Zimbabwe Absurdity

The King Cobra came calling
this morning.
But I was not there to
look him in the eye
and ask –
why?

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?

“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!

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.

–  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!

– Please may I have time off tomorrow to go to court.
– Why do you have to go to court Gladys.
– Because I was caught chopping (down) wood.
– On ART Farm?
– Yes.
– That was stupid!
– But I was not the only one!

P.S. Gladys is my domestic servant (labour is relatively cheap in the Third World). To me this incident was symptomatic of the Zimbabwe malaise; if someone else is behaving badly it’s OK for me to do so too.

Quite often the best place to shop for vehicle spares in Harare is in the old Kopje area; specifically Kaguvi street. It’s mayhem down there – cars parked haphazardly, running repairs and touts hassling passing drivers “You want bearings? Spares?” which are either stolen or dodgy salvages. It’s advisable to maintain a sense of humour and not get ruffled. I once told a particularly persistent tout to F off only to be accused of being a racist. “Fine” I said, “lets’ go and chat to the police about it then”. He sulked off, continuing to mutter.

Today I was looking for tie rod ends (the bits that hold the steering to the wheels). When asked by a couple of touts if I wanted spares or bearings I replied that I did not buy my spares off the street; after all, who would want a tie rod separating at 120km/h? Lots of tears and dead bodies! They saw the joke and didn’t bother hassling me again. Curiously the shop I went into only had the inner tie rod ends. The outer ones were missing out of stock!