Business update...

Remember the business idea? Well even though I've been slacking of late , it is very much still on.

We have sold our first item, to belgianwaffle no less. After some nail-biting weeks of thinking that our parcel had not arrived, and that we would be cobbling together complaints procedures depressingly early in our operational life, it turns out that the dress arrived, well on time and that the small customer in question is very satisfied, if a bit chilly. Eva and I got very, very excited when we heard such feedback. A month or so ago we sent some stock back to the UK and we'll see how that does too.

I had a bit of a dip in enthusiasm after scouring Kampala's textile shops and finding very little in the way of nice, quality fabrics. (Unless teflon-coated lime and black tiger stripes is your thing, and more power to you if so, you would like it here.) I went in search of some Ugandan-woven stuff, at a place called the Textiles Development Agency, but all the weavers had been laid off as there was not enough work. More on this another time. Just as I had written Kampala off and was preparing to go to Nairobi to get some decent material, I took special K into town (her first visit) and came across a new shop with some pretty stuff in it. So we are back in business. Expect more photos soon.

(Nor can I write this without giving a big shout to my friend and now business partner Clarey B. Thanks to her we have a logo, a brand name and a website in the pipeline, and without her time, committment and general enthusiasm, this whole thing would surely have hit the buffers.)

PS this green spotty number is one of ours. Send me a note if you want one.

The future's bright, the future's..pink

As mentioned in a previous post, the Scho's have now finished their breeding bonanza.* Three children is just dandy, now the shop is shut. While a little boy would have been very exciting and rather novel, baby K is such a cutie it's already hard to imagine the world without her.

As far as oestrogen-heavy families goes, it seems we're not alone. Just in Ganda, our friends L&F have 3 girls, B&D 4 girls (and 1 boy), E&L 2 girls, S&F 2 girls, I&J 2 girls 1 boy. Back home the record stands at C&M's 5 girls (and 1 on the way, sex unknown), but the pattern continues.

Where are all the men children? Is there something in the water?

*still, it's dangerous to make pronouncements like this. As my friend Dan puts it, "the stork is always listening."

In which the terrible reality of life in Africa hits home

OK. This post is not going to be blogging-lite. If you want blogging-lite, click away now. Normal service (rabbits, Katherine etc) will be resumed soon, but you can't live here and meet Ugandans without at some point brushing against the desperate misery that so many of them face. As I said: not blogging-lite today.

Remember the neighbours? From time to time I have visited them. I bring bits of food and homemade playdough for the gangs of kids which seems to go down a storm, especially as not many of them speak English. A while back we exchanged mobile numbers. (An aside: no-one does landlines here. You guys are so backward in this regard.) They have always welcomed me into their home. Sometimes we've prayed or read the Bible together. No-one has a job or much in the way of schooling. No-one has ever asked me for money either. A surprise -and very humbling.

When K was born, Pastor Rashid asked if they could come and visit. So last Wednesday, a little troupe of 4 adults and 2 children, all looking immaculately smart turned up at our gate. We sat on the balcony, drank sodas and ate chocolate brownies while they cooed over the new baby. They gave me a gift: a Pepsi Cola T shirt and a cook book from the 80s entitled "Fresh ways with soups and stews." I re-iterate - none of these people has a job or anything like a regular income. Baby Israel, who I saw being born, was looking very healthy and huge for a 3-month-old. Baby Simon, 7 months old, was climbing all over his mother and seemed fine. When I asked how he was, I was told "he is diarating." (Ugandan English, and a neater way of saying, "he has diarrhoea.") I didn't probe: he really looked fine. Just the week before I'd gone to the doctor with one of our guards and his baby daughter, worried that she was "diarating", only to be told that up to 10 loose stools a day is normal for a breast-fed baby. (Shows how long I've been out of the nursing game. But it was reassuring to be told, anyway.)

The next evening, quite late, I got a phonecall at home in the middle of a leaving party for a Medair colleague. It was one of the neighbours, telling me that Simon had died. I was stunned.
At first I panicked. Just the day before we had all been sitting around my week-old baby. Could she have caught something life-threatening? By the morning I was more rational. We went over to see Simon's mother in their tiny shack. Simon was there, under a blanket on the floor. He looked beautiful and peaceful. His mother was distraught. "My heart is hurting," she said. This lady is an orphan herself. We all cried. They buried him that day, in a town about 60km away.

