THERE are more notable locations around Fife Avenue in Harare. The city’s Test cricket ground and Robert Mugabe’s presidential palace – complete with heavily-armed men in uniform patrolling the perimeter in case anybody takes an ill-thought out selfie – for starters.
But the setting which drained my time, my money and… well, let’s not go into exactly what was drained just yet, was a rather bland doctor’s office.*
The reason for the visit was initially dismissed as merely a blister on the side of my foot, a side effect of my switch to flip-flops and my lifelong habit of walking on the side of my feet. Right up until a quick check after stepping out of the shower in the Zimbabwean capital discovered what had been a lump of hard skin was now a suspiciously squishy shade of yellow.
Throw in a collection of bites which were just not healing and it was time to give in to the inevitable – and the urgings of a couple of people since a brief bout of sickness in Bulawayo, which was not followed by the normal swelling of one of my legs, well not much – and seek medical help.
It has all added to a week of doing, largely, not a lot since leaving the big beasts of Antelope Park.
It even, courtesy of a sore back and generally feeling rundown, had me retreating to my bed before it was even dark as most of the rest headed up to investigate the ruins of Great Zimbabwe, the former thriving civilisation which gave its name to the new country upon independence.
Which made a trip to Heaven, our home away from home overlooking the Chimanimani Mountains, a pretty ideal spot to kick back and relax (let’s be honest, the chances of me heading out on one of the long walks through the mountains or one of the adjoining hills were slim at best, even with non-aching feet).
My foot, at this point, still enabled a walk down into the village and a trip to the local bar to celebrate Gareth’s birthday and add our names to the legions of former Oasis groups who have sought refuge in the same watering hole and left their mark on the walls.
Not sure what was our main motivation to stay out late, more beer or avoiding going to bed as the altitude added to the falling temperatures, although an improvised nest involving my sleeping bag and Moroccan rug ensured it was all nice and toasty, as long as the heavy dew did not intrude too much. Still no sign of the rug’s supposed aphrodisiac qualities mind.
The pattern of hot days, cold nights continued as we rolled into Harare and set up home in the back garden of Oasis’ African base, complete with workshop containing four other trucks and the equipment Gareth needed to give Nala some much-needed TLC.
But as others struck out to investigate the delights of the capital city (once they had managed to get further than the Black Banana bar down the road), the garden became my home for much of the next few days – bar that rather longer than intended trip to the doctors.
Let’s get some things straight from the start. There was no crying out in pain. There was no squealing. There could easily have been (and nearly was), but there wasn’t. There was plenty of giggling, not all of which could be attributed to large quantities of painkillers injected in various parts of my body.
Once, that is, the doctor had turned up half an hour after the start of surgery, which remained devoid of other patients until he arrived, followed by a crowd of people who wanted his attention and providing the signal for his receptionist (who had also taken my blood pressure, then disappeared) to start relieving me of some dollars.
When he arrived, he conducted a thorough investigation which saw him fill first the rather large index card bearing my details and then the prescription form which was then handed to me with the instructions to go next door to the pharmacy, get everything on the lengthy list and head back so they could start administering them.
Which is when it all went a bit weird.
They were very polite and friendly in the pharmacy. But as quickly as the cashier got stuff off the shelves to fill the order, one of the pharmacists changed them for something else, only for the woman from the doctors – apparently not just a receptionist, but also the nurse (least hope so, given her later part in proceedings) – to repeatedly return, change the order and add things to the list.
And then started the discussion of just how much was needed. Was 10 bottles of antiseptic necessary (having gone halfway down one bottle in three days, suggest not)? And did we really want a whole litre of something nobody was sure was actually needed?
The doctor, it appeared, had decided we needed some extra to look after the rest of the group as the need arose. With me paying.
Finally we had it all worked out and, armed with a cardboard box full of drugs, ointments and dressings, it was back to the doctors and a treatment table set up with some worryingly sharp-looking bits of equipment.
Details of what happened next is all a bit hazy, mainly because of my desire to look anywhere but in the direction of what the doctor was doing with a long syringe and what appeared to be a razor blade.
What is clear is that the two injections of local anaesthetic (think my first for anything not involving teeth as all my stitches, both rugby and beer related, have been done without) hurt. A lot. An awful lot. That’s where there was very nearly a fair amount of screaming, but instead just a badly-bitten lip.
Thankfully, the injections worked and the actual cutting of the abscess was pretty straightforward, if rather disgusting, judging by the mess nobody appeared in a hurry to clear up. With the rest of my wounds treated, it was time for a couple more injections – not in the arm being proffered, but in my bum. Only having dropped my shorts did the nurse explain that rolling up my T-shirt would have been sufficient.
And so, with my wallet lightened, foot bandaged, box full of drugs under my arm and under orders to stay off my foot, they ushered me out the door and told me to walk 10 minutes down the road to drop off a sample at a lab.
Instead, it was a limp over the road to grab lunch, supplies for the next few days and a taxi down to the lab – the driver kindly waiting the half hour it took me to fill in a form, sit in a queue, be relieved of more money and have a previously unannounced blood test, before running me back to base and spending another 10 minutes running around everybody he could find in search of some change. All of which was highly amusing to somebody rammed full of antibiotics and painkillers.
And that was pretty much my Harare experience, up until our final night trip to a barbecue and drinks at the home of fellow traveller Kris’ sister Sophie and her boyfriend Giles, who works for the EU.
Not sure quite what was going through their minds when they kindly invited us lot back into polite society (with me struggling with my first experience of crutches dug out of the house by Mark, an Oasis tour leader recuperating from a joint bout of typhoid and malaria), but we were on our best behaviour as we did what comes naturally and huddled around the fire pit.
* The last mention of my ailing legs had several people asking about my well being, be it relatives, friends or staff at Oasis HQ. Believe me, I’m fine. The wounds are healing nicely and the heel – as long as it doesn’t have to bear too much weight for too long – doesn’t hurt that much. Most of the time. Hopefully, by the time we’ve actually got wi-fi to get this post published, it will all be cleared up. Now, did I mention my knee…