In Which The 'Management Specialist' Is Now The Secretary's Secretary
on Zoe Page (Sierra Leone), 25/Oct/2010 21:37, 34 days ago
Bikes. They’re funny things, y’know? The Ocadas buzz around town like flies and I never have to walk far to find one, even though I live in a residential area. This morning it’s raining at 8am when I should set off walking, so it has to be a bike. It’s a sort of zig zag path that takes me from home toHangha Road, left out my house, left again, then right, then left, but before I’ve completed even half of that a bike has pipped at me and I’m on the back. No conversation is needed, just two words: government hospital. It’s a destination everyone knows. I haven’t quite figured out how to tell which are regular, private bikes and which are Ocadas, but since none are registered anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Anyone who will give me a ride can have the 1000 Le, even if I’ve just flagged them down on their way to work.I get to my new office block at 8.25am having been told 8.30am– 9am. We’re all standing outside as only the hospital secretary, Pius, has the key, but eventually he turns up dot on 8.45am. My office is not ready, so I’m in with him and a work experience girl. The first order of business is to sort out some donated stock. A Spanish charity have been in town handing out supplies willy nilly, and it’s ruffled some feathers. Now they are donating their left overs (that clearly they wouldn’t want to haul back to Spain) and one of our 2 ambulances has made a very appropriate trip (not) to collect them. We desperately need the ambulance back as the other one is out of service, so we have to unload it quickly. Pius and I go over to the Stores, and as we walk in he turns to me and asks what they should do. It feels oddly like a test or interview of some kind, and one for which I have not swotted. But, looking round at the chaos I suggest it mightbe helpful to get some kind of inventory of all the stuff in there, and maybe group it by themes: stationary, drugs, dressings. Somehow I don’t think that Topsy and Tim adage ofOur things may look higgedly piggedly, but we do know where to find themwould apply here. Maybe what we need is a nice excess stock spreadsheet... He likes this answer but the mishmash of Spanish goods are promptly dumped together in one small room off the main space, not sorted in the slightest. For some bizarre reason there are some (local...not Spanish) journalists with the haul, and they need photos of me accepting it, though surely anyone seeing the photo of black man and white woman grappling over a carrier bag of antibiotics is going to assume I’m the donor? Then they need to ‘interview’ us, and by 'us' they mean me, except I refuse so Pius gives them a quick line about how it’s very nice, but next time perhaps donors couldaskwhat we need most rather than deciding what they want to give.The Dictaphone clicks off, the digital camera is put away and they go off to write their‘story’ at which point we return to base, and Pius tells me to write a report of what just happened. Yes, a report. As if it’s primary school all over again, and I have to write an account of my weekend. I dutifully do this (by hand) as there’s sod all else to do, but am slightly confused about why. Later it becomes clear: Dr S. the hospital superintendent arrives and I have to recount the whole tale to him. And obviously if I’d not written it down, I’d have forgotten it in the 30 minutes since it happened.Next task? To re-write a wordy letter inviting people to a meeting. This I can handle, and set about editing out some repetition and generally making it into, well, proper English. Alas this too is a test and Pius shows me the version he re-wrote beforehand. Mine is discarded, and he has me type his up for him instead. I have become the secretary’s secretary in the blink of an eye. When I’m finished, he fishes out his certificates to show me. Maybe he senses I’m feeling a little underused. But it’s important that I know I am in the presence of a great man who has a distance-learning diploma from a great college: the Cambridge College, registered in... Jersey. Now am I the only one thinking a set-up would choose that name with the sole intention of duping unsuspecting foreigners into thinking they weren’t some fly-by-night operation? I make admiring noises and contemplate bringing in both my Masters certificates tomorrow.Matron Alice shows up and takes me on a tour of the hospital. We go into every ward, every clinic, both operating theatres. I shake hands with everyone, including some patients, and think Infection Control from SHH would have a fit if they could see it. There are no sinks in sight, let alone any alcohol gel. There is a hideous moaning coming from maternity, so Alice takes me in to show me a woman in labour (or show me off to said woman– I’m not sure). She is curled up in a ball, screeching but grabs out at me as I enter, so I only just have time to duck away out of reach. Now might be a good time to mention that I am not a nurse... On the way out Alice tells me the woman wants a C-section. Even thoughincreasingtheir % is one of the hospital’s targets, I don’t think she’ll be getting one. Alice then asks me how many children I have...We see the blood bank, the centre for rape and assaults, the paediatric ward, the AIDS area and the Lassa Fever unit. There’s so much more to the site than I ever got to explore over the last 3 weeks though a report I read later complains the land is being pilfered, and from 24.2 acres they are now down to 'only' 22.Back in the office, Pius goes off and I am left with Work Experience to type up a workplan for this quarter. Actually no, that would imply it’s hand written. It’s not, but it was typed on a different PC and they want it on this one, so we have to retype it. Crikey. If only there was a way to get files on one computer transferred to another. The retyping takes ages because whoever produced the first one had only the faintest grasp ofspelling and grammar, so it takes some deciphering. ‘Luckily’ there are two of us, though it’s 1.30pm and I am fading fast. Pius returns, sends Work Experience on an errand and makes me type an agenda for him, standing over my shoulder the entire time to make sure I do it properly. Complicatedstuff, this typing business. I’d never cope without his eagle eye. The agenda is for a meeting on Thursday. I asked this morning what meetings there were this week, but none had been decided yet. Something has clearly changed in the last hour or so. In the process, I also learn how you inform people of meetings in a world without email (or, for the best part of this morning, any electricity either). The answer is, you (or in this case, I) type a memo and then walk round with it to the people on the list. They have to sign to say they have read it, and will come to the meeting. No one else ever finds out about it. I suppose it’s one way to keep out all those interlopers who just crash NHS meetings uninvited. Except, yeah, that never really happens, does it?At 3pm we break for lunch. I wander off site and find a stand right by the gate selling fluffy cake things and what looks like fudge squares. I get both to try. The first is made of, I’m guessing, some kind of funny cassava or rice or potato leaf flour, but it’s not too bad. The latter is grainy and has a peanut taste to it. It’s surprisingly moreish. I return and sit in the office doing nothing. At 3.30pm Pius returns and sits in the office with me, also doing nothing. Heboasts that now he has eaten he can ‘go until 10pm tonight!’ That does not bode well for me getting out of here anytime soon. At 3.45pm he abruptly asks me when I’m going and when I shrug he says I should leave at 4pm. Result! Then we go back to sitting there, doing nothing for 15 minutes more until it’s my home time.Final thought of the day? If today is anything to go by, there is barely enough work in that office for a 0.3 WTE. To have 2 and now, with me, 3 full timers in there is a joke. And yet the scary thing is, I’m sure there’s tons of work that could/should be done, if only anyone would realise it. On the plus side, there are excellent, secret toilets in my new block of 4 offices. Two, beautiful loos that flush and aren’t surrounded by a puddle of piss. I may be able to go back to drinking during theday. Filtered water, that is.