Tag Archives: stories

Don’t look back

They say you should never return to places or people you once loved.

I go back to Kampala, with Craig and Roscoe, to where we all began. This exploration of rootedness is also a celebration; we are here, together, twenty years on. Still talking, still breathing, still loving each other. These small miracles acknowledged and noted. What seems simple, is not.

We fly Uganda Airlines, cramped together in an airless cabin, in seats so close together you could kiss your neighbour by a simple turn of your head. Unfurling ourselves in Entebbe, we walk through the sanitised airlink sealing us away from the welcoming smells of rich red murrum earth. However, the stench of progress is quickly wiped by the familiar chaos of immigration. One day a country will design an immigration service that reflects the warmth of the people within. This is not that day.

The vast emptiness of the Chinese built airport building, is in contrast to the melee of humanness which swarms outside. I’d forgotten the propensity for noise and nearness. These are a people who can create a noise level unmatched outside of a premier league football ground on a Saturday afternoon and an ability to stand so close that they can see the freckles on my nose.

We spend 30 minutes in the car going nowhere; embroiled in a queue of traffic inching towards the two barriers which offer a tantalizing escape from the airport confines. The argy-bargy of cars, trucks and Matatu’s bursts onto the Chinese owned highway where every toll shilling goes ‘Kerching‘ into the coffers of the Chinese government. This is a prime example of the Belt and Road initiative, binding Africa to the future of the Far East; an active choice of the current political elite who ignore the vision of their new colonial masters.

I still marvel at this highway; 20 years ago a drive to Entebbe could take 1 hour or several, if you made it at all. From 1998 to 2000 it was so dangerous and the kidnappings and shootings so frequent, you had to be escorted by armed guard. Given I travelled across Africa so frequently, I was incredibly blasé about a truck full of loaded AK 47’s ahead and behind my regular airport convoy. I look back at my old-self life and wonder what happened to that woman; the one full of ignorant bravado.

Now we are in Kampala in 50 minutes. The city has grown four-fold in the twenty years since our first departure. It’s a grown up city with high rises vying with traffic lights and the hive of boda-bodas swarming every inch of tarmac and murrum road. It’s interesting to see a rise of middle class affluent Ugandans unabashedly flaunting their wealth and good fortune, this alongside the obvious increase of international populations from the Middle and Far East, lends a curious distinction between the haves and the have-nots.

We stay with friends in Kololo, the same familiar suburb where we used to live. That word familiar is an oxymoron- what remains is the names of the streets, what exists today is an capricious mix of office blocks, and high rise apartments crammed together next to restaurants, clubs and bars. These compete with each other to be heard in a cacophony of thumping baseline beats lasting until 4am. Ear plugs are essential for a good nights sleep.

Where he began.

I drag the boys to Owino market. I want Roscoe to see and experience real life for ordinary Ugandans. It’s hugely entertaining to hear the calls of “Big Man, Hey, Big Man” and “Mzungo, Big Man” as I trail in his wake, letting him take the heat in the hope of a white-man sale. We eventually reappear into the light of the day not having spent a dime but rich in the assault of all senses.

After the clamour of noise and hustle of Owino, we jump in the car and crank it up the hill towards a new attraction; the mosque which was completed in 2006, two years after our departure. Funded and opened by Gadaffi, it is the fourth largest mosque in the world and the largest in sub-Saharan Africa. It is well organised and dressed appropriately we embark on our tour which culminates in a circular climb of 272 steps to the top of the minaret where we are rewarded by a 360 view of Kampala. It is comforting to see a few green spaces in about the morass and jumble of concrete and brick. From up here there is an obvious haze lying over town, created by over industrialization, belching black smoke from old cars and trucks, the burning of charcoal and anything else from the city slums and a general lack of regulation. The plethora of shisha pipes in every bar adds to the already poor air quality and my pretend tongue fizzes warning signals leading me to wonder about the longer term health of Kampala residents.

