Sunday 22 January 2023

Blog 57: Hope

I fly into Maseru late Sunday afternoon, back from a brief sojourn in the UK catching up with family and friends after being away for a year. Its summer in Lesotho and the relentless heat is even more noticeable having jumped straight from a Norther hemisphere winter into Southern hemisphere summer, courtesy of a long-haul flight. 

We have a staff meeting first thing on Monday morning using the new workshop at Abia High School, completed at the end of last year thanks to funding by Glasswaters Foundation Canada. It’s a tight squeeze as it contains all our APT materials, 4 half-finished chairs and 24 bags of cement ready to start building an attached outdoor space. This space will be used for a working area and for training staff and students to help us make the cardboard chairs. The funding for it comes from a retrospective grant from the British High Commission (BHC) for a sustainable project for assistive technology. This project was supposed to start last September, but due to the uncertainty in British politics at that time the grant was frozen, and we didn’t get the go ahead until December 20th. With Christmas getting in the way and a commitment to build a pathway at the primary at the beginning of the year, we effectively now only have 8 weeks until the deadline of March 15th to complete all six project activities we pledged to in our grant bid.

 

Due to the BHC budget year there is no flex on this and to do all the project activities within the time scale is very difficult without the use of Harry Potters time turner. I don’t have one so I ask Selemela Network whether they can do two of the activities, the disability awareness training at the primary and high school for staff and pupils. As they have done this type of training before and have a man on their team with cerebral palsy who uses a wheelchair, they should be able to offer a more credible and better-quality package than we can. I have email exchanges and several anxious phone calls with them trying to establish whether they can deliver the deliverables which I have asked for within the time frame. I also have a long call with the BHC on due diligence which gives me more work and stress on top of everything else I must attend to.

 

All the other ongoing projects we are involved in must continue. The team have done a great job on the pathway at the primary school, which finally gives wheelchair access to the new girls’ disability toilets, which unfortunately no one had thought about when the toilets were originally built last year. Before we built the pathway the girls using wheelchairs had to go all the way back to Saint Angela’s to use the toilet. Even with someone pushing them this probably takes at least 15 minutes one way, so a half hour round trip of time taken out of lessons. Using the new path to the new toilets probably only takes 5 mins, and the path provides easy access for a child who can self-propel to go the toilet independently. As the path is over 50 metres long it took a lot of cement and time to build, the heat and thunderstorms added to our original estimates of time and cost. The outcomes have been worth it but have squeezed the available time for the BHC project. 

 

While we are over at the primary inspecting the path the kids rock up for the first fitness session of the year. They are bouncing around on the floor with their usual energy and I spot a new face amongst the crowd, and she gives me a brilliant smile. She comes over to see me, standing upright by walking her hands up her wasted legs (Gowers sign) and my heart sinks. It sinks even further as she walks by holding the back of her head up with one hand, while supporting her twisted spine by using the other hand in the small of her back. She is 17 and tells me the history of her problems in quiet well-spoken English. She thinks she might have polio, but I know almost certainly she has one of the many types of progressive Muscular Dystrophy. 

 

There is little I can do for her; it is such a cruel condition. I get her to try out a wheelchair to see if she finds it easier to use than walking. She says it’s okay, but with a determined glint in her eye says she would rather walk. I agree with her decision, she will stay stronger for longer, even though she will inevitably end up in a wheelchair. She moves off holding her spine and head upright as best she can. Her body might be weak, but her spirit is strong. Tears prick my eyes at such bravery in the face of adversity.

 

I go across to Saint Angela to shoot the breeze with the Old Nun. She has got a name, but her age gives her the title by which she is known. The Troublesome Nun and former manager has now left, hurray! The new manager is Sister Regina, and the Old Nun is charge in Sister Regina’s absence. The Old Nun is busy filling bottles with a bright green liquid for her arthritis, which she offers me a taste of, assuring me is made from pure prickly pear. It tastes like soap, and I nearly spit it out all over her. She asks for new tips for the crutches which I gave to her before Christmas. I supply her with some, happy to grease the wheels of our connection, and hoping that a new manager could be the start of more a more positive relationship with Saint Angela.

 

The following day I check in with the new cerebral palsy clinic at Q2 hospital and measure up some of the kids for APT chairs, ably assisted by one of the physios at the hospital who is very enthusiastic and keen to get involved with the APT project. They have no equipment at the hospital to assist patients and he instantly understands the benefits of using recycled cardboard to make supportive seats for the children. I have now met three physiotherapists in Lesotho, attached to government hospitals, trying their best with very little. Amazing how much potential some cardboard could have in transforming their work. 

 

I go to the scrap yard with Ntseliseng to source more boxes while calling the lawyer to talk about “Articles of Incorporation” for a non-profit making company. My eyes glaze over as I watch the cardboard being weighed and the lawyer talks about company law in Lesotho. Up to now I have been blissfully unaware of such things, and I would have chosen for it to remain this way if it were only possible. Its definitively time to go back to Leribe and catch up with the families and children the outreach work I haven’t seen since the beginning of December. Most importantly the boy with horrifying pressures sores. 

 

Mme Maja has sent me pictures of his sores and they look even worse than when I left. It’s a wonder he is still alive, and he must be in terrible pain. I try to source something stronger than Panadol, but only find Tramadol, which although a strong pain killer is also a respiratory suppressant, so very dangerous for him in his current condition. First thing in the morning I go to see a private doctor who Mme Maja has taken the boy to see while I was away. The doctor sees me immediately. He is a slim man dressed in a grey thobe and kufi cap. He is so quietly spoken I practically have to sit on his lap to hear what he says.  

 

He takes his time, patiently giving me lots of good medical advice about tending for the boy. Seeing my despair says we must not give up hope, we can only do our best and trust in God. He gives me another course of antibiotics for the boy as well as omeprazole, bandages, gauze, sterile water, and a box of plastic gloves. He advises me to go in search of CBD oil for pain relief and source more food to support a protein rich diet. He charges me nothing for his time, or any of the supplies he has given me, and floats out of the room to see his next patient. Truly I have been in the presence of a good man. 

 

We track down the CBD oil, which costs the equivalent of its weight in gold, ironic since cannabis grows everywhere here. I decide its worth it and purchase a small bottle. Armed with this, plus all our other medical supplies, and a whole load of peanut butter, bananas, milk, yogurt, Weetabix we go to visit him. His wounds are cleaner but also bigger, if he recovers, he will need skin grafts to cover them. The sores are so deep his bones are exposed. He is 16 and probably doesn’t weigh much more than 16 kilos. We clean the wounds with salt water and sit him up in the camp chair and pillows I have brought him with donations. Finally comfortable he stops screaming from the agony we have just put him through and he fixes me with his knowing brown eyes. 

 

While he is being fed the mix of foods we have just brought him I stare back. The hold on life this boy has is a miracle, surely most people would either be in a coma or dead by now. When Mme Maja sent me the last set of pictures, I thought all hope was lost but the boys spirit shines light in the darkness. His essence and tenacity to hang on to life, where most would have fallen, radiate courage and hope. As the kind doctor said we must not give up hope. The sun never quits shinning. Sometimes clouds just get in the way…