Tuesday 28 December 2021

Rich families

The west coast of Sicily is one of the poorest and most underdeveloped areas of Italy. There is an old, dilapidated public hospital in Castelvetrano that you should avoid.

How do I know?
I spent 3 hours there waiting to be admitted to their emergency department and then another 14 hours with an intravenous cannula in my arm waiting to be seen by a doctor. There was no bed for me, I was allocated a stretcher in a large open space with about 15 Sicilians on stretchers and beds.

It was difficult for them to register me because their computer programme did not accept British as a nationality.
I knew that I had (recurrent) erysipelas and all I needed was antibiotics.

The place was in a constant state of bedlam. The nurses shouted at patients and patients shouted at nurses.
There was only one doctor for the whole emergency department. When he had to walk past patients he would keep his head in the air. They would call to him, but he did not respond.

There was no bedding, only a sheet of paper for the stretcher. I had an extra roll that allowed me to change the paper when it got torn or too crumpled. 
There was no food or potable water. At the front of the building there was a vending machine for cola and other fizzy drinks.

The one toilet had no toilet paper. I asked a nurse for toilet paper and he gave me some surgical cloths.
The other patients ignored me. Not in a hostile way, more not wanting to bother me.

On the other hand, all the patients had family at their bedside who looked after them.
They brought food and water, helped them to the toilet (they had their own toilet paper), and helped them wash. Some had even brought their own bed linen.
Most important of all they were there to comfort their ill family (or friends): talking, smiling and sometimes stroking and hugging.

I remember one older woman with little hair who was coughing a lot. Every now and then she was sick. 
A middle-aged man sat close to the head end of her bed. He read from a book for her.

Those poor people, rich with family.

Thursday 16 December 2021

Fornicating memories


Music can bring back memories.
Sometimes of a period in life, other times of a specific occurrence.

I was working on the docks in Amsterdam doing rather hard and dirty work. My pulmonologist says I now have a scar on my lungs from that period.
In those days I was paid in cash at the end of the week; in a brown paper envelope with my name written in ink on the outside.

We had been living in the flat of my girlfriend’s mother for a couple of weeks. Now, as the mother was coming back from her holidays, we needed a place to live.

In the east of Amsterdam there is a building near the Zoo called the Hollandse Schouwburg (Holland’s Theatre).
Originally the Schouwburg was a Dutch theatre, but in 1941 the Nazi occupiers used it as an assembly point for the deportation of Jews.
Nowadays it is a monument with an eternal flame in memory of the deported Amsterdam Jews.

Right behind the Schouwburg in the adjacent street there was a courtyard that could only be reached through an alley.
In the courtyard there was a large building owned by a carpenter. He had his workshop on the ground floor.

The other floors had been converted into rooms separated by walls made of hardboard. That is where we went to live when my girlfriend’s mother came back from her holidays.

The room was small and the carpenter had used hardboard (again) to separate the room into three even smaller areas. One of these areas was an alcove big enough for a three-quarter bed.

Our neighbours were a young couple. Their alcove and our alcove were next to each other, just separated by hardboard.
The young couple were not too keen on us listening to their sexual activity. 
They solved the problem by playing a record of the Mamas and the Papas during their lovemaking.

Since that time, the music of the Mamas and the Papas reminds me of fornication.