Kampala mosque

Back on the ground we head off to the place of our betrothal; the Baha’i temple. Even here, the pace of industrial development is ever present- the steam roller and digger are both noisily busy creating a new murrum road up to the temple itself. The building itself is reassuringly familiar and we hide on the other side of its sunshine yellow decagon walls, enjoying the setting while reminiscing and concurrently boring Roscoe who indulges us with feigned interest.

Africa’s Baha’i temple

The next day we leave Kampala just after sunrise, the city is already bustling with busy people and tired revellers returning home from the jangle of 24/7 bar fun. We are heading towards Jinja and the promise of a Grade 5 white water rafting experience. This drive is not for the faint hearted and we pass several lorries and sugar cane trucks upended on both sides of the road. Years ago, as we drove through Mabira forest, we would see local folks walking with big stones in their hands, to throw at the marauding baboons who fight each other harder than rival supporters at an ‘auld firm’ game. This trip there are no baboons but the road sellers are still peddling their well-cooked ‘chicken on a stick’ proving the longevity of old favourites. Arriving at Nile Explorer River Lodge, it’s fascinating to see the wide age range of dwindling tourists still seeking Ugandan thrills. I’m not daft enough to go anywhere near the raft- I left my need for that kind of excitement somewhere on the birthing table- so I spend the day watching the backpacking youngsters chasing adrenaline kicks offered by bungee jumping, white water rafting, kayaking and the catapult slide into the Bilharzia infested waters of the Nile. I know we will need to attend the Doctors surgery the following day as the boys will need the necessary medication as payment for their day of fun.

The boys on the Nile

There follows a lovely day catching up with old friends in new haunts and a final meal in Aurous, the fine dining bar and restaurant which has been created in our old house and garden at plot 11 Roscoe Road. It’s surreal to be drinking cocktails in that garden, with our boy. A plot beyond imagining when we locked up the house for the final time all those years ago.

The old ‘hoose’, plot 11, Roscoe Road

Being here with Roscoe has been all I had hoped for. He understands our passion for Africa much better by stepping onto Ugandan soil. But there are other African nations waiting to be explored.

So as we say our farewells, I think this truly will be my farewell. I love the Ugandan people who are, without doubt, one of the warmest, most hard working and diligent African people on earth. But I cannot support the values of the political elite and some of their recent draconian laws, challenge my personal values to their core.

Uganda won’t miss me or my tourist dollar. It’s thriving, attracting alternative continents of nationalities to its borders. But understandably its lack of tolerance to difference has negatively impacted its attraction to Western tourists and the knock on effect on local businesses and the economy, alongside reducing the exposure of Ugandans to the rich myriad of cultures, attitudes and beliefs, will be sadly felt for years to come.

Sun sets on the Jinja road.

Practice

I subscribe to Seth Godin’s blog and his musings and jottings arrive in my email box with impressive regularity. I like the way he views the world. He is concise and thought provoking- a real change catalyser.

Today, to prove my point, he sends this;

The first 1,000 are the most difficult 

For years, I’ve been explaining to people that daily blogging is an extraordinarily useful habit. Even if no one reads your blog, the act of writing it is clarifying, motivating and (eventually) fun.

A collection of daily bloggers I follow have passed 1,000 posts (it only takes three years or so…). Fortunately, there are thousands of generous folks who have been posting their non-commercial blogs regularly, and it’s a habit that produces magic.

Sasha,Gabe, Fred,Bernadette and Rohan add value to their readers every day, and I’m lucky to be able to read them. (I’m leaving many out, sorry!) You’ll probably get something out of reading the work of these generous folks, which is a fabulous side effect, one that pays huge dividends to masses of strangers, which is part of the magic of digital connection.

What I’ve found is this–after people get to posting #200 or beyond, they uniformly report that they’re glad they did it. Give it a try for three or four months and see what happens…

So guess what? Inspired by Seth who has an unerring ability to tap into my thinking, I’m setting myself a challenge to get back into the habit of writing.

