It is funny how some things stick in your mind. I recall many moments with my father when I was five or six, both happy and sad. I remember him carrying me about the house when my legs froze up after I received a polio injection. No one really knew how children would react to these truly horrendous shots and I was virtually crippled for days. My father would carry me from my bed to the recliner in the living room every morning before he left for work. I remember him getting really annoyed with me when I wouldn’t leave him in peace to do his gardening; and I remember kissing him on the forehead as he lay in a coma in his room in the Matilda hospital the night before he died.
In the late 50s Dad was fortunate enough to be able to obtain a plot of land on the Ngong Peng plateau on Lantao Island. In those days, as now, the only way you could purchase what was then Crown Land was through a public auction. And then sometimes, but very infrequently, you might be fortunate enough to find a family that wanted to sell a plot of ancestral land. And this is how my father was able to obtain his land.
Dad was an engineer who was a frustrated farmer. He would plant field after field of vegetables and potatoes and at the right time of year we would enjoy the produce of his labours.
At that time we lived in Wanchai and would travel up to Ngong Peng only once or twice a month as there were no buses in those days. We would travel to Tai O or Tung Chung, both fishing villages, and then walk up to the house, which would take us several hours. I must have been a real chore for my father as I hated walking and spent most of the journey complaining and begging to be carried.
As we would stay away from the farm for weeks on end my father hired a recovering leper to work as a caretaker and gardener. One of the childhood memories I mentioned earlier was when this man, whose name I sadly don’t recall, came to my father with one of the biggest centipedes I had ever seen. He explained to Dad that this was a very special creature and rich in healing powers. (Centipedes are also rich in venom which causes excruciating pain in adults and even death in the very young or elderly). He then went on to explain that what he had to do was drown the centipede in brandy in order to promote this healing ability. Dad, being Scottish had more faith in the healing powers of good brandy rather than six inch centipedes but to keep this chap happy gave him a cheap bottle of brandy. Absolutely delighted the man uncorked the bottle and dropped the still wriggling insect into alcohol. I’m sure it died a peaceful, blissful death. Dad returned to his gardening and I completely forgot about the entire matter.
It was some months later when the crops were ready to harvest that Dad invited his sales team for what they thought was going to be a pleasant relaxing weekend on the farm. Upon arrival they were each handed a shovel and pointed in the direction of a field. Things progressed happily and rattan baskets of vegetables and potatoes soon lined the verandah. Then one of the salesmen was bitten by a snake.
He was carried into the house in a swoon and Dad was seriously concerned. The man had not seen the snake that bit him and therefore could not identify it. There were no medical facilities on the plateau in those days and if the snake was venomous, as many of them are, there was precious little time to treat him. In those days, snake serum was specific to the snake, giving the wrong serum, even if it had been available, could have killed the victim as quickly as doing nothing at all.
In the confusion of the scene the gardener arrived with his bottle of brandy containing the centipede which by this time had turned a lovely shade of green. I watched, fascinated, as he brushed passed the worried salesmen and administered a shot glass of the ‘medicinal’ brandy to the victim and then rubbed a liberal amount on the bite itself. To this day I do not know whether it was the shock of being bitten or the sight of the centipede floating in the brandy he had just swallowed but the fellow promptly passed out.
He was tucked up in a blanket and two of his companions were tasked with watching over him. Solemnly the rest of the team filed out onto the veranda where my father promptly got them drunk. And then we waited. Periodic reports came from the window of the living room where the patient was sleeping. He was still breathing and appeared to be asleep as opposed to unconscious. I did not know the difference then (I’m not sure I know it now). And then after almost two hours he awoke.
There were cries of surprise and joy as he hobbled out onto the veranda shaking his head. There was a little pain from the bite but he showed no sign of fever. He sat down for a few moments and then accepted a glass of beer from one of his friends.
To this day I don’t know whether it was a venomous or non-venomous snake that bit him. One of the most common snakes in the area is the brown rat snake which gives a strong, painful bite but is non-venomous. The rat snake of course, is accompanied by the bamboo snake, the banded krait (both vipers and extremely dangerous, not only because of their venom but because they are extremely lethargic and most attacks come from being trodden on), and of course the Chinese cobra which will kill you as soon as look at you.
Of course there is the possibility that the medicinal brandy was responsible for curing the chap of a potentially lethal bite. Remember that the next time you come across a centipede and happen to have a cheap bottle of brandy in the kitchen.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Monday, July 13, 2009
My Wife, Myself and the Prince of Wales Hospital
(Our continuing adventures at the Prince of Wales Hospital)
I am no stranger to hospitals having inhabited several of them myself, on one occasion it was for a period of two months. At one time or another I have broken both legs, crushed my right foot in a motorcycle accident, broken fingers, most of my toes and my nose, three times. Therefore, I am no stranger to pain, distress and blood, both my own and that of others.
