Thomas a Becket, Michael Owen and other Mbarara Residents

Having been born in the early 1980's, we thought our chances of meeting Thomas a Becket would be slim, given that he was famously murdered in 1170 on the altar steps of Canterbury Cathedral.

Imagine our surprise, therefore, to be introduced to him by a colleague at a recent social event. Regrettably, as huge fans of beatified 12th Century martyrs, we were disappointed to hear that the man before us was born in northern Uganda in 1978 and was therefore almost certainly not the original version.

A contemporaneous photograph of Thomas Becket's murder.

It transpired that his parents were keen admirers of the deceased Archbishop and had decided to name their first-born son in his honour. This doesn't seem to be unusual practice in Uganda, where most people have entirely different forenames and surnames to their parents', opening up the possibility of becoming a namesake. As such, as well as Thomas a Becket, we've also met Michael Owen and Michael Jackson, which would make for an entertaining, if morbid, episode of Celebrity Come Dine With Me. 

Michael Owen - ex-footballer

To add to the variety, most people here tend to structure their names with a Ugandan-style name first, followed by a European-style name.

This also leads to confusion when we introduce ourselves, as people assume that our working, hospital names are Dr David and Dr Kim, but informally they will call us 'Riding' (pronounced 'Rayding', which I prefer) and 'MacLeod' (variations in pronunciation infinite, even in the UK).

The second names also tend to be very traditional, as this list of some of our hospital colleagues reveals:

Dr Mutiibwe David, Dr Kayondo Stanley, Dr Rwambuka Godfrey, Dr Kanyago Samuel, Dr Ngozi Joseph etc.

It's also usual to meet people called Herbert, Moses, Gerald, Ronald, Gertrude, Beatrice, Henry, Isaac, Ernest and Albert, names which somehow give immediate authority. This is in contrast to Kim's experience in Liverpool where Nevaeh is a popular girls name ('Heaven' spelt backwards), and Chantelle, Britney and Beyonce all keep the taste police busy. Worryingly, American colleagues confirm a rash of unfortunate children called 'Lady' in tribute to The Gaga.

Whether the Ugandan names provide inspiration for any possible future offspring is still under discussion, but don't be surprised if you are introduced to Master Riding Agamemnon at some point in the future.

Birdblog #2: Marabou Stork

The ugliest of all the birds, the Marabou Stork is a disgusting embodiment of how nature doesn't always produce sweet little Disney characters who charm and beguile. This grotesque abomination is notable for several physical features. One, its rigid, pointed beak, is rattled sombrely, and is usually to be found pecking at piles of rubbish in sub-Saharan towns and cities, including those at Mbarara Hospital.

Pendulous air sac

The storks also possess two pinkish-red air sacs which they inflate in a futile effort to appear attractive. The front sac hangs below its chin like the pendulous, excess skin of someone who has previously had gastric-band obesity surgery.

Marabou Stork nightmare

The photograph also suggests that the bird appears to have white legs, but this is not the case.

The defining symbol of the Marabou's rankness is that it can't even be bothered to defaecate with dignity - the colour comes from the constant torrent of excrement that spews forth from its horrid bowels.

If the Marabou Stork were a celebrity, it would be:
Jocelyn Wildenstein.

Sole Providers

‘How Can we be Lovers if we Can’t be Friends?’ sang Michael Bolton, addressing, yet again, one of the great existential dilemmas of our age. The Mbarara glitterati recently managed to overcome the complex philosophical issues that form the basis of his work by attending a surprise birthday party, themed in tribute to the man himself. The reason for this diversion from good taste was that Mark, the American infectious disease resident who has previously saved my life, shares his special day with Michael (in a similar fashion, plans are now afoot for Kim’s Bonnie Langford-themed party) and has long expressed an admiration for his works.

The Soren Kierkegaard of mediocre 80's balladry

Naturally, Kim’s first thoughts were of clothing, and so she set out to find an outfit composed of leather waistcoat, billowing white shirt and fake blonde hair. Surprisingly, the plan to discover retro-chic boutiques in a provincial town in sub-Saharan Africa was not immediately successful, and so ambitions were downgraded from Reiss, Whistles and Urban Outfitters to the local thrift market. Her description is below:

There was a general scene of chaos with piles and piles of clothing and, everywhere, an unbelievable number of shoppers. My favourite vendor would be the man who sold waist-high mounds of wedding dresses. If I could’ve thought of a use for one, or four, I’d have been sorely tempted. When I began to consider having one altered into a top I realised that I had to move on.

Mbarara Clothes Market

The next notable salesman would have to be the most enthusiastic guy I have ever met (apart from Dave, obviously). Never before have I met a man more excited about dresses than me (apart from Dave, obviously) but I felt I had met my match. This vendor had a random pile of dresses and enthusiastically repeated: ‘Wonderful dresses! Can you believe it? These are so wonderful!’ over and over again. No matter what your reply was to this apparent statement of fact it did not stop the repetition. However, it must have been a very convincing argument as we did buy three dresses (but still no leather waistcoats or billowing white shirts). 

After the overwhelming sensory assault of the wonderful dresses we went for lunch, inevitably picking up a pair of shoes on the way. Unfortunately, or fortunately, we were still no closer to looking like Michael Bolton. Things took a turn for the worse when one of my fellow shoppers decided what we really needed was chest hair, something I never thought I would want, let alone need.  After a quick subject change I hoped the chest hair was forgotten and I continued my week’s work, waiting for the highly-anticipated party, feeling safe in the knowledge that I could look normal in jeans and a top.

Unbeknown to most of the group, our friend Helen had managed to find a hairdresser selling fake hair. I’m pleased to report it was synthetic and plentiful, and so a carrier bag full of blond acrylic hair was brought to the party, different than the usual token bottle of wine but one which actually went down very well.  Prior to the birthday boy attending there was a mad dash whilst Wazungu and Africans alike donned themselves with fake blonde chest and head hair in a desperate attempt to look like Michael Bolton. I’ve never seen Dave look so good.

The party was a great success and we danced into the small hours, fortunately by that time having moved from the Michael Bolton-playing initial venue to an African club with great music. Just a routine night in Mbarara – don’t you wish you were here?