Skip to main content

Return encounters

The queue is moving slowly and I look out of the gangway window at the ground crew as they scurry around the plane. I spot my bag being loaded into the hold – a cause of some reassurance. Finally I enter the plane and flash my pass to the stewardess.

I am back in South Africa and have been killing a few hours at Jo'burg airport before now, at last, catching the short flight to Durban. My heart sinks as I approach my place – the seat next to me is occupied by a classic African Mama – not much of my seat remains. I greet her with a cheery hello. She grins and we strike up a conversation.

"What are you doing here?" she asks when she finds out I am British.

"I live in Hlabisa – a small village in KZN – I work there."

"At a hospital?"

"Yes."

"Ah! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for leaving your pound for our Rand! The Lord will bless you for that."

I smile at her. "Well, it isn't that bad. It is a bit of an adventure."

"Yes – but you are making sacrifices to come here and God will honour that. He sees everything! Are you married?"

"No – that is something the Lord has not yet provided!"

"Ah – but he will! He will! And he will give you many children as well I am sure!"

She is called Agnes (not her real name - see disclaimer above) and I discover that she is on her way to join her son on holiday in Margate, the improbably named KZN South coast beach resort that is considerably nicer than its name might imply. The steward comes round checking our seat belts. Agnes delves down to each side of her chair and manages to retrieve each half of her belt but there is no chance that they will meet – they cannot even glimpse each other over her ample girth. "I think this seat is not designed for the African woman!" she mutters, and calls the steward over. He returns with an extension – Agnes can't quite reach the far side, and I join her to delve down and pluck the belt socket from under her bottom. Finally, she is legal.

"Do you have family?" I ask once airborne.

"I have four children and the Lord has been good – they all have good jobs and they take care of me. My son paid for this ticket. He phoned me last night and said, 'Mama – don't miss that plane. Don't miss it – you will forfeit the ticket and we will have to buy another', so I set my alarm for 5 in the morning to make sure. I was packed 2 days ago!" It is now 2pm so her preparedness is commendable.

The conversation moves to politics. The ANC is choosing its new leader and there has been considerable friction between the current state president, Thabo Mbheki and the ex-deputy (sacked for alleged corruption and famed for sleeping with the daughter of a friend, known to be HIV positive and then announcing he was not worried about infection because he "had taken a shower after sex"). Zuma is extremely popular and is highly likely to win.

"Why is Zuma so popular when he has done all these things?" I ask her.

"Ahh. I think that when a man does the things of darkness it makes him attractive to the people. And anyway – these people who are voting for him, they are not the people of the country, the normal people, they are the people of the party. They don't represent us."

"I guess there isn't really a proper opposition in South Africa – the Democratic Alliance is too small."

She snorts. "The DA? They are the old Nationalists in disguise. They would bring back apartheid. They want the white man to rule again." She looks at me, and looks a little taken aback at herself. "Sorry – you are white, but you know what I mean." I nod. "No – I think the country should be run by women. Because we, we are all mothers. And when the men argue we can say to them, 'Stop! You cannot argue like this,' and they will stop because people listen to their mothers."

"Perhaps you should form a party?" I suggest.

"Hauw! No. I like my time. I like my personal space. You cannot have these in politics." She looks out of the window. "Are those clouds?" We are out our cruising altitude and the cotton wool meadow of clouds stretches out in all directions.

"Yes – amazing isn't it?"

The speakers give their static laiden announcement of our descent.

"Already!" she exclaims. "This has been the quickest journey."

10 minutes later we are on the ground. She heaves herself up and as I lift her bag from the overhead locker she says, "It has been wonderful to meet you. Enjoy your work – and thank you." And, at a speed that belies her size, she is gone.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Abscess

The phone rings. I am lying on the sofa in the dark squinting at the laptop screen: someone has lent me series 1 of Spooks. I struggle up and bump across the room to the phone. “Hello?” “Moran!?” “Yebo.” “How are you?” “I am fine.” “I am fine too.” And then those four dreaded words. “Please hold for maternity.” The line goes dead for a second and then a midwife comes on the line. “Moran?” “Yes.” “How are you?” “I am fine. “I am fine too. I have a 22 year old primip. She is in labour but I cannot do a PV. She has a Bartholin’s abscess.” I ask a few intelligent questions and then, pausing only check what exactly a Bartholin’s abscess is (an abscess of the Bartholin’s gland apparently) I head for maternity. On arriving I am taken to the woman concerned and, yes, sure enough there is a large abscess in the position that I imagine a Bartholin’s gland might sit if I knew exactly what it was. “I cannot do a PV to check the cervix because it is too painful.” The abscess blocks the way. “Right.
1 comment
Read more

10 years on

The door flies open. Lele peers in. "You must come out here and see. They are doing a play!" I finish up my case file annotation and come to the doorway. The waiting area is in chaos. A gang of school children are manhandling a couple of marimba's to the space in front of the consulting rooms, a team of nurses and counsellors are creating a stage area. Patients look on mutely. Some with interest, others - presumably feeling proportionately less well - without. "What is going on?" I ask. "It is 10 years since the clinic started. 10 years since MSF first started the HIV treatment programme and proved that it could be done in Africa. So the staff are celebrating. They are doing a show or something." The sister in charge of the clinic has moved to the front of the crowd of patients. She calls for silence and then gives a short introduction. Lele translates for me. "She is saying that this is a very important day. 10 years ago people were dying. And 10
3 comments
Read more

Ceza Hospital

I am woken with a jolt. The 4-wheel drive has left the tarmac and we are on dirt road. I look ahead into the hills – the road wends its way high up into the distance. “How far?” I ask Amos, our driver. “About 40km.” I settle back and watch as the settlements become less and less pseudo-bungalows and more and more mud rondavels. The road to Ceza It was about a month ago that our medical manager first mentioned that we had been asked to help out at Ceza Hospital – a remote rural hospital about 2 hours away. Its medical staff (only 8 at the best of times) had been steadily departing and only one remained. He was leaving at the end of May and they were desperate. Desperate enough to accept help from us. As I said – a month ago – but it was only last Thursday that I found myself agreeing to go. Two of the others had been that week. I phoned them to ask what it was like. “There are no words to describe it,” said Nomfundo, “speak to Dr Kekana.” Dr Kekana comes on the line and after humming an
3 comments
Read more