In the late 90s I worked part time as a Dive Master and as such had to undergo Medic First Aid training; at one time I was even a MFA instructor. It was while I was working as a Dive Master that one of the novices under my care managed to hit himself over the head with a scuba tank. It was quite fascinating and it all happened so fast I am unsure, to this day, how he actually did it. At the time I was tempted to ask him to do it again so that I could see how it had happened, but I didn’t think he would appreciate the request. Fortunately it was a minor scalp wound but like all scalp wounds it bled profusely. Since then I have assisted accident victims on numerous occasions without any squeamishness or trouble on my part. It is therefore a problem for me when I become completely unglued when dealing with the staff at the Prince of Wales Hospital.
My readers will know from my previous work that my wife, Quirina, is a dialysis patient. A few weeks ago 'Rina phoned me from the hospital to say that she was unwell and asked if I would pick her up after her dialysis exchange. I duly did so and took her home where, she told me that she was going to have an early night. It was the following morning that 'Rina complained of chest pains and I immediately took her to the hospital. This is where things started to go wrong and I have come to realise that there is some mystical, perhaps esoteric juxtaposition in the relationship between 'Rina, myself and the Prince of Wales Hospital.
The journey from our home to the hospital is one that we have made countless times. We found a taxi outside the village and I gave the driver the location in Cantonese. “Wai yee see”, (The Prince of Wales Hospital) and “yat lao”. Yat lao technically translates as 1st floor but where hospitals are concerned is a euphemism for Accident & Emergency (which are always on the ground floor so that ambulances can offload patients quickly and efficiently). It never occurred to me that this driver didn’t know that and on arrival at the hospital he took us up the vehicular ramp to the 1st floor. I then had to virtually carry 'Rina through the lift lobby down to A & E where I sat her down on a chair at the triage station and then went to complete the admission procedure. There was only one reception window open and before me was an ambulance attendant who was registering on behalf of an accident victim he has just brought in. Apparently the poor victim was unconscious and therefore unable to assist with any of the usual questions. All the attendant had was the fellow’s identity card; there was no proof of address and no contact details for the next of kin, all vital information to the procedure. Meanwhile there was 'Rina sitting in the triage station clutching her chest.
Finally it was my turn. Having been through this so many times I knew exactly what was required. I presented 'Rina’s identity card and $100, the admission fee for local residents. Nothing more was required because they already had her records in their computer. Just to be on the safe side, however, the clerk asked me the usual questions about address and telephone.
Now you have to remember that here we were in the Accident & Emergency area of a hospital, my wife was at the triage station in full view of the admission desk, obviously in distress, and I was hopping from one foot to the other waiting for something to be done. It was at that point in time that the clerk asked me, “Do you want to see a doctor?”
I was silent for a moment, unable to be sure that I had actually heard the question. Several responses came to mind, for example: no, I’d like a pint of beer and a packet of crisps, or, no, I’d like a Big Mac and French Fries. Eventually however, my response came in the form of a question that was aphoristic in nature and I will leave the reader to imagine what it might have been. The clerk turned pale and handed me the paperwork.
'Rina went through triage in record time. As soon as they found that she was suffering chest pains they pulled out all the stops and she was seen within moments by the house doctor. She was X rayed, had an ECG, blood samples were taken and she was warded within less that 30 minutes. 'Rina was good hands. I, on the other hand, was a blithering wreck.
I am no stranger to hospitals having inhabited several of them myself, on one occasion it was for a period of two months. At one time or another I have broken both legs, crushed my right foot in a motorcycle accident, broken fingers, most of my toes and my nose, three times. Therefore, I am no stranger to pain, distress and blood, both my own and that of others.
In the late 90s I worked part time as a Dive Master and as such had to undergo Medic First Aid training; at one time I was even a MFA instructor. It was while I was working as a Dive Master that one of the novices under my care managed to hit himself over the head with a scuba tank. It was quite fascinating and it all happened so fast I am unsure, to this day, how he actually did it. At the time I was tempted to ask him to do it again so that I could see how it had happened, but I didn’t think he would appreciate the request. Fortunately it was a minor scalp wound but like all scalp wounds it bled profusely. Since then I have assisted accident victims on numerous occasions without any squeamishness or trouble on my part. It is therefore a problem for me when I become completely unglued when dealing with the staff at the Prince of Wales Hospital.
My readers will know from my previous work that my wife, Quirina, is a dialysis patient. A few weeks ago 'Rina phoned me from the hospital to say that she was unwell and asked if I would pick her up after her dialysis exchange. I duly did so and took her home where, she told me that she was going to have an early night. It was the following morning that 'Rina complained of chest pains and I immediately took her to the hospital. This is where things started to go wrong and I have come to realise that there is some mystical, perhaps esoteric juxtaposition in the relationship between 'Rina, myself and the Prince of Wales Hospital.