I’m not aiming to be profound. I’m not even aiming, at this stage, to be consistent in my messaging or style. However, the aim is to make it happen, every day for 30 days minimum. And to not get stressed about searching for appropriate visuals or correcting poor grammar. If visuals are there and grammar is correct, consider this as a bonus.

To help I’ve created a new category called “Snippets and stories” and my 30 day practice blogs will sit in there; festering for attention.

So if  any of my wee stories, poor grammar or stylistic literary phrasing catches your imagination or attention, please give me feedback. It’s all good and it’s all appreciated.

Thank-you

Small things matter

I have often been regarded, and probably regarded myself, as a big picture thinker. A strategist, able to look beyond the initial horizon, sometimes accused of seeing a horizon that no one else is looking at!! All of this scenario planning, future gazing, strategising, data interpreting, means that sometimes, I forget it’s the little things that really matter.

businesswoman-looking-horizon-over-clouds-structure-31448548

I once received a great piece of feedback from one of my team. To start talking at the beginning of a thought, rather than starting a conversation in the middle, assuming that everyone else has made the connections or had similar thoughts.  (On reflection, this is brave and invaluable feedback – imagine how crazy some of my conversations must have been before I accepted and owned this behaviour?!)

And in the hurly burly of day-to-day corporate existence when time is short, information is plentiful and decisions and actions are taken at break-neck speed, it’s easy to explain such behaviour away.comms speech

But feedback like this pulls me up short and I  start to make time to think ahead about the purpose of the conversation and the outcome I’m looking for before any discussion happens, rather than at the point of communicating.

By being off sick and having time to reflect, I’ve realised I need to consider this feedback more broadly, beyond the singular  dimension of relaying a thought, idea or request, through speech or voice interaction.  For honest and real communication happens at the level of  how, not what.  Actions and behaviours (the how of communication) convey emotion, intention, values and beliefs far better than speech alone.Meraberain research

And time and circumstance gives me the opportunity to see and, experience, the how of communication in so many small and sometimes seemingly insignificant ways.

So I am more grateful and appreciative of;

The girlfriend, my first hospital visitor (apart from Craig), who comes bearing small arnica tablets which she proceeds to pop into my mouth (ignoring the nil by mouth  sign above my bed!) and for the time she spends creaming my face with moisturiser  when I look like a wreck and my halitosis is at its very worst.

For others who turn up during incredibly busy periods in their lives armed with gifts, magazines and flash cards to save my voice (these cause much hilarity in the hospital ward when I keep holding up the “need more gin” card).
Mr popper penguins 2For those who let me gatecrash their short, time-bound Christmas celebrations, when I’m straight out of hospital, with such grace and love and the others who come to the house that evening to hang out, cook and clean, watch bad movies and help me feel human again.

For those who arrive  bearing soup, foodstuffs and sustenance, for the many flowers I receive which brighten up every room, and for all the girlfriends who wash and style my hair during my initial weeks back home.

For the invitation  to join another family’s Christmas day celebrations and Christmas dinner . This truly tremendous and selfless Christmas gift  was gratefully taken up, greatly appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed.

For family, who come and stay and entertain Roscoe, clean the kitchen and generally pitch in with our revised family life – the house feels so empty and quiet now they’ve gone home.

For those who have Roscoe ensuring he never has to see me in hospital and to give me a break from his boundless enthusiasm for life,  who care for him as if he is their own, washing and ironing his clothes, feeding him and keeping him safe.

sloeginFor the exclusive home-made sloe gin which nearly causes me to fall over after one small glass.

For the silk scarves and chocolates which soften my neck and fatten me up, and for the walking companions who stoically  ignore my slurry communications and keep me talking.

For those who just drop in – when did we learn not to do this? Friends who drop by on the off chance are such welcome distractions to daily life.

