Tuesday, May 24, 2011

You WISH you only had Malaria!

The other week, I was with two other volunteers in a part of the country where you travel for 12 hours-- part of it through windy, mountainous roads-- to reach Kampala. Needless to say, we did not want to reach Kampala. Until, that is, a friend kept getting progressively ill. First, she was burping and complainging of stomach pain-- I smelled the burps and decided against Ghiardia (Most of us are INTIMATELY acquainted with the smell). So we continued; then she started laying on the floor in pain and vomiting. Another volunteer and I went to get groceries, only to find her angry at us because of the pain she was in. At this point, we were on standfast (not allowed to travel because of riots in Kampala)and the patient kept repeating that she could not travel due to pain.
By then, it was a very dark 7pm; our midnight, and we had to do something. The helpful nurse 12 hours away suggested that we bring her to a local hospital where we could test for Malaria. Not hard in a booming tourist town; right? Four hours, a hospital, two clinics, and one private Muzungu doctor later-- no one was able to do the tests. The hospital staff, though neatly dressed, could not locate their own reception area, let alone a doctor. The clinics both lacked lab services and tests; although one contained a kindly old German speaking doctor (with very unsterile equipment). Finally, we found the number of an expat Dutch doctor and asked him to help us. His response-- I am a surgeon, I don't do that! was less than encouraging. Finally we found a Scottish anthropologist (doctor of a different type) that had suffered from Malaria so many times that he had rapid test kits (no pcv's don't have them-- thank Washington's budget cuts for that!). The patient was negative, and I mean in more ways than one! Despite further concern's about Washington's budget and the fact that we weren't supposed to travel, the other healthy volunteer and I decided that, despite the teargas, doctors in Kampala would be better able to help our freind.
In true 007 style, therefore, we bundled her in the back of a private hire, with the phone number of the peace corps driver. They had to meet in passing somewhere along that 12 hour journey-- without a disclosed location-- remember we are not supposed to move because of protests rocking the capital! She reached Kampala safely and, thankfully, the muzungu doctor there was a bit more helpful (and sterile) in pronouncing----- appendicitis! Good thing we did not delay any more. After an incredibly invasive surgery (no lasers here, guys), she is alive; but it was close. If she was a Ugandan, would she have made it? Sorry to say, but this bright, wonderful young lady, if a Ugandan would probably not be with us and when a muzungu like me would have asked why she died, the reply would have been, "She was sick for a while, probably Malaria, or the Disease (AIDS)." Just another example of WHY life expectancy is 20 yrs less here than in the US.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Soil and Spirit


Dirt-- in the US it is something we hear about, or we vacume up, or we wash off of our cars. Sometimes a child brings dirt in from that totally separate world-- the OUTSIDE. Even in yards and lawns, a person can roll around on the grass without getting dirty. The first thing I think about in Uganda, however, is dirt. Dust, mud, crud, stuff that smells like urine and excrement (and I know partially is)-- especially when less than half of the population has access to an outhouse, when goats and chickens and naked children roam freely, is everywhere. In houses made of dirt, and where doors and door frames, windows and window frames, ceilings and walls don't fit, you cannot escape. I mop my house every day, and after a few barefoot steps, my feet are always filthy.
Dirt is also soil, however, and in the rich, red- black soil in which I garden lies the food I eat. In a country of over 80% subsistence farmers, this soil is life. Sometimes I think that people come from it, and I know that when they die, they don't go to cemented cemetery plots. Instead, they are buried under the garden, in a wooden coffin, into the soil.
This is why, when the sisters found that a member of the parish refused to leave her house, they visited her. For a person to stay indoors and refuse the soul (and body) nourishing act of gardening-- something is serious! A recent widow, it pertained to the death of her husband, but was a more serious reaction than anyone else they had seen. After four long years of trying and pleading, she remained inside (yes, I want to diagnose according to the DSM-IV, but you find the psychiatrist that can come out here!)
Last year, therefore, one sister had an idea, bring the muzungu (white person)! Sure enough, when I came, with a camera, we made a deal-- if she can come out, she gets a picture. She came out and took a picture OUTSIDE of her house with her children and one of the sisters, as shown above.
For Easter, we were in for a special surprise, as she came to mass and decided to end her days inside. So, last week, I went with two sisters to re-initiate that very essential task-- gardening. Her daughter had been previously farming their 7 acres -by hand- alone. We came out and did a gardening bee.
We walked about 5 miles guided by small, swift children (there is no childhood obesity in this village!) to her house. There, after a prayer, we begun the work. We were six women in all, weeding beans, swiftly, barefoot, and with laughter and giggles. I am afraid that I uprooted three bean plants, but, all in all, I wasn't so bad. After the 5 mile walk home again, and beans and maize for supper, I was in paradise. What if every person suffering from depression and any other mental illness could be cared for in the same way? I swear that this soil is better than the mental wards I've seen. I was also, however, ready for a long bucket bath-- guess I'm not totally in love with all of the soil :)