Doctor Doctor ...

Today I had to pay a visit to the doctor's for a bit of tummy trouble. If there's one thing that I have learnt since arriving in Kampala, it's that if you're sick you should go to the doctor's straight away, otherwise things will only get much, much worse.

Now there are many stories surrounding a certain British doctor who has a somewhat unorthodox bedside manner. Disconcerting as this may be, at least the doctors here seem to focus on the areas with the symptoms. Complain of a fever and the doc will promptly stick a thermometer in your mouth. Mention a funny tummy and you will be instructed to poo in a pot - sorry if this is a little graphic, but TIA!

This is more than could be said for some of the doctors in Colombia. Given that it is a nation of hypochondriacs, you would think they would be more on target. A friend of mine once visited the doctor's complaining of a sore throat. Rather than shine a torch on the affected area to take a closer look, she was told to stand against the wall chart to see how tall she was? Why, I don't know. The only possible explanation I can think of is that Bogota stands at an altitude of 2500 metres above sea level. Perhaps if you are over a certain height, you are more susceptible to afflictions of the throat due to lack of oxygen ... Another time, a friend went to the doctor to sort out an old knee injury. The first diagnostic question? How old were you when you lost your virginity? How is this relevant? And there she was thinking it was a running injury!

As for my tummy - I was diagnosed with food poisoning, most likely caused by the mayonnaise in my egg mayo sandwiches. I blame Umeme ... I'm on the mend though!

Arty farty

Many of you will have heard this story before, so I do apologise for repeating myself, but I was reminded of it again tonight.

Soon after arriving in Colombia, a group of us travelled to the quaint colonial town of Villa de Leyva. It was a beautiful day in the land of eternal spring, and we sat in a sunny courtyard drinking wine with our lunch. Inevitably, the first bottle soon ran out and was replaced with a second, a third and who knows how many more.

As the sun set, we decided that we really ought to move, if only to browse the small craft shops in the courtyard. Bolstered with the false confidence that only 6 glasses of Chilean red can give you, I decided to try out my new acquired Spanish with a few of the locals. So proud of myself was I for conversing about art in a foreign language, that I decided to purchase a painting.

I still have it now ... and let's just say that you should never buy art under the influence of alcohol!

Tonight, at a fundraising art show, I was in no such danger. I wonder if anybody has red-stickered the $1200 on the painting of a gorilla playing the flute!

I will always be an abolo obruni

I was not allowed to stay in Colombia for longer than two years on grounds that I was not glamorous or beautiful enough. The government issues strict guidelines on these matters and those who fail to meet the rigorous criteria are asked to leave the country. I pleaded that I had tried my very best. Had I not gone for regular manicures and pedicures? Was my hair not always blow dried to perfection? It seemed that this was not enough. Unless I agreed to undergo some cosmetic surgery, be it a boob job, some Botox or a spot of liposuction, I would no longer be welcome in the land of the beautiful. On my return journey whilst in transit in the States I found I did not need to follow any signs for the connecting flight to Manchester. I spotted my people immediately – all a little bit (or a whole lot) fat, with pasty skin and a poor dress sense. Yes, I was going home and I landed back on earth with a bump.
But not for long though. I was heading for Africa. A real place, where it’s seen as a good thing to be a real woman. So what if you’re not a model Size 6? If you’ve got curves, then everything is fine with the world. A little bit more spread, then that’s great too.
Nearly ten years after my first trip to Ghana, a couple of friends and I still fondly refer to each other as the abolo obrunis. That means fat white person. Looking back, probably none of us were actually that fat, but that was what people called from the streets! Actually, we may not have been fat when we landed in Ghana, but after 6 months of munching on street foods from fried plantain to yam chips, we probably were pretty rounded when we left. I have indelible memories of the woman whose house we stayed at (who we had to call mum) and her friend (Aunty) rolling around on the floor stuffing watermelons in their mouths. Here was a woman who was so spoilt and lazy, that rather than get off her fat ass to change the channel, would watch a fuzzy grey screen, whilst shouting her maid ESSIE, ESSIE, ESSIE, ESSIE … and if Essie failed to come, her son NANA K, NANA K, NANA K until somebody would put her out of her misery.
Now in Uganda, most of the people are pretty slim-lined compared to our West African neighbours. But people do like their food, lots of it, and if you gain a few pounds along the way, then good for you. It’s always hard to remember that being told you’re fat is not really an insult around here. It’s either a statement of fact or, at times, a compliment. I nearly took back my charity the day I left out some unwanted clothes for my maid to take, and she told me she would give them to her fat friends! It’s a fair point – she’s pretty tiny herself – around a Size 8 on a fat day! One day a friend and I whizzed past her house whilst out for a healthy bike ride. She waved and called us over, and invited us into her house for a rest and a drink. Moments later, she asked us why we bother to do exercise when we will both always be so very fat. I despaired!
This week, since being ill, I have for once been looking a little skinnier. On Friday, people kept telling me that I looked very weak. I have since translated this as being a little thinner than usual. My favourite line of all though, came from my lovely Teaching Assistant: “Miss Crosbie, you have lost weight, but don’t worry, if you try hard I am sure you can get it back again!” I have never worried about anything less in my life.

