Half holiday!

It's been wind down week in school. A week of cleaning out cupboards, tying up loose ends and sneaking off for long lunches with friends and colleagues. Who knew that whilst we're beavering away in school, being lucky if we have time to shovel in a quick sandwich, that the Kampala coffee shops are buzzing with the office workers, NGO workers and all the ladies who lunch?

I've decided that I'm on half holiday. I treated myself to manicures and pedicures and a facial. After all, these are treats that I can't afford once I go home. The salon, incidentally, was full of teachers doing exactly the same thing!

So now I am rested and ready to go home for the summer. I'm only taking home the bare minimum, so I can shop till I drop! I'm looking forward to catching up with friends and family and having a little peace and quiet, away from the barking dogs and the loud parties that keep me awake at night. Hopefully I can squeeze just a little Ugandan sunshine in my suitcase though!

Boosting the UK ecomomy

I saw a report in the paper today that retail sales in the UK had plummeted in the month of May. Well fear no more. Soon, myself, as well as several other retail deprived colleagues will be heading back to Blighty on a mission to reverse the trend and boost high street spending.

I plan to spread my wealth (!?!) far and wide, as I visit friends across the country, spending in every sector of the high street. The list of 'must haves' seems to get bigger and bigger, the closer I get towards coming home. It started out as quite a modest list of new trainers, some new sports kit and a couple of pairs of sandals. Now I am looked at my sad and unfluffy towels and thinking they are ready to be ditched. My face powder is reaching an end and my mascara is getting cloggy, and I am sure I won't be able to resist throwing in the odd lip gloss or nail varnish. Every time I have to get dressed, I stare at the same old selection of worn clothes, many with the tell tale holes created from too much handwashing. I am sick of nearly all my clothes and am longing to go shopping.

Not long now - I will be home a week on Saturday - woo hoo!

Nesting

It’s taken a long time, but my apartment is starting to feel a little more like home. When I moved in, half of the lights didn’t work, my oven had only one working element and the water pressure in the bathroom was a pathetic trickle. There has been a series of workmen passing through my house, turning up anywhere between half an hour and four hours late. First it was the plumber. His job was to fix the water pressure in my main bathroom. He excelled at this task – to the point that I had to dam up the bathroom door with towels to prevent the enormous leak he had caused. Then came the electrician, or should I say the man with the tools for repairing electrical faults? You will see what I mean in a minute. He managed to break one of my extortionately priced energy saver light bulbs that I had very responsibly bought. He also smashed the lampshade on the outdoor light. Then, to top it all off, he switched the wiring around in all of the lights in the living room, so now I have to try out each one of about ten switches just to flick on the right light. All of these tasks were performed with greatest attention being paid to the stringent health and safety regulations in operation in this country. And if you believe that then you truly have just come up the Nile in a banana boat. I witnessed him standing on a 3000 Shilling wooden stool, on top of a flimsy wicker table tinkering with the bare wires and fusing any gaps together with a paperclip whilst I half-watched an episode of House on my DVD because of course, he didn’t deem it necessary to turn off the mains.
Anyway, progress is being made. I have a new oven, or should I say furnace , that I would imagine powerful enough to melt lead. It incarcerated my ginger biscuits in just 7 minutes flat. I need a little more practise with that I think. The leak has stopped and I can now shower in hot running water. I still haven’t got a key for the back door but I have got curtains and my sofa has been restored with a snazzy new covering. Did I mention that I returned home from work one day to find that they had taken my sofa and not bothered to tell me about it? This week I finally had time to put my pictures up and I have grand plans to make my spare room into a relaxing reading room rather than a dumping ground for cardboard boxes. Watch this space for updates!

In Sickness and In Health …

Before setting off to any exotic location, there is always a full checklist of health requirements you have to fulfil. There are injections for Hepatitis, Typhoid, Yellow Fever of Course and a few more, diseases that conjure up strange images – I still imagine that yellow fever must turn you yellow. As residents in Kampala, most of us have opted out of taking regular anti-malarial drugs on the grounds that the chances of getting infected in the city are low and that the effects of taking the drug long term is allegedly worse than getting malaria. We have access to excellent healthcare here and feel confident that everything will always be fine. Of course we don’t imagine that we’re going to get caught.
Last Friday morning, I was started to shiver in assembly. That happens sometimes, on a cloudy day, if you forget a cardigan. Whenever I feel chilly here, I start to think that I must be acclimatised to the weather. By late morning, it had brightened up, but I still felt a chill, and my muscles were aching a lot. I shrugged this off, convinced that I had done a few too many laps at swimming training the evening before and that I must have gotten a real chill. I battled through the afternoon, begrudging the fact that all of the extra burdens at the end of term should make us feel so exhausted. I walked out of the door as the bell rang, resolving to go home for nap before the England match later that evening.
Needless to say I didn’t make the match. I spent the night aching, shivering and sweating and wondering what was going on. In the morning I didn’t feel much better, but tried to push away thoughts that it could be anything really nasty. School had paid for free tickets for us to attend the St George’s Ball at one of the big hotels that night and I didn’t want to miss out on a rare sparkly high heel moment in Kampala. By afternoon, the niggles got the better of me and I decided to call the doctors. A friend took me in and before the appointment I had decided that there was nothing wrong with me and I should just go home instead (probably the prospect of our beloved GP who has a worse bedside manner than House). Half an hour later and I was diagnosed with malaria.
Understandably, the people who were most concerned for me are living in the UK. They will have read the statistics that malaria can kill or that it is the biggest killer of under 5s in Africa. Friends in Kampala were caring and helpful and knew that everything would be fine. Those who had suffered from it before, (one friend only 2 weeks ago!) offered practical advice and sympathy by the bucketload. Good friends ran to the shops for me, while my flat-mate made a great nurse. Ugandan friends and acquaintances also offered their sympathy, many of them having had it several times, and I began to feel a bit like a member of special club of those who know what it is like to suffer from malaria. Catching malaria for Ugandans is much like me catching the ‘flu. Ugandans are born with semi-immunity, while we have none, so even if they have a much higher parasite count, I will still suffer more, as my body offers no natural resistance.
Being ill, especially when far from home, turns us all into small children again. No matter how much of an independent world traveller I think I am, when I’m sick, all I want is a hug from my mum and dad. I’m not used to being so reliant on other people and I’m not used to not being able to do the simplest of things. I started to worry about how I would ever cope with being old, if being sick for a few days was so bad! I don’t think being ill suits me – it gets in the way of life too much. So you will understand why I felt aggravated after the following conversation. A Ugandan acquaintance asked what medication I was taking, so I told her. She asked me if I was taking it with milk or fruit juice and I replied water. She then commented, in total seriousness, that it probably will not have worked, especially, if I haven’t eaten a fatty meal afterwards. Well, of course, doesn’t everyone with malaria just fancy a big fat portion of fish and chips? I had been able to eat virtually nothing in 5 days, and there she was, suggesting that I stuff my face with pizza or something. I sighed with any energy I had.
I am now well and truly on the mend, although I am getting tired quite quickly. On Friday, I called into school and was greeted with the biggest bear hug from the whole year group. I went to the cinema that evening to see one of the worst films in history (some J-Lo romcom nonsense) – the girls complained but it was the highlight of my week! I have packed all my stuff for moving, with a few naps along the way! And I’m so happy that England got through on Wednesday, so I can finally go to the pub with everyone and watch the game – life is good again!