Advertisement
Published: August 26th 2009
.
.All the crazy things that have happened recently...
So, not too long ago a young female patient died...it was sudden. She had come into the clinic recently and been in (relatively) good health. She was absolutely adorable and sweet and good mannered and smart...and just a really delightful child. I took a picture of her with our social worker, Fernando, the last time she came. Our Clinical Officer (basically a PA) told me while I was sitting in the backseat of a car, he and another CO were sitting in the front seats. Once it sunk in I started crying. I was angry...the child was supposed to come in for an appointment only a week before. Instead she came in at the end stages of an opportunistic infection, I can't help but think...if only someone had cared enough to make sure she made her appointment. As I sat in the backseat of this car sobbing I looked up to see two very concerned faces staring at me.
"What are you doing?!"
"Don't do this..." The both exclaim in horror. I said the look was of concern before...but in truth, it was discomfort, almost slight annoyance. They muttered to each other in Nyanja. I could tell it wasn't particularly complimentary. Was it so wrong for me to cry? Who do we become if we can't cry to see a child die so meaninglessly? And yet...here its a little gross, you can't cry for everyone, can you? It gets old after a while...you get, dare I say, used to it. And so, faced with their disapproval, I stopped crying, just like that.
I've begun to think that the problem with HIV in Africa is not lack of proper education...at least here in Zambia, everyone knows how its transmitted, everyone knows how to prevent it...there are a lot of rumors and superstitions, but in general I don't think misinformation is the problem. If possible I think Zambia has a bad case of TMI (too much information in 13 year old lingo), once a person has seen a few of their family members die of HIV/AIDS it becomes almost inevitable, acceptable. Que sera sera.
Two Friday's ago we did VCT (HIV testing) and health screening at a small home for sexually abused children in one of the compounds. It went very well and at the end of the screening they asked us to visit another orphanage which they said they worked with and also wanted us to come. They wanted us to go right away however, it was late, so we said we would go in the next week. Phone calls were made confirming the time and the week went by. Thursday came around again and I called to confirm with the orphanage, all was well. Friday, we're running a little late and they call to check that we're still coming. We arrive late but fully prepared. There is no fan-fare when we arrive (often kids come out singing to greet us) but I don't get the idea that anything is wrong until they sit us down awkwardly in their offices and ask us what we do. Bad sign. From there the conversation devolves into a mysterious man hiding in the hallway (for some reason he refused to sit in the same room with us) criticizing us for not respecting children's rights.
This came from the fact that, once a parent (or caregiver) signs a consent form allowing us to test, we generally do everything we can to test...which often means holding down a squeemish child who is afraid of needles.
Obviously the VCT never took place. I walked away in awe, isn't the idea of adults to make intelligent decisions regarding the health of the children they are placed in charge of? The thought that we should differ to a 2 year old's judgment on what is best for him was stunning to me. This in a country that thinks nothing of leaving the majority of their children on the streets to die.
Later that night, brand new volunteer (she arrived thursday) in tow, we go out dancing as a farewell to two members of our permanent Zambian staff. One is off to America, the other to the Netherlands. It is a fairly tame night in all and we head home rather early (11:30ish on a Friday night). Literally a block away from my friends' home we are stopped by the police.
"A man was just robbed here! Its not safe for you to be out." He's talking to the white girls obviously. We thank him for his help and go to continue on our way. "It's not safe, you see that man," points "he got robbed right on this spot," I point to where we are going (you can see the front gate from where we are stopped) and assure him we'll go immediately home and we'll be careful. "No, no..." he continues, repeating the same story over an over again. He clearly wants me to give him money. I, as a precaution against pick pockets, do not have money of any form on me. He instructs us to get into the back of the truck which is currently piled with drunks and (theoretically) the man who got robbed. By this time it is obvious we are being arrested for the crime of being white and not carrying any money. We crouch down in the trunk, the new volunteer (24 hours in Africa and already being arrested by men with machine guns) clutches my hand until I feel the blood stop running.
The truck drives away from the home it was "too dangerous to walk to" (dangerous from whom?) and we continue to protest weakly (not sure whether it hurts or helps). Finally, the Zambian we are with produces a 50 pin note. We are let go (now twice as far from our destination) with more warnings about how dangerous it is for us to be out. Freedom bought for $10. I want to complain about police corruption...what do they exist for if the only times I ever see them they're asking for bribes? But a part of me knows...its probably their best option. In Lusaka the vast majority of home break-ins are executed by the security guards hired to protect those same homes. What do you really expect from police who are handed machine guns but a negligent salary? This country digs its own grave.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.051s; Tpl: 0.011s; cc: 9; qc: 29; dbt: 0.0263s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
manya
non-member comment
i dunno
you say that people are almost numb to meaningless death there but i feel like living in zambia forces you to feel so much more emotion because even reading about it knots my insides until i cannot recognize my reaction....here there are days when I am actually numb and overall I really can only identify a handful of emotional reactions in myself (my feelings are hurt, i'm ashamed, or i'm ingignant or i'm pleased or i'm lost in ennui or something)....your emtional vocabulary is much more intricate by now, I can tell