For Roscoe, who is now  opening and closing my car door, carrying my provisions, slowly starting to do more for himself at home and who frequently asks if I’m okay.

For all the support,  advice, encouragement and guidance that comes from many different conversations.

For the cards, some sensible, most downright rude and hilarious which adorn my bookcase shelves and cause me to smile.

For the tribe who keep up the Whatsapp chats which keep me on track each day.

And for my husband who demonstrates in so many ways how much he loves and cares for me, without saying a single word.

I continue to  learn that it’s the little things I see, experience and do which  create the biggest waves of appreciation and joy.  Sometimes, all it takes is a look, a touch, a card, a word, a smile,  a text, a call, an email.

Most of the time, it’s the time itself, making the time to think of someone other than yourself, which creates the greatest impact.

When this comes from a place of care and openness, a place within yourself for another, it truly is a gift of love.

love 2

In the beginning

It started with a mouth ulcer.  Under my tongue, on the left hand side.  It must have been there for a while but I first noticed it in November 2013. We were busy at work – DB pension closure, some reorganisation, some further changes to employee benefits – the usual “change” stuff and frankly Christmas was coming up. So I ignored it.

Local jungle drums beat over that festive season and news filtered down that a young Mum had been diagnosed with mouth cancer and, incredibly, lung cancer  – both had been caught early.  When I saw her a few weeks later she was well wrapped up and speaking with a slight slur.  She remained cheerful throughout our short conversation and encouraged me to get a dental check up.  I didn’t mention my mouth ulcer.

A few weeks later, I remembered this conversation and the Doc referred me to a maxcillofacial specialist.  I had my first biopsy that March and it hurt.  Not so much the physical side but not being able to talk properly really caused me grief.  The stitches burst too and my tongue became a mass of muscle that developed a mind of its own. The good news was it was benign and although I had a white patch mass on the side of my mouth, I was assured that with regular reviews, all would be fine.

I have a busy life.  Our little family juggles two full-time demanding careers, the running of a home and the care of our much loved, sports mad and indulged son, Roscoe. juggling womanWe have no family close by and rely on good friends to help when we get stuck.

I work for an oil and gas company and get involved with big change programmes. At the time of the first biopsy I was knee deep in a voluntary redundancy programme which saw a third of the head office staff depart. I was busy, busy, busy!   I  look after the management of change and communications so people still want to come to work and do their best – even in times of uncertainty.

Change curveSo I know all about the change curve and the stages people go through and  confidently use lots of different communications and change models and approaches no matter what is thrown at me.

 

 

I’m also an ostrich. I can easily ignore lots of things. Including the omnipresent mouth ulcer (which returned bigger and uglier than before) and the regular reviews with the consultant specialist.

He wrote to me in March 2015, saying that as he hadn’t heard from me, he presumed all was well and was going to take me off the books.  Naturally, this encouraged me to do something about it. I called the healthcare insurance, got a reference to see him and promptly forgot again.

But the ulcer had other ideas and it started to get angry.  My mouth started to twist to accomodate that I couldn’t chew on the left hand side.  Somedays I didn’t eat because it hurt too much.  The dentist sawed off a bit of my bottom tooth to give my mouth some room.  The ulcer remained.  The dental hygenist gave me  4 different types of toothpaste telling me to try each one for 2 weeks to see if it would respond positively to the various ingredients.   Nada.  The dentist prescribed 500mg (industrial strength) Betamethasone  – a steroid oral mouthwash which I used for a further 4 weeks.  It had no effect. I changed my diet.  The ruddy thing would not move.  Guess I was stage one in the change curve – denial.

Eventually, I asked the dentist to refer me and I schlepped back to the specialist.

He scheduled the biopsy quickly.   Monday 09.30.  First thing on the Friday , the phone rang, “can I please attend an appointment the following Tuesday.  Perhaps I would like to bring my husband with me”?    It was all fairly obvious.  It was a long four days.

Denial was now futile.

I have mouth cancer.