So I lied... (1)

Next week came and went, and still no ADSL. And then I discovered that ADSL in Nairobi stands for Absolutely Damned Slow Line - rather like dial up but more expensive. And then there came the election...

Having become somewhat bewitched by the beauty of Kenya and rather caught up in the joy of our expatriate lifestyle, the election and resulting fallout came as a surprise of the worst kind. It shouldn't have. Having grown up in Africa (albeit further south), I should know that closely contested elections on this continent have a long history of resulting in contentious results and, all to often, violence.

Fortunately, the Good Man had not been as blinded as I and subtly arranged for us to be in Cape Town for Christmas, where we stayed until the dust settled in early January. Actually,the dust hadn't and probably still hasn't settled completely. But we felt that we were safe to go back. 

However, Kenya had become a political hot potato and several aid donors, the Good Man's employers included, began speaking of revoking funding to Kenya in an attempt to pressure the government into a power sharing arrangement. After much negotiation, the influence of Kofi Annan and Condeleezza Rice, a power sharing agreement was reached.  But by then the Good Man had felt that it would be prudent to look at other options rather than leaving his career to the whims of others. (At one time there was talk of moving him to Sudan - not a family friendly posting...)

This was an incredibly stressful time for the whole of Kenya and I can't help, in retrospect, thinking that my worries were so minor in comparison to those of so many others. All of our staff moved onto our property - they had been evicted from their homes for belonging to the 'wrong' tribal affliation. And they were considered the lucky ones - they had jobs and somewhere to go.

I volunteered at an IDP (Internally Displaced Persons) camp and met many families who had been driven out of towns they had lived in for all of their lives, under threat of violence. Now they were living in Nairobi, jobless and homeless. The children in these camps were finding it impossible to find places in schools and you could feel their dreams diminishing with each day of learning under the tuition of underqualified 'teacher' volunteers, from decade old books, in the shade of tents.

Although a political resolution was found and calm achieved, the underlying differences between Kenyan ethnic groupings were brought to the surface and it will, undoubtedly, take a very long time for trust to be established.

Enough for one day. Much has happened to us since then and chapters are required. Tune in tomorrow for the next instalment...

Local Heroes

The Scottish press today is full of stories of heroism.

At the top of my list is Alan Johnston. Released after a four month ordeal following his capture in Gaza, he handled the media surrounding his release with grace and appreciation. He has a point. The support from the media in campaigning for his release was phenomenal. He was able to hear about their support on a radio he had from two weeks into his captivity, which he makes clear was a powerful 'psychological boost'. He could barely have shunned them in the hours following his release.

But just imagine spending four months in solitary confinement - the last three without exposure to daylight and then, quite suddenly, being thrown into a media circus. Most of us would have been stunned, meek, timid. Instead he was articulate and grateful, highlighting the plights of other hostages and apologising to his family for the stress he had caused.

He even had light moments, getting a quick haircut in an effort to lose what he referred to as 'that just-kidnapped look'. And promising to stay out of trouble. 'I couldn't bear to ask you all to do all that twice, just imagine the embarrassment.'

Being captured and incarcerated doesn't make a hero. But this is a man who lived in Gaza for three years before this incident, reporting for the BBC as sensitively and factually as any journalist I have seen. That's brave.

Now, he is handling his release with such dignity that I have confidence he will make some good come from what must have been a nightmarish ordeal. But it may be in the background. He is quoted as saying, 'You are about to see a rapid decline in my profile. I'm sure that if you hear from me again it will be in the most work-a-day, normal, BBC, journalistic context. The Johnston family is about to go back to the obscurity in which it was extremely happy for about 45 years. '

Mr Johnston, I do hope to hear your voice on the BBC World Service in Kenya.

And then there is a local hero of an altogether different mould. John Smeaton, the baggage handler who brought down the terrorist in Glasgow airport may claim to be no hero but 1000 pints at the Holiday Inn say otherwise. He says he was only doing what anyone else would have done in similar circumstances. Um, am I the only one who fears they may not have tackled a potential suicide bomber if given the opportunity.

You're one brave Weegie, Mr Smeaton.

What nonsense!

I know that there are plenty of newspapers and magazines that make their bread and butter from sensational headlines. For many, that the headline may be misleading is incidental at best, if it is able to generate sales en route to the recycling bin.

Before yesterday, I would have put The Times into the other category - those who report more responsibly with usually thoughtful commentary on politics and opinion.

Front page of the Sunday Times (Scotland) carried the headline: Scots NHS and 462,000 'avoidable deaths'. The article, by Mark Macaskill, states: The deaths have been blamed on a series of failings, including GPs not recognising symptoms early enough, unacceptable delays for hospital treatment, poor access to drugs and botched operations.

The term used for 'botched operations', incidentally, is 'misadventures during surgery' which does conjure up images of the cast of Grey's Anatomy in pith helmets. But moving on...

