Two Elections

A number of general and presidential elections are taking place next month. One of these, predictably, is getting worldwide attention, whilst the others are of local interest only. As you would expect, the big one is taking place in America, gobbling up huge amounts of money and media time.

"Red is the colour of my vote"

Did you know that Americans are spending a staggering 6 billion dollars on their presidential election? You would think that they are getting value for money. Instead, they are saddled with an incumbent bored out of his mind, to the extent that he couldn’t even be bothered to show up at the first of their presidential TV debates.  The wannabe, on the other hand, disses half of the electorate as plebs, not worthy of attention from his kind.

"We will bark you all the way"

  A world away in Sierra Leone, people there too, have been consumed by their presidential election set for November 17, although campaigning was not supposed to have begun officially until a few days ago. Salone is a small country with an annual budget that is as far from the $6bn that Americans are wasting on their election as it is geographically remote from that country.  But still, you can make quite a splash with a few leones in a country where a sizeable crowd can be hired for the equivalent of a few hundred dollars. And certainly, the cost of kitting out supporters in party regalia, whether human or canine, does not amount to much, a fact that one party has taken full advantage of. Such low-tech devices can also be deployed to send messages, calibrated to shock, even in those supposedly enlightened and sophisticated United States.

"My neck is red"

Violent subtexts abound everywhere, of course, whether in a constituency determined to keep its right to bear arms (for what?) or where, more explicitly, violence stalks the political landscape. Here participants do not necessarily take naturally to the business of jaw-jaw, so the Sierra Leone version of the televised debate between the front running aspirants seems, for the moment, to be languishing in the long grass.

But let us hope that we will all get to the other side without any major bust-up and America will have its 3 billion-dollar man in the White House whilst Sierra Leone will have its own one thousand-dollar version at State House. One can only hope that each would deliver the goods they promised. We can’t wait for ever.

Tell Fren Tru

Cleaning up our Act

I just came back from holiday to find Sierra Leone grip(p)ed by a cholera epidemic.

Why I am not surprised? Cholera has had a lurking presence in the country for as long as I can remember and, from time to time, depending on the intensity of the rainy season, emerges and runs through the population like a dose of salts. I can recall, as a freshly-minted doctor, my first epidemic there. Bursting with knowledge about the way cholera and other waterborne diseases spread, I readily remembered lessons taught in med school, about how an astute physician, John Snow, had sussed out cholera by merely observing how the infection clustered around a street pump in the Soho district of Victorian London.

I recall also how I was immediately conscripted into teams managing cases desiccated almost to extinction by the diarrhoea and vomiting that are typical of the infection. We fought valiantly then, but the epidemic took its course, regardless, and faded away only at the end of the rainy season.

Yes, we have come a long way since Victorian days. Most of us no longer invoke mysterious forces when an epidemic rages. We know that a physical element is involved, and that in this case, if we keep feces separate from the food we eat and the water we drink, we will not catch diseases that have a fecal origin and die from them.

            And yes, we also know that the more crowded the environment, the more likely it is, when the barrier between excrement and clean food and drink is breached, that epidemics will occur. And yes, even in towns and villages that are not so crowded, run-off from heavy and persistent rain will enter pit latrines, cause them to overflow and discharge their contents into the environment, contaminating everything. This is what happened forty years ago and this is what is happening today and what has always happened.

Yes, hand-washing is crucial in breaking the cycle during epidemics and even in more settled times. But where do you get the clean water to wash your hands with when everywhere is contaminated?

The answer to this simple problem is beyond politics or ideology. Neither political posturing nor the dialectics of ideology can stem the tide. Germs will do what germs do. We know how the disease is caused, how it is transmitted. So all we need is a plan. I mean an actual blueprint of the future sewage systems in our main cities and towns.

Did I say beyond politics? I was wrong, of course.

I just read that the President of Sierra Leone recently signed a massive memorandum of understanding (MOU) with the government of China, in which they agreed to cooperate in a whole raft of activities including huge engineering projects. But, significantly, there was no mention of how to deal with sewage in the country’s towns and cities.

I know, I know. Such documents are drawn up months in advance of their signing, and yes, yes, the epidemic burst upon us in the last six weeks (surprise, surprise, it only rains torrentially every year from May to November). But here, we have an urgent, urgent public health priority that must be handled as urgently, even if it means adding a paragraph or two to that MOU. It would give us the chance to revisit the plan that imperial Britain proposed for Freetown more than a century ago, a vantage from which we can begin to talk meaningfully about how we can get this doo-doo out of our face.

Tell Fren Tru

Not doing it

It must be about six weeks since I last blogged. I have been on holiday. Well, sort of.

Taking a holiday from writing is seductive. It just comes upon you. Easy. Just like standing on a slippery slope and being given a slight push. You slide down gently at first, and then you accelerate as the days go by. And by the time you know it, days, weeks and even months have passed. 

And try as you might, anything you want to say sounds foolish or irrelevant or both.

So, time for a diversion: Watch the Summer Games; paint the house; take a trip. When all these fail to inspire, try selling the house.