Rob bumped into Pastor Rashid later that week. Apparently, they had taken Simon to a local clinic. The doctor there assumed he had malaria and injected him with quinine. Very soon they noticed that he was having a bad reaction to the drug, so they got in a taxi to Nsambya hospital, but by the time they got there it was too late.

Did he have malaria? He might have done. Diarrhoea is one of many possible symptoms. Many places can't afford expensive microscopy, and even if they could, the clinical conditions aren't great for effective diagnosis. Blind treatment is the only option for many people, and malaria is a killer. But quinine is also a nasty drug; it has horrible side effects and (I have a good source for this) should never be given by injection. More likely, he just had diarrhoea and would have got through with clean water and a couple of oral rehydration sachets. We'll never know.

His memorial service is tomorrow, under the tree by the shack where they live.

Hard Labour: the Afterbirth Rated 12. Contains more gory detail.

starring Gandalady, Gandahusband, Katherine. co-starring Frau and Mrs Midwife. Supporting cast: other midwives. Another special appearance from The Man from Accounts.

I am wheeled by Gandahusband, Frau and Mrs to Private Room no. 1. Baby - who we think might be called Dorothy but are not sure yet - has her first feed which she seems to enjoy very much. I am tired but very pleased with the new bundle and relieved it is all over.

Frau and Mrs feel my tummy and check my BP which is low. I am bleeding alot, but they think all will be well. They each give me a friendly squeeze, complete bits of paperwork and prepare to go home. I send Gandahusband on his way, and soon it is just me and the small, pink person. She is wearing a vest, a sleepsuit and a blanket. The temperature is ambient to warm. I am happy in a T shirt and a sheet.

I lie awake all night, due to after-pains, adrenalin and copious amounts of bleeding. The midwives on duty are not very troubled by this.

3am. I stagger into the corridor. "May I have some more pads please?" I croak. "And a new sheet?" A midwife returns at a leisurely pace with the pads. "No sheets. Sorry." She is about to leave when she sees the baby. "This baby is not wearing A HAT!" she exclaims. "Er.. it's OK," I reply. "It's not cold. I'm British!" I quip, as if this should explain everything.

"This is Africa!" says the midwife. On this continent the baby wears a hat whatever the weather, lady.

She starts rummaging through my bag and digs out a black vest of mine and a muslin, and then wraps the baby up in these extra layers, fashioning a kind of head covering out of the folds. Reverend Mother from The Sound of Music. It rather suits her, even if she is being cooked alive.
3.30am I text R to bring sheets from home, and remove the extra layers.

Sheets delivered, I stare at the ceiling until 6am, occasionally getting up to change them etc. No one disturbs me. 6.30am. I would love a cup of tea.

7am. I really would love a cup of tea.

7.30am. Do I get breakfast?

8am. I'm hungry. And I am gasping for a brew.

8.30am If I don't get a cup of tea I will cry. I stagger into the corridor. "Er...can I get a cup of tea please?" I say to anyone who will listen.

A midwife wanders over and looks in the room. "This baby is COLD!" she exclaims, and starts fussing over the baby with layers again. I clench my jaw. A chef arrives with a mug of hot, sugary milk and two tiny sausages wrapped in a paper napkin: better than nothing.

9am. Gandahusband arrives with latte and pastries. Heaven. We start planning our escape.

10am. The man from accounts again, ever conscientious. Fill in this form please.

More forms. Then a visit from Ugandan obstetrician who is wearing a pink shirt and we have a nice chat. He is happy for us to go.

11.30am We are heading for the exit, already sweltering in the tropical heat. "Stop!" cries one of the midwives. "You must be accompanied by a nurse!" The nurse comes. Again, the horror: "where is the baby's hat?" goes the cry. "No hat." I say. Don't go there sister.

We get home. E and G fall over themselves to cuddle and poke Katherine (for she is no longer Dorothy.) By the afternoon it has turned chilly and is pouring with rain. I dig out a pink beanie hat and put it on the baby.

