told that was OK but I did not feel like sleeping. The operator sat down at her console outside the room and the machine started. Clunk-clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk-clunk. Nothing. The door opened and the operator came back in.

“Let’s try another coil” she said. I was slid out from under the magnet and another coil placed around my neck and plugged in. There was a sign above me saying “Do not look at the laser” so of course I did but it was aligning on my neck. She slid me back under the magnet.

Clunk-clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk-clunk. Silence.

The process was repeated for the last cervical coil to no effect. And the cable was changed – just in case.

“It sometimes works if we start it off with a thoracic collar” she said. I was removed from under the magnet, the thoracic cover plugged into the bed and slid back under the magnet.

Clunk-clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk-clunk. Chatter, chatter, chatter. This was hopeful!

“Right, now let’s see if it will work with the cervical collar”. It was plugged in.

Clunk-clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk-clunk. Silence.

“Maybe if we let it rest for a while…” So I sat in the courtyard in my dressing gown feeling a bit exposed and watched the terrapins in the pond for half an hour. I wondered if anyone had studied terrapin social behaviour; it would require extreme patience – they don’t do much.

“We are terribly sorry but please can you come back on Tuesday”, the visibly frustrated operator said after another couple of attempts. “It seems to work better early in the morning so if you can make it at 9?”

We repeated the process on Tuesday. God’s help was asked but God was not interested. Another operator was called. She accused the machine of PMS. I thought it was time to get more actively involved and a bit more analytical.

The machine works with the thoracic collar – right? Right.

So the machine works. Yes.

So the cable to the coils is good? Yes.

Do ANY of the cervical coils work. Well, 2 don’t and the other one occasionally does.

Let’s have a look. The coils are semi-flexible in a quite hard plastic and have to be closed around the neck and plugged in. 10 years of opening and closing must have taken its toll on the coils and I strongly suspected that something inside was cracked. We finished the job with a cranial coil pushed down over my neck and I was instructed to push my shoulders down and DON’T MOVE!

The Diagnostic Imaging Centre is trying to get a loan to get another MRI but a quick bit of Googling revealed that any number of companies will sell working second hand coils, reconditioned coils or even fix existing coils! Whatever happened to the Zimbabwean can-make-a-plan attitude?

Hospital visit

“150 dollars a month” she said and giggled. “I am not doing it for the money!” “I can see that!” I replied.
“I have a diploma in clinical neurophysiology, and I need the practice” she replied to my question on her qualification.
I did not say that both of my foremen at the nursery earned more than she did and neither even had “O” Levels.

It has been some years since I was in the Pariranyetwa Hospital in the Central Hospitals complex in Harare. When I was last in the hospital it was still known as the Andrew Fleming and was the main teaching hospital in town and was quite new and very well run. Last year it took a decidedly bad turn for the worse and had to be closed due to staff strikes over abysmal pay and also a lack of power and water.

I had to admit I was quite pleasantly surprised that the place was clean, orderly and functioning although I had come into the Outpatients Department where the less than critically ill waited patiently on benches in the very long corridors that I’d remembered from so long ago. I quizzed the staff I met about conditions and all admitted that it was better than last year but was still sub-standard. “At least we are getting medication and clean linen, but the equipment is very short” said the doctor I’d come to see about a test for carpel tunnel syndrome. The equipment he used was privately owned by the Neurology Department. “The medical school is up and running again after closing last year but there are no lecturers in some courses” he added..

Godfrey, the doctor who did the tests was an affable fellow and quite happy to talk. He’d been in an aircraft crash a few years ago in which the two other people, a neurologist and a urologist had died. The left side of his face is still a bit disfigured and he admitted that he’d changed seats with one of the other doctors just before their attempted takeoff. He felt a bit guilty about it.

The tests cost $200 to tell me what I knew already; I have carpal tunnel syndrome in both wrists. I guess the real reason I wanted the tests done was to see what the inside of the hospital was like!

Crime, punishment and forgiveness

I see from last week’s Financial Gazette that the trial of Roy Bennett, the MDC’s Deputy Minister for Agriculture-designate, has started. He is charged with “possessing wapons for the purpose of terrorism” and treason and if convicted could face the death penalty. Considering Bennett’s popularity in the province of Manicaland that is unlikely (he speaks perfect Shona and just mentioning his name in that region promotes a look of awe and adoration) and the whole trial smacks of political manoevering. Why Bennett, a white ex-commercial farmer who was evicted off his land in the Chimanimani area, is being targeted is unclear; after all he is a relatively small player in the Government of National Unity. Maybe it’s because the Attourney General who is firmly in the pocket of ZANU-PF thinks he has a chance of some sort of conviction. Maybe it’s racially motivated (racism is alive and thriving in Zimbabwe) but it is going to take and extraordinary brave judge to call a not guilty verdict.

