Duderstadt: Two Pygmies in Germany
Every once in a while, you come across a place that will be etched in your mind forever.
Chances are that it is a place which, once you leave, you may never return to. Or you may visit it several times because destiny dictates that you must go back there once more even if you do not really wish to go there again.
For me, such a place is Duderstadt, a small town in Germany. It is located some 230 km by road from Frankfurt, one of the main cities in Germany and it takes about three hours to get there using the autobahn where you can drive at the leisurely speed of 120 km per hour without any traffic cops bothering you. The heavy trucks religiously keep to the extreme two right lanes on the right while the rest of the traffic keeps to the left lanes. They drive on the right side of the road unlike us lefties. I have not seen a single traffic accident on that autobahn in the last three visits I have been here over a ten-year period.
Duderstadt
But, back to Duderstadt where I found myself in September 2004. It is a little Catholic town dating from 1200 AD and has a current population of 21,000 with many of them being old and a fair number using various walking aids. It is also home to one of the high-tech German multinational companies known as Ottobock GmbH. Chances are that you have never heard of it because the company specializes in restoring what- ever limbs man has lost through disease, birth defects, war, accidents or simple carelessness. Its main job is to restore, mechanically, the limbs or parts thereof than one has lost through adversity.
And they do it extremely well.
For the reader to appreciate in a special sort of way what that means, I will, with your indulgence, narrate through a few anecdotes the true meaning and the impact it has had on my own life. And, with it, the kind of range and diversity of the people that I have met there.
But, first, back to the past.
Some time ago, I watched on one of Kenya TV channels, the dreadful story of a young woman from the Mt Elgon area who was hobbling around her rural home on one leg because the other had been lost perhaps in an accident. And she had a baby to take care of in a deviously difficult environment. It touched many hearts although, like many TV stories, we never got to be told what happened to her.
The “calamity” that brought me to Duderstadt in 2004 was, at that time, difficult to come to terms with because it reminded me painfully of that young woman and her tribulations. Upon arrival in Ottobock, I was given a right royal welcome and, with their famed precision, the Germans got down to work and in two weeks I had a brand new prosthesis which almost fully restored my walking to its old self. But that is only a small part for which I am truly grateful to God, my family and my insurance company...
Home Reality
While I came to Germany feeling a little sorry for myself, I soon realized that my situation was not as bleak as I thought as you will see shortly. The first dramatic encounter I had here was with a man from Israel who had come for the replacement of both legs which had been amputated at the thighs as a result of a bomb blast. He was cheerful and glad to be alive because, like he said, it could have been a lot worse; he did not harbor any ill feelings against those who did it. By the time I left, he had been fitted with his new legs and was learning how to walk again.
The next case was a young German lad of around twenty years. He had lost both arms in an industrial accident at the factory where he worked. I could not figure out how you can replace arms at the shoulder effectively. I do not know wheth- er people appreciate the true value of their arms but the "little" challenge the lad faced will hopefully illustrate the point.
The young man was already a chain smoker and, in the course of an hour at the institution, had to smoke three times. So, to do it, he would ask someone to open the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, remove one, put it his mouth then light it for him with a lighter he had in his pocket. He would politely di- rect you to the pocket as he could not show you with his hands. Then he would walk to the smoking zone puffing away delightedly and when his nicotine level was restored, he would drop the butt to smoulder in the ash-tray. He, of course, could not stub it out. As I watched him, I could not help wondering how he did other "things" that us men take for granted.
Then there was the case of a young Ghanaian man who, in his quest for a quick buck, decided that he should try his luck in Sierra Leone, where he met the famous or, should I say infamous, war-lords who asked him whether he wanted "a long sleeve or a short sleeve".
Told he had to make a choice, he naturally opted for the short sleeve and his arms were promptly cut off at the wrist. That is what brought him to Ottobock for rectification. Would he ever go back to Sierra Leone again? I asked him, and he said he would. Whether for revenge or to pursue his dream, I never asked him.
The latest was a man from Libya whom I met on my last refit visit. Like the Israeli, he had lost both legs but at the knee through a bomb blast. He had with him his young hijab-clad wife and seven-month old son who so much looked like my then four-month old grand-daughter, Teshi, which brought tears to my eyes and all I could ask was: "Why?"
Not to mention the case of the 50-year old lady from The Gambia who had come for a refit after her left leg was amputated due to diabetes. She was accompanied by her 18-year old daughter who was obviously going through the kind of pain which only a teenager can appreciate. Maybe as she fights her hormones for hierarchical dominance.
Israel, Germany, Sierra Leone, Libya, Gambia, Kenya and, no doubt, many other countries, we were all here because we are, at the end of the day, all human, the colour of our skins notwithstanding. We all spoke different languages, claimed different religious faiths and came from vastly different socio -economic backgrounds. Yet, each of us had two arms, two legs, a head, a body and an intellect that somehow under- scores our common humanity.
So, as I sit in my room in a little hotel called Budapest watch- ing CNN and its cacophony of the world's madness being re- enacted in Gaza, Syria/Iraq (ISIS), Hong Kong (democracy), West Africa and USA (Ebola), Japan (typhoon), I can't help asking a basic question: Where is mankind headed? Can we ever achieve lasting peace?
The Pygmies of Duderstadt
In case you ever go to Duderstadt, stop by the two statuettes in the Ottobock compound. They are of two Pygmies with the expected small bodies but with massive arms. One has his fists folded ready to deliver a fatal blow while the other has open palms and seems to be asking the other: What is your problem?
Interestingly, one of them has huge ears while the other has tiny ears. I leave the reader to guess which of the two had the big ears.
Which reminds me of a story I heard in Tanzania of two Pygmies who were fighting to sort out an argument about who, between the two of them, was taller than the other! No doubt, you will figure out what the Kenyan equivalent is as we head to elections.
For the reader to appreciate where I am coming from, on 7th April 2004, I was driving home in Loresho at 10.00pm from Nairobi Hospital when, on Waiyaki Way, near the Aga Khan School, I realised that there was a smoke-billowing truck with no rear lights ahead of me. Quickly, I swerved to the right and, unfortunately, drove right into a metal rail which had been half vandalised by metal thieves.
The exposed metal rail ran straight through my car’s engine, right to my driver’s seat before stopping in the back seat. By the time I realised what had happened, there were people from Njuguna’s Place who had rushed to the scene to “see” the accident, Kenyan style. By good luck, the guys I had been trying to avoid all the way from University Way turned out to be cops who were surveying the traffic situation.
They quickly removed me from my Volvo and put me in their Peugeot station wagon. They decided to take me to the nearest hospital, MP Shah. But I told them to take me to Nairobi Hospital where I had just come from after seeing my first grandchild, Teshi Wambui Muraguri, daughter to my only daughter Mwihaki.
What a day! I share a birthday with Teshi. As she came into this world, I nearly left it.
Happy Birthday Teshi. Babu.