So we took Sly to the doctor again. He hadn’t slept much and had stated that his joints were on fire. Not good. I took my laptop this time so I could at least go straight to the office afterwards. Wasn’t going to muck about in traffic again. We got to the clinic far quicker this morning than the last time.
A typical block of flats in Luanda.
I decided that I had better accompany Sly in again, considering what we went through last time. The first thing the doctor says is that he is fine. He points out his blood test and says he is okay. There is nothing wrong with him. He doesn’t actually ask why we are back, or what is wrong, but instead launches into this whole “He is fine” bit. When I started trying to explain to him that he was not okay and there was something definitely wrong with him, he kept saying that physically he is fine. Jesus man, this guy was really getting on my tits now. He then launched into the whole “why is he acting so nervous routine” again, and this was very strange as I was speaking for him, and why wasn’t he talking himself. I answered that it was because English was not his first language, and that he wasn’t South African.
“English isn’t my first language and I get by ok”, he replied. “And it says here he is from South Africa.”
Man. I had to explain that he was from Zimbabwe and that he was not actually South African. I explained that there most definitely was something wrong him. He denied this. Okay, now I was seriously getting pissed off, and Sly could see it. this continued back and forth for about another minute or so, and then i had had enough. I basically read him the riot act, or the equivalent of the “malpractice act” I suppose. I told him that Sylvester was sick and that I didn’t think his opinion was very good. He told me I was welcome to go to another doctor if I wanted as he had been in medicine for 11 years and who was I to say differently. Man this was just petty. he then started going on about how he knew South Africa. he had lived there before, and he knew what was happening there now.
“What?” Sly questioned him?
“Down”, he stated, “It’s going down.”
I eventually said that something is wrong with Sly, and that he needs to give us his opinion. What does he think, that sort of stuff. he continued going on about some sh*t or other and trying to take the piss out of me. I decided to hold my tongue, or I would be outta here. Due to Punching the Shmuck! He said he thought it may have been a virus or bacterial infection or womething, and he gave him strong anti-inflammatories. We Left!
I was fuming. Jesus that guy is absolutely useless. I know now why he is here: It’s the only place he can probably get work nowadays, cause he’s so incompetent. Probably got kicked out of his last job down south. 🙂
Well, I sent Sly home and went back to work.
Sly was feeling MUCH better when I got back to the house after work. Seems the stronger tabs had worked their magic! 🙂 So much better in fact that he cooked up a bit of a meal. Nice one.
Click.
Nunnsby
Easy Going Guy 😉
Hey Rich,
Great story. My Canadian travelling buddy Doug and I have had communication issues whilst abroad. We were chased out of a shop in Fiji by this Indian guy who was offended by Doug haggling too low, he then chased us down the street. Another amusing one was the little fat housemaid we had in our hotel in Port Moresby, PNG. It has a terrible reputation and is an incredibly dangerous town, but we’d only just arrived and thought it hadn’t seemed so bad. As the sun set on the afternoon we asked her if it really was as bad as people say:
Maid: “Ooooh nooo… most people in Papau New Guinea are veh-ry friendly, very friendly.. they don’t want no trouble.. yes there are some bad people but most people just want to live a good life, they very friendly, it’s okay.”
Doug: “Is it okay to go for quick walk into town?”
Maid: “No.”
Outstanding. In Antananarivo, Madagascar (where rats the size of cats run around under tables in restaurants) we were in a taxi and got stopped by a police checkpoint. They were in combats and had AK-47s with bayonets on, stopping people at random it seemed. The police, in basic english, wanted our passports. We’d left them in the hotel, they said that wasn’t good enough and we’d have to come down the station overnight. Not wanting to enjoy a re-enactment of ‘Midnight Express’ I then got quite irate, arguing in my basic French as to why this wasn’t right, that the passports were at the hotel and I wanted to speak to the British Embassy. At that point the door was opened and I was motioned out onto the road at bayonet point, where the smiling policemen asked again. At this point Doug, cool as a cucumber, spoke from inside the car, “just give him some money”… I offered some notes to the policeman, he smiled and nodded.. covertly taking them from me. We were then allowed to go on our way. If that was the police I’d hate to see the criminals!
I also got food-poisoning and amoebic dysentery on that trip, but that’s another story. The burning joints you mentioned rang alarm bells but it sounds different (not puking and sh1tting for starters). I had to be taken to a doctor in this bondoo village, but that’s another story…
Great to hear your adventures continue Westby-Nunn. Keep it up, loving hearing about it.