The journey from our home to the hospital is one that we have made countless times. We found a taxi outside the village and I gave the driver the location in Cantonese. “Wai yee see”, (The Prince of Wales Hospital) and “yat lao”. Yat lao technically translates as 1st floor but where hospitals are concerned is a euphemism for Accident & Emergency (which are always on the ground floor so that ambulances can offload patients quickly and efficiently). It never occurred to me that this driver didn’t know that and on arrival at the hospital he took us up the vehicular ramp to the 1st floor. I then had to virtually carry 'Rina through the lift lobby down to A & E where I sat her down on a chair at the triage station and then went to complete the admission procedure. There was only one reception window open and before me was an ambulance attendant who was registering on behalf of an accident victim he has just brought in. Apparently the poor victim was unconscious and therefore unable to assist with any of the usual questions. All the attendant had was the fellow’s identity card; there was no proof of address and no contact details for the next of kin, all vital information to the procedure. Meanwhile there was 'Rina sitting in the triage station clutching her chest.
Finally it was my turn. Having been through this so many times I knew exactly what was required. I presented 'Rina’s identity card and $100, the admission fee for local residents. Nothing more was required because they already had her records in their computer. Just to be on the safe side, however, the clerk asked me the usual questions about address and telephone.
Now you have to remember that here we were in the Accident & Emergency area of a hospital, my wife was at the triage station in full view of the admission desk, obviously in distress, and I was hopping from one foot to the other waiting for something to be done. It was at that point in time that the clerk asked me, “Do you want to see a doctor?”
I was silent for a moment, unable to be sure that I had actually heard the question. Several responses came to mind, for example: no, I’d like a pint of beer and a packet of crisps, or, no, I’d like a Big Mac and French Fries. Eventually however, my response came in the form of a question that was aphoristic in nature and I will leave the reader to imagine what it might have been. The clerk turned pale and handed me the paperwork.
'Rina went through triage in record time. As soon as they found that she was suffering chest pains they pulled out all the stops and she was seen within moments by the house doctor. She was X rayed, had an ECG, blood samples were taken and she was warded within less that 30 minutes. 'Rina was good hands. I, on the other hand, was a blithering wreck.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The cost of ill health in the Philippines
Guest Commentary Published: May 12, 2009 by UPI Asia
Hong Kong, China — I am not a frequent visitor to the Philippines; I visit once every two or three years, despite the fact that my wife and I own property and a house in Cebu City. On every visit I notice an improvement in the country’s infrastructure. The roads, the communications and the public services have all improved over the years since my first visit in 1983.
Unfortunately, this cannot be said for the country’s health services to the needy, or even for those in the provinces who could afford them.
On my first visit, I was taken to my father-in-law’s farm in the hill provinces of Cebu; Bulak Dumanjug in those days was a village that ran less than half a mile along a dirt road. There were a general store and several small shops that sold daily-need items. There were no communications, and transport to and from the village was by a jeepney that did two trips a day – when its wheels were not falling off, that is.
There were no health services apart from the so-called witch doctors, who diagnosed every illness as having been caused by a spirit. For a few pesos they were willing to bless a candle, the burning of which would drive the evil out.
On the evening of my first day, relatives carried in a young man who had a cyst on his hip and asked me to help him. The cyst was by this time the size of a tennis ball. Although I was not medically trained at that time – I later went on to become a first aid instructor – I could see that hot compresses could reduce the swelling until the puss was extracted.
If there had been no doctors for miles around I might have been willing to at least try something. However, even today I would not be willing to risk a person’s life in the knowledge that there was, in fact, a doctor in the vicinity. Why did they not call him, I asked? The answer, even today, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. The doctor would not come, as the patient had no money to pay him.
I will pay him, I said, still unable to come to terms with the fact that a medically trained physician, who had taken the Hippocratic oath, refused to treat a person because he could not afford to pay him. I will pay him, I said, but I had no intention of speaking with him or even acknowledging his existence.
In a short while the doctor arrived. He was a young man who carried his equipment and medicines in a black leather bag. When he arrived, the first thing he did was to take his fees and only after that he looked at the patient.
It was a quick operation; an incision to drain the puss, suturing, bandaging and a few pills to ease the pain. The patient healed quickly and within a week was back on his feet. What is terribly sad is the fact that even today, despite all the roads, electricity and televisions, there are still scant medical services available in the hill provinces of the Philippines, and the few available demand payment first.
On a later visit, my wife and I went to the only hospital in the seaside town of Barili, a beautiful little town that has retained a great deal of its Spanish influence. The hospital is on the outskirts of the town. The person we went to visit suffered from diabetes and the disease had caused gangrene in his leg, which had to be amputated.
