It’s so easy to fall into Swahili time where you have a list of things to get done, simply shrug at the fact they exist and then move on ignoring them until later. It’s been over a month since I have even written anything done about for my blog and I find myself slipping into more of a resident here instead of just a visitor. I have stopped taking pictures, I don’t carry around a purse or backpack, I eat with my hands, when asked where I’m from I say originally Rau but now KCMC, I poop in squat toilets, and I can’t seem to cook anything without using oil.
It rains almost every day and not just drizzling. The sky seems to open up and dump buckets of water down just like the massive one in the water park at Silverwood. If you’re caught outside by the time it starts, you might as well just stay there because by the time you take five steps to the nearest covering, you will already be soaked through every layer you have.
Because most of the side roads are all made of dirt, they have now become a massive Slip n’ Slide of mud. There’s no use trying to prevent the mud from engulfing your freshly washed shoes, the only concerning is staying vertical and not end up face first in a mixture of mud, cow, goat, chicken, dog and possibly human shit. Once you reach your destination, including the post office, grocery stores, schools etc…, many times you have to just remove your shoes and walk around barefoot or in socks. One day Rachel and Jordan returned home covered teeth to toes in mud. Apparently they had both fallen and from there it progressed into a mud fight which ended on our front porch where I took the liberty to document it seeing as I had just taken my weekly shower.
The following weekend, Tine and Lisa came down from Marangu to visit us seeing as there isn’t much to do up there. We all dressed up somewhat and headed over to our favorite pre-game bar, Kool Bar. I had eaten some “bad shish kabobs” and not too long after was bent over a squat toilet blowing chunks. Rachel, being the mother hen that she is, was there a few moments later forcing me to drink a liter and a half of water. Jordan was close behind her with the moral support cheering me on every chug and then every manly heaving sound that followed.
In the process of leaning over to encourage me, my phone, which what we thought was strategically placed in Rachel’s bra, fell out, bounced on the edge of the toilet, where it then shattered right before plunging into the dark depths of the hole in the floor. I paused my present puking long enough to look at her with a very straight face and inform her I was no longer her friend before continuing hunching over the porcelain hole. Tine, who was also sick, accompanied me home while the rest of the girls continued on to La Liga.
We finished off our weekend by dancing in the kitchen to Enrique Iglesias while making American chocolate chip cookies with Junior. We ended up having to make four batches because the dough was having troubles making it to the cookie sheets and the ones that did make it through the whole baking process were quickly devoured by anyone passing through the kitchen, as well as the cooks.
The cookies were meant to be our contribution to the feast that the doctors, Philipo, Kishe and Andrew, had prepared for us the following night at their house. Rachel, Jordan and I took thirds and fourths on the meat and avocado dishes then sat back and loosened our belts a bit while we let our growing African bellies breath a little. The cookies never made it passed the table for the movie part of the evening like we had planned.
New volunteers were at the table the next morning. Christoph, an 18 year old Belgium, Lynn, an old southerner, and Barbara a mid-thirties Italian. Quite the mix to say the least. The two women went to the orphanage while Christoph accompanied the rest of us to the hospital. The women have both already left, which was a sigh I think for most seeing as they were quite a handful between the complaining and the accents and the talking as if everyone around them was wearing broken hearing aids.
The three of us girls did the night shifts most of the week. Around five or six we would pack our bags full of snacks and bug spray, make a fresh thermos of coffee and grab a couple bites of dinner on the way out.
The night shifts are slow usually with a lot of births and a few accidents usually involving a fight, pikipiki or panga accident. When there were no more women ready to squeeze one out and the minor theatre was empty, we would try to sneak in a few hours of sleep in the private rooms by pediatrics. Usually thirty minutes to an hour later we would be awoken by another procedure going on. By the time morning came around I was usually pretty out of it. Depending on how much sleep we got the night before would determine if we would stay to continue work the next day or leave early around lunch time.
The entire week was filled with babies. If it wasn’t live birth we were rushing into surgery for a cesarean. Quite a few didn’t make it from either being a miscarriage or complication during or post birth. The mothers always appear emotionless no matter if they give birth to a live or dead child. That’s something I still don’t understand but just have to accept that it’s a cultural thing.
Rachel’s boyfriend, Brian, arrived Friday morning. He became our instant hero when he greeted us with Jolly Ranchers and Hershey’s chocolate. We took him out to La Liga where he busted out his moves just like he was born a black child with Tanzanian blood. I’m not sure who received more stares though, us girls or him, the 6’ 5”, linebacker built, bald white guy.
On our way back home, our cab ran out of petrol in the middle of the road. We laughed and welcomed him to Africa as we paid the cab a little less and just walked the rest of the way home, only to find that the gate was once again locked and it was going to be a climbing night.
Rachel, Brian and Ashley left for Safari the following morning leaving Jordan and I at the hospital alone. We did the night shift the first night and stayed up late talking and eating cookies with Philipo and a mother-to-be staying at the hospital who was perfectly healthy. The next morning we were eating breakfast in the cafeteria and saw them wheeling away a gurney with a sheet covering a body with a large stomach. For some unknown reason, the woman from the night before had passed out and then died. The autopsy came back with an unknown cause of death. The week was off to an unsettling start and unfortunately only took a turn for the worst the next two days.
On Tuesday, a baby that we had performed a c-section on passed away once her and her mother were transferred to KCMC. We were never informed of the cause of death. Wednesday started off just like everyday. Gathering supplies, changing the sheets, cleaning up from night shift and seeing the inpatients for their daily dressings. Pastol, the patient with the elephantiasis leg which had been doing much better since January when he was first omitted, came in just like he did everyday with a huge smile on his face and offering out a friendly handshake. Like everyday he replied to our greeting with, “bombambya” which means more than fantastic.
This day though, his leg had taken a drastic turn for the worse since the day before. Skin was falling off and his open wounds wouldn’t stop bleeding. The doctors examined him and just said to dress him like normal. By that day his deterioration had progressed passed his knee and up his thigh where there was no issue previously.
His ever present smile had vanished and look of fear had replaced his once joyful eyes as he literally crawled into the minor theatre were he collapsed on the floor. Everything went silent it seemed as time moved in slow motion. A pool of blood began to form around him as doctors rushed in with canulars and IV drips. Before the first IV was even opened, Pastol’s brown eyes calmed as his eye lids slowly shut and his head hit the cold, gray, cement floor.
He was pronounced dead moments later.
Everything was just left exactly how it was except for the red pool. His blue slippers were still leaning against the medicine cabinet waiting for their owner. His walking cane with the smooth handle from months of use lie under the operating bed. The IV line which never made it into a pulsing vein was still hung on the lonely drip stand.
It was eerie being in the room and Jordan and I didn’t speak as we slowly began to pick up the room. It was a good thing that the next day we were headed to Zanzibar because a break was well needed after just that short week.
