“A speech? What for?”
“It is a celebration of the new Park Homes and we need a representative from the hospital. Matron is not here.”
“Sure – I will only be short. Is that OK?”
“Sharp!” He give a grin and thumbs up and retreats. I am on my fortnightly visit to Macabuzela clinic and return to my patient – a lady the nurses believe is diabetic. She is tired and drinking and peeing a lot. Unfortunately the clinic has run out of urine analysis sticks and their blood glucose meter has not worked for months. I guess a truly committed physician would have tasted her urine - I cannot bring myself to do it and instead send her to the next clinic along the dirt track – about 20km away. I am a monster.
The music starts outside as the celebration gets under way – I have to shout to make myself heard. Sister is unconsciously gyrating her shoulders to the music as she translates for me, and through the window behind her I can see the clinic’s pink-clad domestic workers dancing away in the midday sun.
“Is this the last patient?” I ask. She nods. “So we can go and dance?” She grins and we head out.
The massive increase in work brought about by the ARV programme has not been paralleled by an increase in space and the Park Homes have been set up to provide more consulting rooms. Chairs have been positioned under the awning in front of the new building where patients, staff and local dignitaries are gathering. I must admit at this point that our ARV programme is run "in partnership" (for which read, "they do the vast majority of work") with a local NGO. Our fortnightly management meetings rotate between their headquarters and the hospital. At their headquarters we are served fresh muffins and coffee. At the hospital we are told there is no budget for such extravagance. We prefer the meetings at theirs.
The speeches are underway – each sentence punctuated by shouts and ululation from the small crowd. As each speaker gyrates up to the makeshift stage – a trailer – the spectators cheer them on. The “compere” announces me. I stand up and walk across the baking grass to the trailer. The music starts and I attempt a nervous dance as I walk. The crowd erupts into yells of what I - perhaps naively - decide to consider approval. One of the ARV programme staff holds an umbrella above my head to shield me from the sun and translates.
“Sawubona!”
“Yebo!” comes the reply.
“Ngiphuma kwaHlabisa.” That is the end of my Zulu and I continue in English with translation at the end of each sentence. I thank everyone I can think of and waffle about now we have this space we must fill it with the people who need our help and everyone should encourage their friends to get tested.
We gyrate off the stage and, speeches over, the music kicks off in earnest and the nurses and domestic workers at the clinic form a conga-like line and dance around the trailer to the whoops and cries of the audience as drinks are served. I climb reluctantly back into my (small 2WD) car to head back - the NGO team climb into their (large 4WD) vehicle to head to the next "Partnership celebration" at the next clinic.
Sister getting on down.
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