By the time we visited he had recovered from the operation and was sitting up quite cheerfully in bed. He was grateful for our visit and we spoke for some time. During the discussion a nurse came in to give him his antibiotics and it was then that the patient’s wife unlocked the cabinet beside the bed and withdrew the medicine for the nurse. The nurse administered the injection and returned the unused portion to the wife, who locked it up and went away.
When I asked why the medicine was locked up in the cabinet, the wife explained that patients had to supply their own medication. Was it not supplied by the hospital, I asked? It could be, came the answer. But the quality and supply is unreliable and so it is better to personally get it if one can afford it.
This is the state of healthcare in a country where the rich and famous, who travel in chauffeur-driven cars, accompanied by minders and government officials of the health department travel overseas to conferences in which they seek international aid for their health schemes.
It is almost 26 years since my first visit to Bulak Dumanjug. The road is slightly better, with fewer potholes, and villages have electricity by which to watch television. But there are still no medical facilities, no doctors and no clinics. Yes, the jeepneys run more frequently and can transport a sick person to Dumanjug, the nearest town, or the hospital in Barili – but only if one has the money.
--
(Stewart Sloan works for the Asian Human Rights Commission. He is the author of three works of fiction based in Hong Kong, where he has lived all his life, and a collection of anecdotes about the Royal Hong Kong Police Force, whom he served as a civilian for 11 years. His connection with the Philippines spans 27 years, thanks to his wife, Quirina, who was born in Cebu. His recent interest in the country has focused on the extrajudicial killings that have been a feature of the Arroyo regime).
Hong Kong, China — I am not a frequent visitor to the Philippines; I visit once every two or three years, despite the fact that my wife and I own property and a house in Cebu City. On every visit I notice an improvement in the country’s infrastructure. The roads, the communications and the public services have all improved over the years since my first visit in 1983.
Unfortunately, this cannot be said for the country’s health services to the needy, or even for those in the provinces who could afford them.
On my first visit, I was taken to my father-in-law’s farm in the hill provinces of Cebu; Bulak Dumanjug in those days was a village that ran less than half a mile along a dirt road. There were a general store and several small shops that sold daily-need items. There were no communications, and transport to and from the village was by a jeepney that did two trips a day – when its wheels were not falling off, that is.
There were no health services apart from the so-called witch doctors, who diagnosed every illness as having been caused by a spirit. For a few pesos they were willing to bless a candle, the burning of which would drive the evil out.
On the evening of my first day, relatives carried in a young man who had a cyst on his hip and asked me to help him. The cyst was by this time the size of a tennis ball. Although I was not medically trained at that time – I later went on to become a first aid instructor – I could see that hot compresses could reduce the swelling until the puss was extracted.
If there had been no doctors for miles around I might have been willing to at least try something. However, even today I would not be willing to risk a person’s life in the knowledge that there was, in fact, a doctor in the vicinity. Why did they not call him, I asked? The answer, even today, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. The doctor would not come, as the patient had no money to pay him.
I will pay him, I said, still unable to come to terms with the fact that a medically trained physician, who had taken the Hippocratic oath, refused to treat a person because he could not afford to pay him. I will pay him, I said, but I had no intention of speaking with him or even acknowledging his existence.
In a short while the doctor arrived. He was a young man who carried his equipment and medicines in a black leather bag. When he arrived, the first thing he did was to take his fees and only after that he looked at the patient.
It was a quick operation; an incision to drain the puss, suturing, bandaging and a few pills to ease the pain. The patient healed quickly and within a week was back on his feet. What is terribly sad is the fact that even today, despite all the roads, electricity and televisions, there are still scant medical services available in the hill provinces of the Philippines, and the few available demand payment first.
On a later visit, my wife and I went to the only hospital in the seaside town of Barili, a beautiful little town that has retained a great deal of its Spanish influence. The hospital is on the outskirts of the town. The person we went to visit suffered from diabetes and the disease had caused gangrene in his leg, which had to be amputated.
By the time we visited he had recovered from the operation and was sitting up quite cheerfully in bed. He was grateful for our visit and we spoke for some time. During the discussion a nurse came in to give him his antibiotics and it was then that the patient’s wife unlocked the cabinet beside the bed and withdrew the medicine for the nurse. The nurse administered the injection and returned the unused portion to the wife, who locked it up and went away.
When I asked why the medicine was locked up in the cabinet, the wife explained that patients had to supply their own medication. Was it not supplied by the hospital, I asked? It could be, came the answer. But the quality and supply is unreliable and so it is better to personally get it if one can afford it.
This is the state of healthcare in a country where the rich and famous, who travel in chauffeur-driven cars, accompanied by minders and government officials of the health department travel overseas to conferences in which they seek international aid for their health schemes.
It is almost 26 years since my first visit to Bulak Dumanjug. The road is slightly better, with fewer potholes, and villages have electricity by which to watch television. But there are still no medical facilities, no doctors and no clinics. Yes, the jeepneys run more frequently and can transport a sick person to Dumanjug, the nearest town, or the hospital in Barili – but only if one has the money.