Shock! Horror! Nearly half a million people dying for going to the doctor! However, the rest of the article actually reveals the following:
The figure represents a period of 30 years during which time millions upon millions of people would have been treated. In fact, the avoidable death rate for men is 176 for every 100,000 which translates to just 0.17%. For women it's lower, at 123 per 100,000 (0.12%). Figures are shown to be lower in Austria (129 per 100,000) and Italy (100per 100,000) but given the minute figures we're talking about when we get away from that ridiculous headline, I wonder the extent to which they're even statistically significant.

The author of the report, Dr Colin Fischbacher, is also quoted as saying, better treatment could have saved the lives of almost all the patients who died. Considering that many died of cancers and heart disease, both of which can be unpredictable, I find this quite a sweeping statement.

Then, on page 13 is a further diatribe. In an article titled 'The Killing Wards' and illustrated by a picture of a ward with each bed playing host to a coffin (nothing overly dramatic here!), Mr Macaskill reveals that, while undoubtedly the figures for Scotland are higher than other European countries, they have improved significantly over the last 20 years. Of course, this is couched in several column inches of doom and gloom so you really have to look for it. That will happen with good news.

The chief executive of the Patient's Association is quoted as saying:

It's getting to the stage where people are going to be scared of going to hospital. The NHS is supposed to be a wonderful thing but this study makes a mockery of that.

Really? The NHS is a wonderful thing. I reckon a 0.17% chance of something going wrong when you go to hospital is pretty good odds. And, that these figures are improving is impressive to me. Ultimately healthcare professionals are human and human error is always going to be a factor.

Don't get me wrong, if one of my loved ones was the victim of a 'misadventure' I would sue the suckers for all I could - and still be completely gutted. But we are not talking about a crisis here. We are talking about a very small chance of things going wrong when people require medical treatment. I'm actually surprised it's as low as it is.

Even Dr House, with the benefit of a squad of scriptwriters and Hollywood advisers gets it wrong occasionally. Probably somewhere around 0.17% of the time.

Rant over!

Highstepping Holyrood

I've always wondered at the name 'political party'. Well, rather I've wondered at its application rather than the actual words themselves. You see, in my mind, a party is a gathering of diverse folk, usually imbibing alcohol, perhaps dancing and generally being nice to one another.

Political parties are, by their nature, homogeneous. With the exception of the odd little in-fight and wrangle for group supremacy, they don't seem very festive to me at all. I think they would be better named as tribes. Yes, tribes! With chiefs and elders jostling for position before taking on opposing tribes with policy as pangas and manifestos as missiles.

If you ask me, a 'party' would more accurately describe the aftermath of an election - such as the position in which Scotland now finds itself. After the mud-slinging, back-stabbing and mountains of recycling created by the election, everyone seems to be on strangely good terms. Coalitions are the talk of the town, and even where alliances are not formally forged, tacit back scratching seems to be the order of the day. Its difficult to not feel a little suspicious.

But having read the Sunday Times this week my normal levels of suspicion are slowly bubbling over with conspiracy theory lava. The top story from the newly elected SNP is that they want Scotland to field its own team at the Olympics. Now, it's not that I have particularly strong opinions about his one way or another, just that it seems a bit of a lightweight issue. But then again maybe I'm missing something. Maybe the Olympic dream sits at the heart of the Scottish psyche and I've just missed it.

I can't pretend to have ploughed through the 76 page SNP manifesto but there was certainly no mention of the Olympics in their 4 page First Steps publication.

Something's up I tell you...

Culture club

In South Africa, before the first 'free and fair' elections in 1994, new customs had to be accommodated - or maybe I should say old customs. Basically, through years of apartheid, black South Africans had been allowed no freedom of expression and, as protests became legalised in the early 90s, a new code of acceptable political behaviour was written.

One of the more controversial topics at the time was that of 'cultural weapons'. Tribal Africans believe in their right to carry traditional arms as a means of demonstrating their strength when making a political point. They were not (necessarily) to be used as weapons, but rather for show. Think All Blacks doing a hakka before a rugby international and you'll get the idea.

In principle this all sounds fine. That is until you're faced with 3000 angry Zulus wielding pangas and knobkerries. But, I digress. Cultural weapons were (and are), controversially, tolerated in South Africa as long as they do not lead to violence.

So what has this to do with Scotland, you ask. Well, in yesterday's Herald an article caught my eye. A man entered a polling station and in a most unsporting fashion destroyed ballot boxes and informational posters before being dragged off to court. His cultural weapon of choice (and bear in mind he is Scottish now)... the golf club. He was being charged with, and I quote,'breach of the peace, vandalism, possession of an offensive weapon...' An offensive golf club??? In Scotland??? Did it have a Union Jack emblazoned on its grip?

Still, Holyrood had better watch out. The golfers are getting restless!

Potted Scottish Politics

Next week Scotland goes to the polls and I have a sad confession to make. I have not registered to vote. I know, I know. I come from a country where, in my lifetime, blood was spilt for this most basic right. I have always criticised voter apathy in first world countries and yet, here I am... well... apathetic.