They say that death, divorce and moving house are the three most stressful things in life. I have not tried divorce and, so far, I have escaped the attentions of the grim reaper. But trying to write a piece when the spirit sags is, in my view, much, much more disruptive to the soul than any of these.

…So we sold the house and, temporarily homeless, took up residence in a midtown Toronto hotel two or three blocks from where the house was (and still is). 

Hotel residence is never ideal, but this one is particularly vile, even though it is one in an acclaimed international chain. Besides, its rates were extortionate, probably because of demand created by the ongoing TIFF (Toronto International Film Festival) season. Although we did eventually negotiate the rate down (by the VAT), the stay caused serious damage to the family exchequer. A film festival should not be a licence for hotels to “tiff” from the public, the authorities should be told.

But the price has been worth it, nevertheless. I find I can write once more.

Tell Fren Tru

Dear Beloved One...

I don’t know about you, but me, I just love junk email.

The first thing I do when I open my email account is to check how much new junk has slipped through the firewalls that are supposed to filter out malevolent ware trying to get at me in my private domain. It gives me quite a buzz when I see 2 or 3 new posts in the junk-mail folder. And, to enjoy them even more, I save them for last.

After dealing with other stuff in the inbox, where, incidentally, a few phish hooks manage to plant themselves, I then turn my attention to the entertainment of the day. There, I find an assortment of temptations impossible to resist. And, so, ignoring warnings not to open items unless I am sure who they are from, etc and with my eyes shut, I stretch out my barge-pole and click on where it says, “I’m not sure.”  When I open my eyes again the potentially destructive missile (I meant missive) has been safely opened. So far, none has detonated with consequences that I rue (but I don’t know, do I?), and that gives me confidence to press on and examine the contents.

First, I take a quick look at the ones that want to sell me software by which I can improve the performance of my personal computer. Without too much delay, I bin them. Then I open the others that want to improve my own personal performance in ways that I can’t possibly discuss in this family-oriented blog. I marvel at the impertinence and, with a wry smile, consign them to the bin as well.

Then the real fun begins. Again, ignoring warnings as to possible harm to my financial health, I begin to deal with the ones that purport to come from some financial institution or the other, with subject lines such as, “Alert - Issues On Your Account‏,” or _**** Bank: - Protecting the security of your account,”‏ and which then go on, in the body of the email: “Dear Valued Client we are currently performing regular maintenance of our security measures. Your account has been randomly selected for this maintenance (Lucky me), and you will now be taken through a series of identity verification pages. Protecting the security of your account is our primary concern (sure), and we apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.” “You are far too kind,” I murmur, as I bin.

Then, there are the more blatant ones that try to set up a new account, using all your personal data, which they invite you to kindly supply them with, because, wait for it: “Attention This is to officially inform you that we have verified your contract/Inheritance/lottery file Presently on my desk, and I found out that you have not received your payment Due to your lack of co-operation and not fulfilling the obligations giving to you in respect to your payment.” What!!?? “My lack of co-operation? My obligations?” I almost choke. They can’t even make up their mind whether I have been the beneficiary of an inheritance, contract or lottery prize money. It’s types like these that give scoundrels a bad name, with that kind of stupidity. So, they then go on to tell me that I can only access my inheritance, contract lottery money or whatever by using an ATM card which they will create for me after I have supplied them with all my personal details. Really? These guys ought not to be allowed to get out of bed in the morning.

                And then, there are the ones who claim that they are working in a bank, usually located in Lagos, Abuja, or Lome, or some other major African city, and who, in the performance of their routine bank duties have come upon a few zillion American dollars (they are certain to denominate their find in American  dollars) and wish you, that is me, of all the world’s six billion people, to share in this unclaimed loot that a deposed, deceased, or both, African dictator has forgotten about, or whose legal beneficiaries can be found no where on this earth. All I need to do is supply them with my bank details, my phone and fax number, and 25% will be mine. Mind you, they will require a small deposit of $25.00 or so to ascertain my good faith or seriousness in doing business with them. And of course, I should be sure to tell no one about my impending good fortune. Don’t want to make others jealous, now, do we?

                But the ones that make me chuckle the most are those that open with a line such as, “Dear Beloved One.” Take this one, for example, which I reproduce word for word, as is (Sorry, all those Esther Williams’s out there):
 “I am Mrs Esther Williams. from Switzerland I am deaf and has cancer of the breast, I lost my husband 12yrs ago without a child of mine. I have to sell all my properties left by my husband because the doctors say i have less than 2months to live. I have deposited the funds of $5 Million United State Dollars, (American dollars again. Well, shouldn’t complain, really. After all it is the world’s number 1 reserve currency, useful in shifting drugs, terrorism funds, etc. But still, I can’t wait to be propositioned in Chinese Yuan or Russian roubles) which i sold from my properties and deposit into a Bank. I want you to help me use the funds to help the charity,deaf and the motherless babies home before i die.If you are a good and honest Christian ,i shall give you the contact of the Bank and also the Deposit Certificate,so as to claim my funds before my death. Expecting your urgent response,and may God bless you as you carry out my wish. yours dying sister Mrs Esther Williams.” It is obvious that this particular Esther Williams was not paying much attention in English class, and that has now caught up with her on her death bed. And, incidentally, they don’t seem, worldwide, to teach syntax, spelling or punctuation at junk mail school. But back to our Esther. In her case, she is probably no more a childless widow, afflicted by deafness or battling terminal cancer and with five mill burning a hole in her hospital gown than Hosni Mubarak is a good and honest Christian.