--
(Stewart Sloan works for the Asian Human Rights Commission. He is the author of three works of fiction based in Hong Kong, where he has lived all his life, and a collection of anecdotes about the Royal Hong Kong Police Force, whom he served as a civilian for 11 years. His connection with the Philippines spans 27 years, thanks to his wife, Quirina, who was born in Cebu. His recent interest in the country has focused on the extrajudicial killings that have been a feature of the Arroyo regime).
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
A brief moment of levity in Accident and Emergency
The good people who read my work will recall that my wife is a dialysis patient and undergoes haemodialysis twice a week.
One of the drawbacks with taking haemo (as it is known) is that the patient is susceptible to fluid overload as the kidneys cannot handle excess fluids. This can be extremely dangerous as the fluids can build up in the patient’s lungs thereby effectively drowning them.
On Monday the 15th June as I was getting ready to leave for work my wife very wisely advised me that she felt the symptoms of fluid overload. I immediately offered to take her to Accident & Emergency at the Prince of Wales Hospital. She dressed and we were in a taxi within moments, arriving at A & E at 7:15. In an effort to be helpful (and save time) I explained to the doctor at the triage station that ‘'Rina was a dialysis patient, had a history of respiratory problems and was showing signed of fluid buildup in the lungs which was causing respiratory problems. This man had either just come on duty or was just going off and showed no interest in my effort to be helpful. Instead he read out a list of symptoms and asked if she had any of them. I suppose he was just doing his job.
Very quickly we were taken to an A & E cubicle and seen by another doctor who agreed that it was very likely to be fluid buildup. He arranged for an ECG and an X-ray which were carried out quickly. ‘'Rina was then wheeled into a waiting area. By this time it was around 7:40.
And we waited. And waited. At around 10 am I went to the nurse’s station to find out what was happening and was told that they were still waiting for the doctor to take a look at the X-rays. No problem, I told her (I do appreciate that they handle hundreds of patients daily), I just wanted to know what was happening. I returned to the waiting area and it was a few minutes later when a man was wheeled in on a gurney. It says a lot for the level of the boredom that we go through that we take an interest in the patients around us. This man was in his mid to late thirties and was still dressed in his street clothes. After a few minutes he sat up on the gurney and noticed the toilet just across the corridor. Gingerly, he eased himself off the gurney and hobbled into the toilet. It was at that time that the local constabulary in the form of three police officers arrived, two men and a WPC. They took one look at the vacant gurney and went into a panic. There was a lot of arm waving and jumping up and down on the spot. The WPC took out one of her mobile phones and tried to make a call. Mobile phone signals are notoriously bad in some areas of the hospital and eventually she went to the nurse’s station and used their land line. A few moments later hospital two men in crisp white shirts and badges identifying them as hospital security arrived. The five of them surrounded the vacant gurney and started shouting at each other oblivious of the sick patients around them. Apparently, whoever the patient was, someone should have been looking after him. As far as the police were concerned he had not been officially handed over to them and was therefore the responsibility of the hospital, while the hospital security men were claiming the exact opposite.
It was at this point in time that the object of their concern walked out of the toilet, eased his way through the assembled police officers and security men and climbed back onto the gurney. Suddenly there was silence until one of the security men made a time honoured Cantonese comment to the senior police officer about what he could do with his mother. The security officers stomped off back to wherever they lived and the policemen surrounded the gurney, no doubt to make sure that this fellow wasn’t going to get away from them again.
The entire episode only lasted about five minutes but it helped to pass the time.
(Stewart’s wife, Quirina, was diagnosed with renal failure in 2004 and is currently undergoing dialysis).
One of the drawbacks with taking haemo (as it is known) is that the patient is susceptible to fluid overload as the kidneys cannot handle excess fluids. This can be extremely dangerous as the fluids can build up in the patient’s lungs thereby effectively drowning them.
On Monday the 15th June as I was getting ready to leave for work my wife very wisely advised me that she felt the symptoms of fluid overload. I immediately offered to take her to Accident & Emergency at the Prince of Wales Hospital. She dressed and we were in a taxi within moments, arriving at A & E at 7:15. In an effort to be helpful (and save time) I explained to the doctor at the triage station that ‘'Rina was a dialysis patient, had a history of respiratory problems and was showing signed of fluid buildup in the lungs which was causing respiratory problems. This man had either just come on duty or was just going off and showed no interest in my effort to be helpful. Instead he read out a list of symptoms and asked if she had any of them. I suppose he was just doing his job.
Very quickly we were taken to an A & E cubicle and seen by another doctor who agreed that it was very likely to be fluid buildup. He arranged for an ECG and an X-ray which were carried out quickly. ‘'Rina was then wheeled into a waiting area. By this time it was around 7:40.
