The slowness of African exchanges are very painful. When someone approaches, it is hesitantly, slowly, softly. A small ‘sorpa’ (hello) or ‘eseerian’ (hello all) is spoken with an ‘oyie’ in return. Pausing, then a small dialogue “how did you sleep?” etc with lots of “eeer” inbetween. Very slow! Then just stand a look at each other, then an exchange starts very slowly, softly. No direct coming to the point here. There are also no introductions of names, or who-is-who. Often it can be ages until I am included in the conversations, even when they speak very good English!
The old sick man is inside the house; initially the insolent wife doesn’t care about our approach. Eventually she bades us to enter the manyatta, I decline, Koperi & Mercy go in and come quickly out. This is a very, very poor family, the manyatta is made of twigs and mud. There are about 6 kids and a young girl with a baby. The time passes, slowly. We just stand there. Eventually he comes out, a very tall, old thin man. He is incoherent; Koperi tries to investigate what is wrong. He has been to hospital so we ask to see his papers. A backpack is brought out by a small boy; he seems to be the one that cares for the old man. They all rummage for ages and ages in this backpack, it holds the only papers that they own. Only a few small things, some small id cards, a political party “visitor” card (which the old man keeps trying to hand to Mercy our nurse) and eventually a black plastic bag reveals a yellow hospital card and a packet of pills.
It turns out that this man is HIV positive and was at the hospital a month ago and given some double strength antibiotics suitable for HIV patients that will protect him from pneumonia, meningitis etc. The card indicates that he should return soon, but he has not taken any of the drugs. The wife is ambivalent and did not want to give the pills to the old man, (I suspect he did not treat her very well in their lifetime). The old man is somewhat incoherent, but we persuade him, with the help of the small boy, to swallow some water and a tablet. They are big and it was quite an effort. Mercy spoke gently to the boy and said that if he loved his father, he should take care of him and make sure he took his tablets and also take him back to the hospital. Such a sad thing to witness.
We continue walking down the valley trying to mobilize some women for family planning. The most enjoyable experience, I have found, is being invited into a manyatta for chai. LeKuyieya Kuyieya, Koperi, Abdi and I sit in a smoky hut (the roof is a bit higher in these permanent manyatta’s than the ones in the Lorora, and it is a bit more spacious) with a beautiful Samburu lady and her small daughter, both with their colourful neck rings and anklets. Small talk and jokes, it is very nice, even though I don’t understand a word! Her mother arrives, an older lady with wicked sense of humour. So funny. I love the African way of laughing and joking constantly, I hear it now as I sit on the jerry can next to the fire writing my diary and everyone chattering over me. The early morning chat of the boys in the cold, cold mornings is a pleasure to listen to too. Amazing how their keep their humour in such adverse conditions. It is not dirty humor, but cheeky. Not putting down, like Aussie humour, but simple yet so funny, with short, sharp sentences. Eeerooor.
20 litres of water, if Mercy can do it ... I can do it! Phew!
Ugali (maize flour) and cabbage for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
LeKuyiere makes a herbal remedy from the root of a plant.
The reason I am invited to join the camel mobile clinic, is to provide a report to the US donor on the operation of the solar fridge carrying vaccines for baby immunisations.
And a calf is born right under our nose.