                And that brings me precisely to the place where I want to be. That is, to make the point that dictators, every where, forgetful or otherwise, with or without children to inherit will, one day, get their comeuppance. So, as we watch African dictators being run out of town, we hope that our brothers and sisters succeed in ridding themselves of those kleptomaniac rascals, whose acts of larceny are orders of magnitude beyond the wildest imaginings of the petty internet scammers whom I have been poking fun at.

So, if you have an African or Arab dictator in your neighborhood, who is making your life miserable. You know what to do.  You have nothing to lose but your chains.

Tell Fren Tru

Compare and contrast.

At this time of the year it used to be customary to wish “Merry Christmas” to all. But in these days of political correctness, the bland “Happy Holidays” has become the greeting of choice. However, I remain steadfastly old hat and stick to a rousing “Merry Christmas!” Whether this would make any difference to your mood is open to question, as the gloom of recession, inflicted by the bankers’ curse sits heavily on the shoulder. What makes the curse even more unbearable is the fact that those responsible for unraveling the world’s economy are happily back at it again, pocketing huge bonuses and laughing all the way, dare I say it, to the bank.

I have not blogged for several weeks now because I have been preoccupied with some personal issues that took me away from my desk, and when I returned, I had to write an article on a medical subject for submission to a medical journal. This got me into thinking about the similarities and differences between writing a science article and doing one for a general or literary magazine. The thought brought to mind those essays we were made to write when we were young: “Compare and contrast this and that.” The subjects could have been anything from rail and road transport, to farming in the prairies and the paddy fields of South –East Asia; the Shakespearean tragedies Hamlet and Macbeth or the mating habits of spirogyra and hydra, or whatever.

Well, compare and contrast science writing and creative writing, which, by the way, covers a multitude of sins, which I will refrain from enumerating just now. The writing part is basically the same for both genres. Where the difference lies is in the murky world of the editorial office, where you send your stuff after you have labored and sweated over the keyboard for God knows how long. The science or medical article goes through a fairly straightforward process: You choose your journal, access their website and follow the links to their submission page. There you create a username and password and in a few clicks you have a PDF version of your article which you can review and then upload for the editor(s) to look at. They even ask you if you have a preference for reviewers to review your piece or reviewers who they shouldn’t send it to. This generally ensures that the paper gets sent to your friends (sympathetic, you hope) and not to your enemies or competitors who are more likely to stamp all over your paper. It is all done anonymously of course, but any piece has fairly obvious clues as to its provenance, so all this cloak and dagger stuff may just be theatrics. Anyway, nowadays, you know that you are going to be hearing from the editor in a fairly short time, electronically of course. You go to the journal’s website, put in your username and PW and see what the editor has decided, based on the comments of the reviewers. Usually, it’s a 2-1 decision that guides the editor as to whether to accept the paper, “as is” (highly unusual), or, with modifications and appropriate responses to queries. However, if the reviewers’ comments are terminal, your authorship ambitions with that particular encounter are brought to a screeching halt. When you regain your composure, you march off to seek your fortune elsewhere. And ,just like in the days before online submission, you listen to what the reviewers said and re-write the piece and send it off again. In the old days when you did it by post you pop it into the nearest postbox, again and again. An old prof of mine used to say that you can always publish an article if you have enough stamps. But he was a cynical one. Anyway, back to modern times, you modify the article and find another journal’s website and go through the process again, hoping that, this time, the piece stays out of the hands of your worst detractors.

            Now contrast this brisk business-like process to sending a piece to a literary or general interest magazine. We won’t go through the preamble that you go through when you send a query about an idea you have for a piece. Anyway, you send a polite enquiry about whether the magazine might like an idea that you have for a piece. After a couple of weeks you might get a reply saying yea or nay. If it is yea, you knuckle under and work toward a deadline you (and they) have set. You do the piece and send it in, hardcopy or electronically, with a cover letter that drips with sweet words to soothe the breasts (I almost said beasts, but that’s not the way to get published) of the editor and wait. And wait. And wait.

So after about six weeks to two months, you send a reminder, again coated in the sweetest terms you can manage (under the circumstances) and in a week or so you get a reply explaining that times have been tough and that they’ve been out of the office, etc, etc. Sometimes you actually feel sorry for them and have to resist the urge to send them an email apologizing for disturbing them in their labours. Anyway, they promise to read your piece and get back to you as soon as possible. Then you wait.

 I am still waiting.

More reason why I am not inclined to wish “Happy Holidays,” but you can be sure that I wish you the merriest of Christmases, and when the New Year rolls in, the best for 2011.

Tell Fren Tru