And we waited. And waited. At around 10 am I went to the nurse’s station to find out what was happening and was told that they were still waiting for the doctor to take a look at the X-rays. No problem, I told her (I do appreciate that they handle hundreds of patients daily), I just wanted to know what was happening. I returned to the waiting area and it was a few minutes later when a man was wheeled in on a gurney. It says a lot for the level of the boredom that we go through that we take an interest in the patients around us. This man was in his mid to late thirties and was still dressed in his street clothes. After a few minutes he sat up on the gurney and noticed the toilet just across the corridor. Gingerly, he eased himself off the gurney and hobbled into the toilet. It was at that time that the local constabulary in the form of three police officers arrived, two men and a WPC. They took one look at the vacant gurney and went into a panic. There was a lot of arm waving and jumping up and down on the spot. The WPC took out one of her mobile phones and tried to make a call. Mobile phone signals are notoriously bad in some areas of the hospital and eventually she went to the nurse’s station and used their land line. A few moments later hospital two men in crisp white shirts and badges identifying them as hospital security arrived. The five of them surrounded the vacant gurney and started shouting at each other oblivious of the sick patients around them. Apparently, whoever the patient was, someone should have been looking after him. As far as the police were concerned he had not been officially handed over to them and was therefore the responsibility of the hospital, while the hospital security men were claiming the exact opposite.
It was at this point in time that the object of their concern walked out of the toilet, eased his way through the assembled police officers and security men and climbed back onto the gurney. Suddenly there was silence until one of the security men made a time honoured Cantonese comment to the senior police officer about what he could do with his mother. The security officers stomped off back to wherever they lived and the policemen surrounded the gurney, no doubt to make sure that this fellow wasn’t going to get away from them again.
The entire episode only lasted about five minutes but it helped to pass the time.
(Stewart’s wife, Quirina, was diagnosed with renal failure in 2004 and is currently undergoing dialysis).
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Another exciting day in the life of.....
The time was 6:20 am, I climbed out of bed, and as I usually do headed for the shower to prepare myself for the day. I sluiced myself down, lathered myself up and shampooed the little hair I have left. It was at the point when I was completely covered in soap and shampoo and contemplating shaking hands with the vicar in the rain that that I heard a crash from the kitchen adjoining the bathroom.
I slid open the door to find that Charley the Cat had jumped onto the top of the kitchen shelf and knocked off a full bottle of white vinegar. I surveyed the damage; there were shards of glass and vinegar all over the kitchen floor. Just as I was considering Charley’s fate with the shower hose a four inch poisonous centipede slithered out from under the shelves and disappeared under the cooker unit.
I thought for a moment, then went back inside the shower and slid the door shut.
Another exciting day had begun in the life of........
I slid open the door to find that Charley the Cat had jumped onto the top of the kitchen shelf and knocked off a full bottle of white vinegar. I surveyed the damage; there were shards of glass and vinegar all over the kitchen floor. Just as I was considering Charley’s fate with the shower hose a four inch poisonous centipede slithered out from under the shelves and disappeared under the cooker unit.
I thought for a moment, then went back inside the shower and slid the door shut.
Another exciting day had begun in the life of........
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
My Holy Roller Days - Adventures at the YMCA
An article shortly to be published in the next edition of Human Rights & Culture. Following the article is a reader's comment.
My Holy Roller Days - Adventures at the YMCA
Stewart Sloan
The years from 1975 to 1980 are what I refer to as my holy roller days. I was ‘born again’. It was a period of my life that I look back at with a degree of embarrassment and also relief. Relief that, having gone through them, it’s something I don’t have to do again. It had its moments. I had all the answers; I was invincible. And I was also broke.
I found a job at the Young Men’s Christian Association in Salisbury Road in Tsim Sha Tsui (Hong Kong) as a driver for their mobile book shop. These were the days before the handover to Mainland China and there was a large contingent of British Forces scattered throughout the territory. Actually, in those days Hong Kong was still referred to as a ‘colony’. It wasn’t until the 80s that this term was considered a no-no.
I would drive a Toyota Lite-Ace van, laden with paperback books and magazines to all the buildings about the colony that were occupied by British Forces families. These ranged in area from Stanley to the north New Territories. On Mondays we would go to Hong Kong island, Tuesday was my day off and from Wednesday to Saturday morning we went to Sek Kong Military camp. My companion on the drive was a Mr. Wong. Mr. Wong was a very pleasant gentleman who had been employed by the ‘Y’ for years. His joys in life were swimming and sleeping. On the first I was happy to oblige him by driving past all the better beaches like Stanley and Deep Water Bay so that he could have a dip. As far as sleeping was concerned, Mr. Wong was an insomniac and would catch up on badly needed sleep whilst I was driving. It says a great deal for him that he could sleep while I was driving.