I was discussing with Lucy a while back the concept of punishment and how one has to be pragmatic in Africa. Our Dear Leader has substantial blood on his hands, the like of which would have had Slobodan Milosovic impressed (Google Gukuruhundi massacres). It would be great to see him on trial at the Hague or preferably at some African venue with similar powers but that is very unlikely to happen. While this would send a powerful message to the rest of Africa’s autocracy a speedier and more pragmatic solution would be to consign him to obscurity in a rural village not of his chosing. The rest of the sycophants could be put against a wall as a gentle reminder to those who think supporting his ilk is acceptable behavior.

At last year’s HIFA the cast of Truth in Translation (a musical about the Truth Commission in South Africa) ran a workshop on forgiveness. About 30 of us sat in a circle and related to the person next to us in not more than 4 minutes our life story and an issue of forgiveness with which we stuggling to come to terms. This was then related to the rest of the group. I had to think a bit and then chose an incident some years back where I was beaten up by a soldier just down the road from my work. It wasn’t really an issue any more but it was the best I could come to terms with at short notice. Afterwards I commented that forgiving was not so much an event as a process and indeed my pocket OED defines forgive as: “cease to feel angry or resentful towards (person) or about (offence)”. I don’t think I could go up to the person who beat me (it wasn’t bad but very unpleasant – I got a cracked rib) and say – “I forgive you”. Yes, the incident has ceased to be relevant to my life but it is certainly not forgotten! I did report the incident to the 2IC of the barracks just down the road where the lout who beat me was based and of course nothing happened. A lawyer friend advised me to drop the issue; it would not have been difficult for the person to find out where I lived and make life “difficult”.

Caro teaches art at a private girls’ school and I have known her since my university days. We were chatting last Sunday about art and how it works as a catharsis and is often an early warning sign of psychological problems. Another woman (I’ll call her Gail – not her name) who teaches with her and whom I know slightly helps out black women in a nearby community with a sewing group. Gail was obviously upset by something and Caro asked her what the problem was. A younger woman in the sewing group was a continual trouble causer and finally Gail had told her to either settle down or get out. Others in the sewing circle had then decided to discipline the woman and beat her and killed the baby on her back. That Gail even goes so far as to help out in the community is remarkable considering that her aunt who was kicked off her farm in Ruwa was raped by 4 of her assailants at the time of the eviction. Gail’s brother was a GP here at the time and ended up testing the 4 assailants for HIV – all were positive. He decided this was incompatible with his Hippocratic oath and emigrated to New Zealand.

It is perhaps not surprising that at an art exhibition I went to over the weekend there were some very disturbing works on violence. One was a small box in which there were 4 feminine dolls; Barbie dolls mostly with other heads on them. All had been mutilated in one way or another -
burnt, legs carved up etc. Another painting showed the internal machinations of a torture chamber that I am told was accurate although the artist had not been a victim. There was no shortage of other political statements. It was all the more poignant as it was very much a case of preaching to the converted. The theme of the art exhibition was “Walls”- a competition sponsored by the German Embassy to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Muddy paws

It’s the season of muddy paw prints in the kitchen. No matter how much I nag her Jenni just will not wipe her paws before she comes in!

The first storm has arrived – smack on time and it didn’t even trash the UHF aerial next door. I’d left it too late to go and unplug the aerial so just sat on tenterhooks until it had passed. Just as I unlocked the door the power came back on and the screen on the proxy server turned on – weird, for a moment I thought there was a ghost in the machine!

 

This acacia karroo has been flowering in my garden for the past 3 days

 

 

Reflections on the first half

Please see the link to the page on the right side of the blog.

Updated 6th November

Fault lines

I was paying Tony the rent that I owed him yesterday. He asked me if I’d heard of the rumour that the Zimbabwe dollar was going to be re-introduced. I hadn’t but he’d apparently heard that there had been a run on one of the branches of CABS and they’d run out of cash. I’d drawn $1000 out of my corporate account that morning and there were certainly no queues at my bank so it was probably all fiction; albeit very dangerous fiction. We are certainly in no position to start playing those sorts of silly games – the financial system collapse would be near instantaneous and probably irreversible. On the other hand it might be euthanasia for the increasingly ill GNU (Government of National Unity).

Jonathan Moyo, the arch villain, turncoat and sleaze ball of Zimbabwe politics apparently said last week that “…we don’t need the MDC in the GNU. Now that we have dollarized investment will come pouring in”. Right. I still think I’ll draw down the company bank balance a bit.

Telling honesty

-  Why didn’t you sell me your pickup?

- What’s wrong with the one you’re driving? I replied, evading the question.

- It’s not mine; I have to borrow that one every time I need to come to town, was the reply.

I’d had an old pickup truck for some years and he was one of several people angling to buy it. I’d eventually sold it to the first person to arrive with the cash. It was running but difficult to start and I’d made it very clear that once out of my hands it was not my problem.

-          So why don’t you go and get one from the second hand car sales places, there must be dozens – it’s a buyer’s market! I said.

