When you travel to a new country (far or near to our own
darling RSA) it’s polite to learn a few phrases in the local language. A cheery
“obrigado” as you buy a pack of 20 imparts goodwill to all in the corner store
– be it found in Lisbon or some dusty corner of Mozambique. So you learn some
standard phrases: please, thank you, can I get a beer – you know the useful
things that make your holiday run smoothly. Call me short-sighted, but in the
run up to our most recent Mozambican holiday I failed to learn the Portuguese
for: “I was drunk and thought a handstand
would cure hiccups. I think my shoulder is broken.” More fool I.
 |
| Guilty as charged |
So yes, that happened. And the drive from our happy holiday
house in Tofo to the local hospital in Inhambane was slow, with each and every
bump jarring through the arm and up into my head. Grim clouds clung to the sky
making the air hotter and stickier, in a way that seems held exclusively for the
parts of the world that we love for cheap holidays and raucous fun. The
hospital sat in a crumbling building that, under different circumstances, would
have been instagramable (#nofilter), but today we joined the queue and waited
our turn to explain to the receptionist what had happened. And so began the
farce.
I pointed to my shoulder and then made a breaking gesture
with my hand. She mimicked me and pointed out a price on the procedure menu (is
that what you call it?). Our group conferred, did the maths – R70 for an x-ray;
let’s do it. I smiled my understanding and handed over the cash. I think she
explained where to go from there, but she could have said anything to be fair.
I assume my face adopted a look of blind terror, because then this angel of
Inhambane abandoned her post, and the other poor invalids, to lead me down
corridors and through wards to a closed door, where she deposited me on a chair
to wait. And so unfolded the better part of the day: I would follow her to a
queue and she would explain. Then everyone would look at me and laugh. But it
worked. I was x-rayed, poked and prodded, manhandled ‘til I yelped and then the
Doctor (in broken English) explained that there was nothing wrong with me.
Wait, what?
Lies!! I wanted to shout, there must be something wrong.
Look how sore I am. Look how I reacted when you yanked my poor arm. The
receptionist angel argued in my defence, but the doctor stood firm. And I felt
like a massive tit for wasting everyone’s time. Clutching my new x-rays, we
shuffled out to wait for our lift in the drizzly, grizzly rain.
A week later, when we
got home, it was confirmed that my AC joint was a teeny bit dislocated… Three
weeks in a sling and the sweet, sweet taste of ‘I told you so’.
