Teresa
Wottalogg Out of Africa
WHEN IT’S GOOD TO GET MY GOAT
I’ve just returned from spending Christmas in Kenya which is in the
grip of the drought ravaging much of the African continent.
Being there brought back many memories of my childhood when we had so little
to share but were always so happy and grateful for whatever was available.
I was struck by people’s resilience and ability to smile even in the
face of so much adversity.
During drought, the first things to dwindle from the markets are fresh foods,
vegetables and water. Water costs around 10p for a 20-litre can in a country
where most live on less than a dollar a day.
Drought is bad news for people with chronic illnesses and can be particularly
devastating for people infected or affected by HIV. Thankfully, antiretrovirals
are now more widely available in some areas although they have yet to reach
many who need them. There is less evidence of chronically ill people in the
villages and many are very thankful for international efforts that are making
this possible. But due to drought, families and government have to prioritise;
often now it’s a toss up between food or HIV drugs.
Food plays an important part in traditional Kenyan Christmases. People fill
the local pubs and eating places and many unfortunate chickens are turned
into Christmas lunch. Spirituality is important too. It’s a time to
reflect on life and go to church where a lot of prayers are said for families,
communities and individuals. For many, Christmas is the only time they attend
church as it would be considered a serious case of moral failure to be left
at home sleeping off a hangover while your parents attend.
Traditionally, men slaughtered the goat and women prepared chapatti and pilau
before going to church. Parents divided up the goat, setting aside tripe,
liver, the front limbs and kidneys for little girls. Boys shared the neck
and whatever meat they could scrape from the skin and the lungs. Then the
men shared out juicy ribs and the meat from the hind legs among themselves.
In today’s world, women are up there with men, slaughtering the goat
and cutting it in to pieces.
We
managed to retain some traditions when I spent Christmas 2004 here in the
UK. That time a whole tribe of ravenous, beer-guzzling Kenyan and international
carnivores masquerading as relatives and friends descended on my small flat.
They were armed with sleeping bags, music systems and a whole goat cut up
into reasonably sized pieces part of which we chilled on my balcony. But there
have been other times when I have been too ill, either from HIV or my HIV
meds to take part in the get-togethers. This year I had a flashback to Christmas
2001 when I was released from hospital to join my family. I was too ill to
enjoy anything, having been pumped full of drugs to save my life in the previous
weeks. The following Christmas I was on my second drug regime having failed
to respond effectively to the first. These new drugs made me sicker than I
had ever been in my life and I spent the Christmas in bed, hoping I did not
wake up to face the world another day. Soon after that I changed my medication
once again and almost immediately started to look and feel better. I was soon
as good as new and have been largely well ever since. So this year I marvelled
at just how lucky I am still to be alive. And I thanked the spirits of my
ancestors who must surely have watched over me and kept away the ‘evil
spirits’ who have seemed hell-bent on destroying my life. I thanked
the skillful doctors, nurses, social workers, friends, family, people I met
at support groups, and everyone else who worked in tandem and helped me recover.
I owe my being still here to all of them and can’t thank them enough.