I think it has something to do with not having a particularly clear view on how I would vote if I had registered. The major political issue in this election seems to be around Scottish independence, which requires a bit of a history lesson.

Many years ago Scotland was independent. In 1707, the Act of the Union formally brought Scotland into union with England but was not popular with the vast majority of Scots, who had been painting their faces blue and fighting like heck to prevent this from happening for quite some time. The Act was largely pushed through by wealthy landowners who needed to ensure their businesses were propped up by exports to England.

The inital thinking was that the Scottish would be made English but the descendants of William Wallace were not going to relinquish the right to wear tartan skirts , play bagpipes and consume haggis without a fight. This made more sense to me before I lived here and discovered the following:

• Scottish men only wear kilts on special occassions, like at ceremonies. At these functions they often sit on stages with their legs spread in international manly posture, thereby destroying the mystery of what lies under the sporran. It's scary, very scary.
• Well played bagpipes are an uplifting and wonderful thing. Most bagpipes, however, are played badly and make a long, high-pitched farting sound at the end of each musical attempt.
• Haggis tastes, well, like haggis, which is to say like a bunch of innards mixed with oats.

Anyway, Scottish tradition and pride is a powerful thing and in 1997 a poll in Scotland revealed that 63% of voters still believed themselves to be either totally Scottish or more Scottish than British. 290 years was clearly not sufficient water through the lochs to convince the Scots that they couldn't do it all better themselves. So, in that same year they voted overwhelmingly in favour of devolution.

This was a smart move. The terms were fantastic. They would have their own parliament, which would determine policy on a wide range of issues and have a vote in English matters through representation in the English parliament. Of course, the English would have no representation in the Scottish parliament and would subsidise Scottish services to boot. So Scotland became overrepresented and overfunded. Sweet!

But here begins the problem for me as an outside observer with the potential to vote. I really like Scotland and the Scots and honestly think they're onto a good wicket with things as they are. But to keep the status quo for Scotland one would have to vote for Labour who have recently taken to supporting the American policy of world politics by force. This has not been popular with many Brits and, throughout the UK, Labour's popularity has dropped. So what are the alternatives?

Well, leading in the polls is the Scottish National Party (SNP) whose big manifesto target is Scottish independence. So that would be a vote for normal representaion and underfunding. Hmmmmm...no.

Then there's the Liberal Democrats who are for 'safer streets, local healthcare and the environment'. Frankly, I have no beef with my streets or my healthcare but I do have an environmental issue - the amount of glossy junk mail I've received from the Lib Dem's. At least the Green's print on recycled paper.

And show me an English speaking white middle class South African who went to UCT in the 90s who could put a cross next to the words 'Conservative Party'.

Then, dangling at the bottom of the party political food chain, come the plethora of other alternatives, all making big promises based on little experience and no backing.

So, thanks for giving me a vote, but no thanks. I'll stay home on the 3rd of May and hope that this little corner of Scotland stays just the way it is.

The Good Man Returns

Well, the good man has just returned from a week away on business. This happens quite often (his being away on business, which, by extention, means his return as well, but, oh hell, you know what I mean!). As he really is a good man, this involves gifts.

The wee 'un was quite clear. She wanted something red for her tummy. This arrived in the form of a red box of teddy shaped chocolates. She is delighted and so she should be. They're a swanky Belgian make to which she is fast becoming quite accustomed.

For me things get a bit more complicated. A lot of his travel is pretty boring and involves little more than shuttling between hotel room and office. For those trips I'm not to fazed if all I get is a peck on the cheek. On the whole I'd choose chasing a two year old around town over the hotel grind. What can I say? I like home cooking! But when he goes somewhere really interesting I expect big rewards for staying behind to toddler wrangle.

This week he was in Beirut. Yes, that Beirut. After checking his life insurance, I went online to reassure myself that he was not destined to come home in a box. What a surprise! It looks fascinating. Rich in history, fantastic architecture, fabulous location and apparently quite safe again. What an amazing rejuvenation. So the Clarins counter at duty free did quite well out of him.

Frustratingly, this kind of rejuvenation does not seem to happen in Africa. I really can't think of one African example of post conflict rapid recovery. Zimbabwe was often sited as a success story. During the mid eighties and early nineties, following years of bush war, it was really on the up - strong growth and one of the few African countries developing a strong middle class. Recent history has put paid to that.

I suppose Lebanon had a strong base to work from - a history of success in banking and tourism and strong trading ties to wealthy middle eastern countries willing to pay richly for the skills Lebanon could provide. In Africa skills are still largely imported, often on a short term basis. And, quite often, they're exported too. I shudder to think how many of my school friends left after receiving a top draw tertiary education, albeit one they paid for.

It really is a conundrum. Salaries in Africa are frighteningly low across the board. Unskilled labour is paid pennies and skilled labour is paid a fraction of their counterparts in developed countries. What would you do if you had the means to earn so much more elsewhere? So simply providing education isn't enough. Anyone out there got any answers?