What was I thinking?

Since living overseas, I have led myself to believe that I am far away from the temptations of retail therapy. Every month, I convince myself that I am leading a very frugal life and that I have somehow risen above the Western calls of consumerism.
However, as I start to sift through my things before moving house, I realise have an awful lot of ‘stuff’. I can’t say that this is something that started in Africa. Although there was no shortage of shops in Bogota, it was practically impossible to buy anything that would fit an average sized British woman. So whenever there was an opportunity to splurge, I took it with gusto. One of our favourite trips used to be to the ‘Leather District’. A taxi ride to the far side of town would take you to a street of shops bursting with every product imaginable made out of cow hide. We giggled at the neon pink leather miniskirts and turquoise waistcoats, but got excited about the prospect of buying tailor made clothes. Armed with a fistful of magazine pictures, you could select the exact shade and design of jackets based on designer labels for a snippet of the cost. My first purchase was a rather sensible brown jacket and that was soon followed up with a black biker style jacket that made me feel very rock and roll. But like everything that is enjoyable in life, there is a shady line between a healthy interest and a mindless obsession. Each visit, of course, would not be complete without throwing in a couple of handbags. Then, came the moment of descent, when I thought it was a great idea to buy … wait for it … a red leather jacket! The cut was great, similar to the very first brown one, but seriously! What is perhaps even more worrying is that I was egged on by my friends to buy the damned thing. I don’t feel bad about it – they were less than $100 each and the buying process was definitely fun. I just wonder what I was thinking.
In the living room, I have a big red painting with some random oranges and apples on sticks. I bought this little gem on my first visit to Villa de Leyva, a charming colonial town a few hours away from Bogota. It had been a relaxing afternoon, where we ate and drank wine in the shady courtyards of the ancient buildings. One of the restaurants was owned by an old artist. He was a lovely and gentile old man, a Colombian Tony Hart, who enjoyed his leisurely life of painting and chatting to tourists. In my mind, I had an in-depth conversation about art with him in Spanish. But after an afternoon of quaffing vino, I suspect that the conversation was more along the lines of ‘this picture is red … I like red … look at the apple’ and so forth. He smiled and nodded and was more than happy to accept a couple of hundred thousand pesos for the picture. In exchange, I got a picture that I’m not so sure about anymore, but a happy memory of buying it and the buzz of excitement that goes along with shopping.
Uganda is even more limited when it comes to shopping, but I have still managed to make a few faux pas. I just took a dress out of my wardrobe that I bought from a tailoring school outside of the city. When I tried the dress on, my friends politely pointed out that it was a little on the large side, but common sense rarely interferes with a woman intent on spending money. I asked for a few adjustments and was convinced that this dress would inject a little glamour into my Kampala life. Once I got home with the dress, I realised that my friends were not trying to jeopardise my fun but were actually trying to stop me from wasting my hard earned cash on a dress that was totally unsuitable. To this day, the dress has hung up in my wardrobe unworn. I won’t lose any sleep over it. The organisation works well with the community and by buying the dress, I have helped to fund young girls to learn a trade and to find a way of earning independently.
Obviously it doesn’t stop there. Shopping makes us temporarily happy and can take the edge off a bad day. I have endless amounts of junk that I have bought because I have come up with one reason or another to justify it. A whole tangled mess of paper beads clutter up my jewellery baskets, beads that I would only ever work here. I think that certain things fit in certain places. The leather jacket really was the thing to wear in Bogota – but travel elsewhere and you look like an extra from an Aerosmith video. If I were to try to wear my tailor made, African fabric clothes in the UK, people would mistake me for an Oxfam model or a wannabe hippy. So while I am sure that this will not be the end of my shopping boo boos, I am going to try to exercise a little more caution in the future.