The End of a Week + the End of a Year of Life....

Night-time is a chorus of noise. If anything the nights here are more filled with noise than the days. Various different insects – enboldened by the darkness that lies smothers the district at night- fill the air with their calls. Some like over-enthusiastic members of a mariachi band with a new set of maracas, others chirping like they are trying to add sound effects to the twinkling of the stars to try and make Disney depictions of the heavenly bodies seem more realistic. When the rains fall at night, the frogs and toads like tone deaf cousins of the crickets join their voice to the soothing cacophony. There is even one irritating -as yet unidentified- critter that lets of a sound just like my phone alarm and had me waking in cold sweats the other night, just to realise that it was 3am and some pretender was waking me. I have since changed to a tune that I doubt they have the musical ear to mimic. We shall see.
 On the topic of rainfall -I never even mentioned it I hear you say- almost every day since I arrived had a shower, which makes them calling this the dry season a little suspect ( just like us calling that time of year without snow and with leaves on the trees summer). At first I thought I had brought the British weather in my wake and was somehow to blame for the sudden downfalls. This however is the South Rwenzori and a reliable source (if you can't trust David Attenborogh, then there is no hope for humanity) informs me that is comes from one of the local dialect meaning 'The rainmaker' the tall peaks force the water laiden clouds upwards, forcing them to shed their watery load on the land below. This happens with minimal warning, in the middle of searingly hot days. This range is an unpredictale mistress. (as JM if you want a more accurate account of clouds and rainfall, I'm sure he'll oblige)
 My twenty sixth year began here in these humble trappings.I took a day of to celebrate my quater century (a relatively good innings, but I'm hoping for a few more God willing). After the previous blog entry I had another day with only Dr Hassan as cover, then a day with Helen Shepherd at the end of the phone. Which is fortunate due to an acutely unwell HIV (or ISS, as its PC/cover up name is out here) patient landing in my semi-capable hands. So after a minor moment of inward panic, I did what any sensible foundation doctor should do I followed guidelines and when I found myself at the end of any written commands....called a senior. Helen approved of what I had done (she had written said guidelines, so she may have been a tad biased) and the panic was able to pass. Although he improved over the next few days, he was the first of what may be many patients to suffer under the fact that western Uganda (this is only slight hyperbole) is entirely of blood (outside of peoples bodies in bags that is, not in it's other forms). Sadly he badly needed blood and he died two nights after I left the ward. It is a hard thing working within the confines of restricted resources. This wasn't the first death of a patient in y care I've come across (cue serious section) a young girl who had been recovering otherwise stopped breathing and the doctors began trying to resuscitate  my first experience with real life CPR- but despite our best efforts she was beyond our help, with the facilities she had. She was only 13. If you pray, then pray for her family.
 Paul Shep was back in town in time for the weekend. It's a working weekend, even though they are only half days. The major aim of the weekend ward-rounds is explained in the pithy tag line 'keep them alive till Monday'....so not unlike the UK.
 Sunday held my first church service in which worship was led by a local choir  The liturgy of the service was far more high Anglican than I am used to, which -given the trappings- was rather surreal. It seems once I'm done here I will have 'the grace' down to a tee. The service was a long one as it was a thanksgiving for the school: multiple speeches that you can barely hear (they speak incredibly softly here, as it's deemed rude to raise your voice, and as a Brit I feel it's rude to get people to repeat themselves too many times...which can lead to a bit of a cultural impasse) which was longer got far more laughs when translated into the local language. This was followed by a fundraiser to buy the choir a guitar. Which involved dragging a goat and some chickens into the church (for a moment I thought they were going to surpass high Anglicanism and get all old testament on us) these were to be sold to the highest bidder. Following Lunch i headed for a hike to the dam in the nearby hillside with Ben (the Yank) Oolie (the German othopod, her name is unlikely to be spelt that way and when he reads this, Paul Shep is likely to insult my ear for new words...bring it Shep, i'm ready) and the two new Oxbridgers (Rob and Keelan from Oxford, this makes me the only one fying the PBL flag out here....wish me luck). The dam wasn't particularly beautiful, but the waterfall and the climb to it was brilliant.
 I spent my birthday on the road for the greater part, heading to Fort Portal on the way to the Bigodi wetlands. Our driver didn't know the way and -even armed with a map- it turned out nor did we, and when I say we....I mean Ben. We got gloriously lost and in the process of re-finding ourselves we went through a back-road right through the dazzling greenery of the tea plantations, tea bushes rustling like a vast ocean that would taste good with a dousing of hot water and a spot of milk. And the smell....don't get me started on the smell.
 We eventually arrived in the wetlands and toured in the midday sun (there were no mad-dogs, but there were Englishmen , the baboons and monkeys were out in force with more birds than we could number. Lunch was held back in Fort Portal, a restaurant called 'the Dutchess' founded by some Italians (not a cockney as the name may suggest) so a wonderful calzone graced my plate. Fortunately I had still maintained my mzungo capacity of stomach and downed the whole thing (we had to go full sized, the 'baby' size would have been an insult to my masculinity). It was fantastic, better than pizza express hands down.
 On the topic of Mzungus, this is the call that goes out from the sides of the road as we pass. Small children gather, as though a local celebrity is in town hollering 'mzungu' and when you reply something terrifying like 'hello' the scatter like dandelion seeds under a heavy blow howling with laughter. Mzungu means 'white man' roughly translated. It isn't racist -i'm reasured- it's just like shouting 'fatty' to an individual who in the words of Bill Shakespear 'hath most certainly consumed the totality of the meat containing pastries . Which again isn't insulting, but descriptive....especially as a bit of chub is seen as an attractive feature of wealth amongst the more traditional parts of society. Which is fortunate with all these carbs I'm loading, as though there is a marathon that I am never going to run.
 From now on updates are like to be weekly. We'll see if I manage that.

Prayer points (for those that pray):

> For continued health and improving language skills (I can say hello and goodbye....vital skills)
> For the staff out here, we've lost a number of young patients  which is never easy especially as you feel they may have lived if resources were more available.
>For the women's and family health outreach programs to local villages that happen weekly. That they bear fruit.
>That I won't start feeling the effects of old age too soon.