Hard Labour (rated 15. contains blood and guts, and some bad language)

starring Gandalady, Gandahusband, Katherine. Co-starring Frau and Mrs Midwife. Special appearance from The Man from Accounts.

A True Story.

Tuesday. Twinges all morning, but didn't get excited by this as twinges were by now pretty commonplace. After a nice lunch and a lie down with E and G I thought they might be getting regular or regularish. I started recording the times on my shopping notepad: beans, loo roll, 14:23, 14:35, 14:44. Every ten mins. Yes! I texted Frau Midwife (for she is German) and started doing brisk circuits of the garden.

Frau Midwife calls me. "I can't come right now," she says. "One of my children [she has 8] is very sick and vomiting everywhere. Let me get Mrs Midwife [for she is British] to see you instead." I continue my circuit training until friend Suzanne comes and we walk up a very steep nearby hill and drink passion juice at the bar on the top.

We get home. Twinging definitely stronger. Mrs Midwife arrives. "There's no hurry!" I tell her brightly, as she walks in the door. "You could have waited another....GAAAAAHHH!" Suddenly interrupted by an unmistakeable and very painful contraction. She examines me - 3 cms. We go to hospital, Rob, myself, Mrs Midwife and a large, purple birthing ball. In his excitement, R drives past the front entrance.

"I can never remember which floor the maternity floor is!" chats Mrs Midwife, clutching the birthing ball. "Anyway, I don't like this place and never refer my mothers here anyway."

We by-pass lots of tutting, officious looking nurses, aggrieved that we haven't stopped to complete the necessary paperwork, and head straight for the delivery suite. The Man from Accounts at least has the boldness to follow us in and collar Rob about paying the bill. By this time I am having strong contractions, and would give the man my last penny just to make him go away.


I clamber into a flappy blue hospital gown and haul myself onto the bed. There is no adjustable backrest. Hence the ball comes with me onto the bed, covered with a sheet, and I lie draped on it for the next 4 hours or so.


Frau Midwife arrives, chewing gum. Frau and Mrs Midwife are delighted to see each other. How is the little one? How's everything going? Would you like a Coke?, etc.

Another exam. 6 or 7 cm. "I can feel the membranes," says Mrs. "If we rupture them, that would speed things up." Do it please. "What shall we use?" says Frau. "Hmm," says Mrs, and goes off to hunt for a suitable implement. She returns with a long, steel pair of scissors.

"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH THAT?" I shriek. Mrs reassures me that I won't feel anything. She has a go, then gives up. "I don't think these membranes were meant to be ruptured," she says sadly. "We need an amniohook!" says Frau. "I've got one at home," replies Mrs.

Meanwhile, a nurse comes in to ask us to move the car. We have parked in the CEO's spot. R suggests we do it later.

Pain relief please, I say. Frau leaves the room and returns with some gas and air - at last some useful equipment. Ahhhhh. I go on a short journey to la-la land. Lovely Ugandan Obstetrician arrives and snaps on a pair of gloves. Time to push. Then: a power cut. "Has anyone got a torch?" flaps Frau. R moves laptop (we were listening to music on it) and holds the screen behind LUO so thus illuminated, he can catch the baby, who is out in less than a minute.

A few nurses come and go as baby (for she is not yet named) is weighed, the cord clamped, etc. I am helped onto a trolley and wheeled to a room, accompanied by a tiny, wailing blue bundle. "When is this baby going to be dressed?" says one of the nurses. It is to become a familiar refrain...

story continues in Hard Labour: the Afterbirth

Coming Soon!

Ta-daaa!

Here she is: Katherine Dorothy Schofield. Born 26th March 2008, 23 mins past midnight. We're not sure who she looks like. But she is rather lovely, don't you think?

Guess the mystery object!

I know. It looks like a loaf of bread. But it is in fact, one of these:





an emergency home delivery kit! Just in case I don't make it to the hospital in time. It's been fascinating studying its contents, and I'm not the only one to have had a nosey - see the tiny hands?

Not that baby has given me the slightest indication that s/he is about to come out. Although I have a week til my due date, I am getting a bit crazed with impatience. I have never had a late baby before - Emma arrived on her due date like a Swiss train, and Gloria was 8 days early. There is a first time for everything I suppose. I could always give myself an appendectomy with the instruments if I get that bored.