Script and Service: Field notes from a travelling pharmacist on global aid, work, and adventures

This time last year I was preparing for my second Christmas in Tanzania searching the market for an elusive chicken willing to be sacrificed and roasted. I missed the crisp winter nights at home, the festive lights, the parties and Billy Idol blasting out in shops crammed with food, gifts, clothes and a billion other material things that seem indispensable on December 25th. But there was something to be said for the simplicity of being gifted a pile of mangoes and a packet of cashew nuts. Of not having to cook a meal that covers a dining table and is left half uneaten. No need to buy bigger better noisier presents or watch the Queen's speech or play games that end in stony silences over the evening turkey buffet. Where thanks are given to one God or the other for the blessings of family, health and income. Mangoes had never tasted so good. I loved being back in the UK. The supermarkets, dirty late night take-away's, fancy toiletries, Friends reruns, efficient transport ne...

Only 12 days left in the village. It feels kama jana (like yesterday) that I arrived with my suitcase of impractical items. Time flies when you're having to continually think of new recipes that involve only three vegetables and some out of date stock cubes. Last month I learnt how to make bread. Only two of my loaves have resembled small bricks and I'm feeling confident about my chances of being a professional baker when I get home if the NHS won't have me. I am going to miss many things I've come to love in Nyangao. Having a cleaning lady tidy up after my baking disasters especially. I'll miss our security guard who sits outside the kitchen window at night even though it's guaranteed he'll be asleep before I am.  Instead of traffic, police sirens and the odd drunkard singing "Eye of the Tiger", I'm used to waking up to chickens and dogs scuffling in the garden or the giant monitor lizard clawing in the roof or the neighbours houseboy s...

Having a friend come out to visit in March, I'd saved the really touristy attractions of Tanzania to experience together with him. I was a bit nervous that a first time trip to Africa would be a huge challenge for some people and hoped that the poverty, accommodation and safety of transportation would not be too much of a culture shock. I hope he won't mind me sharing but my concerns were raised when, on arriving at the hotel in Dar Es Salaam, he was very reluctant to use the toilet. My fears were ill-founded and after a night's sleep and a portion of street-barbecued chicken and (possibly) unwashed salad, my friend not only sat on the toilet he embraced everything that Tanzania had to give. The first part of the adventure involved climbing Mount Meru, the second highest mountain in Tanzania at 4562m. Having stopped any regular exercise months ago and despite gaining a few* pounds, I still thought climbing Mount Kilimanjaro's smaller sister would be more of a hike...

A couple of months ago I had my first experience of a Tanzanian funeral. One of the nurses fell ill suddenly after finishing her shift on Valentine's Day. Within a few minutes she was dead. Cause of death is often speculation and rumour without the facilities for a post-mortem. Perhaps more realistically why someone dies is irrelevant  in most cases . Not only is it a tragedy for the family but the loss of a salary can have huge consequences on their future. Not having experienced death in Tanzania the rituals and traditions that surround it were new to me. Within an hour, the news of her passing had spread around the village.  Phones were buzzing with the grizzly details and her final moments became a common topic of conversation in homes and at the market stalls. Being a member of staff the funeral costs were paid for by the hospital and sacks of flour and a coffin were sent to her family. The next morning, I went with my neighbour to the family home to view the bo...

The rest of my journey around Tanzania way back in September consisted mainly of many long bus journeys; pre-dawn starts and night arrivals. On the western border of Tanzania we caught a lift with some travelling priests and visited Kalambo Falls, the second tallest waterfalls in Africa. The falls lie right on the border with Zambia which we could have crossed into had we slipped the border officials the £1 they wanted. The Zambian side had new concrete walkways and metal railings with a tourist office. The Tanzanian side had a crowd of children in bare feet and torn clothes who were trying their best to extract money from us. Eventually they settled on fighting over my empty plastic bottle, which must have been worth a few shillings to somebody. Appreciating the (lack of) health and safety rules, it was easy to approach the edge of the 215 metre high falls to look into the valley below that had claimed at least three lives; two European tourists and one local man who was climbin...