-          Yes, but us chiboyi (blacks) are dishonest, we will say anything to sell the vehicle and you find out after 3 weeks that it falls apart. You whites are too honest and tell use all that is wrong with it in the first place!

Nyanga Odyssey

I am sitting typing this at 2200m in what is possibly the highest holiday cottage in Zimbabwe. It belongs to a mate who is only too happy to get people to use it. I am in the guest “house” which sits on a very steep edge of the World’s View escarpment and when the air is clear it is possible to see 100km quite easily. It was clear this morning but now it is very hazy again.

It is always cool up here, sometimes very cold, but that’s in winter. Now it’s the end of October, sometimes called the “suicide month” because of the oppressive heat at lower altitudes so it’s a relief to get up here. I left Harare and took a leisurely drive up, stopping to photograph some wild flowers by Headlands. It was an easy trip, the Landcruiser performed flawlessly with its “new” turbo charged engine – this was after all an excuse to test it within the warranty period. In Rusape I was stopped at a police roadblock and after the usual greetings the older policeman said “Have you just come from Salisbury?” grinning hugely (there was a momentary pause before “Salisbury” as he sought the long disused name). “No” I said, “I have come from Harare, it has not been Salisbury for some 30 years!”. For some reason this was a huge joke and I was bid safe travels.

Jenni on the World's View escarpment

Taking Jenni for a run yesterday evening she revelled in the cool air and spent a fair bit of time looking over her shoulder wondering why I was being so slow (a very bad road). The wind picked up and soon it was rather cold and last night was spent listening to the wind moan about the roof.

Behind the house to the south is a massive granite rock slope that drops off to the Nyanga village some 700m lower. It’s just begging for photos with boulders, lichen, aloes and at other times of year, flowers. I spent a happy hour or more this morning while the sun was still low, taking photos and daydreaming. Some company would have been nice (Jenni is an uncooperative model and let’s face it; a doggy expression is a doggy expression!).

Looking south towards Nyanga village

The only property I own is a half share in a 10ha plot on the northern flank of Mt Nyangani, Zimbabwe’s highest mountain. My mother bought is for some 600 pounds in 1960 (way over priced) with the intention of using it as a retirement property (she apparently had more money than my father!). It became obvious that it was just too far out of the way to be practical and what with the deteriorating security situation the only investment they made was to plant a few thousand eucalypt trees of varying species.  I had not been there for several years so this morning I set off. It took and hour of appalling roads that have had no pretence of maintenance for the time I have been away. I was surprised to find the km long track down to the property quite passable for a high clearance vehicle. On the way I stopped to chat to a personable black man who has set himself up on the southern boundary. Cephas claims to have known my father and also remembered my mother visiting in her small white sedan. Thinking it good sense to have a good neighbour I bought 2 litres of honey off him – it smelt really good but I think I’ll resieve it when I get home to get the bee parts out!

The plot is now almost entirely covered by trees. Most are still the original and are now giants of some 50m or more. They are too big to harvest safely and even then the transport costs will eat up any profit margin for the timber. We scattered some of my parents ashes at the place where we used to picnic as a family so I was a bit emotional as I reflected on two lives that ended way too prematurely; my father murdered in 1978 and my mother from misdiagnosed melanoma in 1992. I have no idea what I will do with the property. The other partner lives in Europe, I have no progeny and I don’t see any chance of developing it any time soon; it will still be out on a limb no matter what the political situation of Zimbabwe.

Butterfly on Helichrysum ("Everlasting")

Part of the property where I am staying burned down last year. Derelict buildings are just loaded with photo opportunities and I have been watching the sun move down a rather photogenic wall while I type this. I must go and check it out.

Betrayal of trust

Her coat is matted and dirty; sort of Labradorish. She is young but middle aged on the street and surprisingly not too thin, yet. Her tail is only half as long as it once was but she cannot remember what happened. All that matters now is that she must eat to feed her family – an instinct so deep she does not even think about it. She has vague memories of laughter and games a ball to chase and young friends to play with and security and friendly voices to … wait! What was that? Her nose, supreme sensory organ that it is tells her there’s food around. Where? Look, down there! She jumps easily down into the ditch, and yes, it can be eaten. What is it? No matter, food in a bowl was long ago – she has no choice. She picks it up, jumps back up on the bank and ducking under the railing away from the traffic makes off with her find. She must feed her family.

Just soldiering on

The Dance Trust of Zimbabwe put on their annual “Starlight Dancing” show over 5 days last week. I took the opportunity to get some photo practice and they liked what they saw after Thursday night so I was invited back. It was amazing what they managed to put on considering all the various dance studios are cash strapped and the DTZ is pretty much broke.

End of “Here’s to you MJ”

Most of these photos are from the first night when I took photos for my own enjoyment. On Sunday someone came up with the idea that we should sell them to raise a bit of money for the DTZ and that totally changed my approach to a “mass appeal” market. The best photos are not usually from the front of the stage where the background can be cluttered!

Full screen (1280 pixels width) are viewable at http://gonexc.deviantart.com/