When we were not driving around the colony selling books to bored British housewives we worked in the book shop. It was not particularly onerous work and some of the staff kept us amused. One of these chaps was named Samuel. Samuel has a problem (the details of which were never explained to me) which required him to take tranquilisers. Unfortunately, Samuel was a young man and like most young men, myself included, he enjoyed the occasional beer. And this is where it all went wrong for Samuel, but more of that later.
My employment with the Y only lasted for six months and most of the time it was all quite mundane. There were however, two incidents that stuck out in my mind.
One of the locations we sold our books and magazines was at Sek Kong Military Camp at the bottom of Route Twisk. Route Twisk is a road that was built by the army to connect the Sek Kong Air Strip with Kowloon. It is a dangerous, winding road that runs over Tai Mo Shan and has seen its share of sadness. This was never more so than on one day in 1977 when a Kowloon Motor Bus single-decker lost its brakes coming down the last section of the hill. Almost completely out of control it ran the junction at the bottom of the Twisk, mounted the pavement on the other side of the road and plowed into a family owned supermarket where it burst into flames. I don’t recall the number of fatalities but apart from those that died in the accident many of the passengers suffered severe burns. I do recall that the daughter of the owner of the supermarket was due to be married in a few weeks time. Completely unaware of the catastrophe that was going on less than half a mile away Mr. Wong and I packed up the shop and headed down the hill to find ambulances and fire engines completely blocking the way. At the time we had no idea of the extent of the tragedy and saw it only as a nuisance. It was not until we saw the news that evening that we came to know how close we had been.
Another incident happened a few months later.
I lived at the time in the north wing of the YMCA. In those days the Y was made up of three separate buildings that had been built over the years. The north wing was the oldest and was being used as a dormitory. There were private rooms, mostly taken by the staff on the 3rd and 4th floors. My room was on the 4th floor.
One night I was settling down with a good book when I heard a commotion out in the corridor. Someone was shouting, “Where is he? Which is his room?” Whoever it was it was unlikely that they were looking for me as everyone knew my room number. Then I heard, “SLOAN, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
‘Oh great’, I thought. I’ve upset someone and I don’t even know who it is. Then the person was banging heavily on my door and I recognised Samuel’s voice. I couldn’t possibly have upset Samuel, I thought, I’ve hardly even spoken to him. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Me: Hello Samuel.
Samuel: I’m going to kill you!
Me: Okay, do you want to talk about this?
Samuel thought for a minute. I got the impression he has just realised where he was and couldn’t remember why he was there or how he got there. He looked about the corridor and seemed at a loss for something to say. I said, “Samuel, why don’t we go back to your room”. Silently he turned and I put a friendly arm about his shoulder. I can’t remember what we talked about as we walked back to his room but I am sure that it was pretty innocuous. Finally, after what felt like ten hours we were at his door and I opened it for him. Samuel walked inside and I saw him sit heavily on his bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and closed the door quietly. I made my way as silently as possible to the stair case, intending to get to the admin office and seek help. I got as far as the top of the steps when I heard a door crash open and Samuel yell: “SLOAN, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
I sprinted down the stairs three at a time and rushed out into the car park, I was a lot fitter in those days. There, in the form of two of my colleagues lay salvation. One of them, Edward was one of the aquatics instructors, Portuguese by birth but more importantly six foot tall and twice as wide. I made a beeline for him and he saw me coming with Samuel in pursuit. I didn’t say anything, just hid behind him as Samuel screeched to a halt in front of him.
Edward was obviously accustomed to Samuel’s problems (I wish someone had told me about them). Edward barked an order and Samuel did an about face and meekly walked by to his room on the 3rd floor where he climbed into the shower fully dressed. He was still in the shower when the Assistant Secretary found him.
It was shortly after that incident that my hair started falling out.
A reader’s comment:
S,
There is something smooth and flowing in your writing that makes reading a pleasure--even when it is sad. So thanks for that. But what really happened to Samuel, did he commit suicide?
sh.
My Holy Roller Days - Adventures at the YMCA
Stewart Sloan
The years from 1975 to 1980 are what I refer to as my holy roller days. I was ‘born again’. It was a period of my life that I look back at with a degree of embarrassment and also relief. Relief that, having gone through them, it’s something I don’t have to do again. It had its moments. I had all the answers; I was invincible. And I was also broke.
I found a job at the Young Men’s Christian Association in Salisbury Road in Tsim Sha Tsui (Hong Kong) as a driver for their mobile book shop. These were the days before the handover to Mainland China and there was a large contingent of British Forces scattered throughout the territory. Actually, in those days Hong Kong was still referred to as a ‘colony’. It wasn’t until the 80s that this term was considered a no-no.
I would drive a Toyota Lite-Ace van, laden with paperback books and magazines to all the buildings about the colony that were occupied by British Forces families. These ranged in area from Stanley to the north New Territories. On Mondays we would go to Hong Kong island, Tuesday was my day off and from Wednesday to Saturday morning we went to Sek Kong Military camp. My companion on the drive was a Mr. Wong. Mr. Wong was a very pleasant gentleman who had been employed by the ‘Y’ for years. His joys in life were swimming and sleeping. On the first I was happy to oblige him by driving past all the better beaches like Stanley and Deep Water Bay so that he could have a dip. As far as sleeping was concerned, Mr. Wong was an insomniac and would catch up on badly needed sleep whilst I was driving. It says a great deal for him that he could sleep while I was driving.
When we were not driving around the colony selling books to bored British housewives we worked in the book shop. It was not particularly onerous work and some of the staff kept us amused. One of these chaps was named Samuel. Samuel has a problem (the details of which were never explained to me) which required him to take tranquilisers. Unfortunately, Samuel was a young man and like most young men, myself included, he enjoyed the occasional beer. And this is where it all went wrong for Samuel, but more of that later.
My employment with the Y only lasted for six months and most of the time it was all quite mundane. There were however, two incidents that stuck out in my mind.
One of the locations we sold our books and magazines was at Sek Kong Military Camp at the bottom of Route Twisk. Route Twisk is a road that was built by the army to connect the Sek Kong Air Strip with Kowloon. It is a dangerous, winding road that runs over Tai Mo Shan and has seen its share of sadness. This was never more so than on one day in 1977 when a Kowloon Motor Bus single-decker lost its brakes coming down the last section of the hill. Almost completely out of control it ran the junction at the bottom of the Twisk, mounted the pavement on the other side of the road and plowed into a family owned supermarket where it burst into flames. I don’t recall the number of fatalities but apart from those that died in the accident many of the passengers suffered severe burns. I do recall that the daughter of the owner of the supermarket was due to be married in a few weeks time. Completely unaware of the catastrophe that was going on less than half a mile away Mr. Wong and I packed up the shop and headed down the hill to find ambulances and fire engines completely blocking the way. At the time we had no idea of the extent of the tragedy and saw it only as a nuisance. It was not until we saw the news that evening that we came to know how close we had been.
Another incident happened a few months later.
I lived at the time in the north wing of the YMCA. In those days the Y was made up of three separate buildings that had been built over the years. The north wing was the oldest and was being used as a dormitory. There were private rooms, mostly taken by the staff on the 3rd and 4th floors. My room was on the 4th floor.
One night I was settling down with a good book when I heard a commotion out in the corridor. Someone was shouting, “Where is he? Which is his room?” Whoever it was it was unlikely that they were looking for me as everyone knew my room number. Then I heard, “SLOAN, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
‘Oh great’, I thought. I’ve upset someone and I don’t even know who it is. Then the person was banging heavily on my door and I recognised Samuel’s voice. I couldn’t possibly have upset Samuel, I thought, I’ve hardly even spoken to him. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Me: Hello Samuel.
Samuel: I’m going to kill you!
Me: Okay, do you want to talk about this?
Samuel thought for a minute. I got the impression he has just realised where he was and couldn’t remember why he was there or how he got there. He looked about the corridor and seemed at a loss for something to say. I said, “Samuel, why don’t we go back to your room”. Silently he turned and I put a friendly arm about his shoulder. I can’t remember what we talked about as we walked back to his room but I am sure that it was pretty innocuous. Finally, after what felt like ten hours we were at his door and I opened it for him. Samuel walked inside and I saw him sit heavily on his bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and closed the door quietly. I made my way as silently as possible to the stair case, intending to get to the admin office and seek help. I got as far as the top of the steps when I heard a door crash open and Samuel yell: “SLOAN, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”
I sprinted down the stairs three at a time and rushed out into the car park, I was a lot fitter in those days. There, in the form of two of my colleagues lay salvation. One of them, Edward was one of the aquatics instructors, Portuguese by birth but more importantly six foot tall and twice as wide. I made a beeline for him and he saw me coming with Samuel in pursuit. I didn’t say anything, just hid behind him as Samuel screeched to a halt in front of him.
Edward was obviously accustomed to Samuel’s problems (I wish someone had told me about them). Edward barked an order and Samuel did an about face and meekly walked by to his room on the 3rd floor where he climbed into the shower fully dressed. He was still in the shower when the Assistant Secretary found him.
It was shortly after that incident that my hair started falling out.
A reader’s comment:
S,
There is something smooth and flowing in your writing that makes reading a pleasure--even when it is sad. So thanks for that. But what really happened to Samuel, did he commit suicide?
sh.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Constipation – Pashtun warriors and me
Constipation – Pashtun warriors and me
Stewart Sloan
“Hey,” he said. “It’s none of my business.” And at that point he gave up all pretext of not laughing. I looked up at my Pashtun warrior and sighed. We left the shop in gales of laughter.
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