Blood, Sweat and Tears

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This is hot, frustrating and tiring work, but I wouldn’t prefer it any other way. Monday morning finds our team heading out to El Poste, an indigenous Tsatchila community about an hour outside of Santo Domingo. As we arrive to our worksite we find ourselves once again facing some difficulties, but we’ve gotten used to things not being ideal so coming up with solutions to unusual dilemmas is now the norm. Of the three permanent structures in the area, one is being used as a school-room leaving us with a four walled structure for the examination rooms and an open aired shelter for the pharmacy and triage station. Ants cover the floor of both structures (I have never seen so many ants in my life) but a push-broom takes care of that. If you’ve never found yourself facing so many ants that you can literally sweep them out the door, consider yourself lucky. As I begin to set up my station in triage we face yet another set-back—the curvettes used in the hemoglobin monitor don’t fit. Obviously my first thought was to see if I could somehow just jam them in there anyways (answer: no) but a pair of old scissors and some elbow grease allows us to shave the hole a little larger. Problem solved! Note to self: remind whoever orders the hemocues next that they now need to order the larger size. It’s now nearing 9am and I’m already soaked through with sweat. It’s a swealtering day and the work hasn’t even begun. Still, I find myself drawn to this sort of work. It makes me feel somehow more….alive. There was a reason I went into anthropology nearly five years ago and it was because I always wanted to work in the field; to have the dirt on my knees and the bugs in my hair. No, most change does not take place on the ground and more overreaching impacts can be made in the political offices and arenas of policy making. But sometimes it’s good to have a dose of direct impact. To see the effect you are having. It humanizes the problem.

Although I had prepared myself to see a multitude of nutrition problems, I am pleasantly surprised by my predictions being wrong. Kwashiorkor is not nearly as prominent and I had expected, although we did see several severe cases of anemia. My work is simple, yet challenging. Ask politely for a finger, cleanse with an alcohol wipe, draw some blood with the lancet, run the curvette through the machine, bandage and repeat. See? Simple. All except the jabbing the poor person in the finger with a sharp object and then trying to coax enough blood out from calloused fingers before it clots and I have to try and explain that I need to jab them again. Yes. I am the one that nobody wants to see. Either I jab you in the finger and explain that you’re anemic, or jab you in the finger only to find that you’re not anemic, but I made you bleed anyways. I am very popular with the children, let me tell you. It likely sounds worse than it was.

The children seem to soak in all the attention we give them. After the school lets out, they begin to gather around the make-shift clinic. In addition to the medical supplies, we’ve also brought along a huge suitcase full of small toys. The small inflatable balls are a huge hit and soon we’ve got a throng of kids in front of us as we play the ‘bat the ball around and don’t let it hit the ground’. Someone should really come up with a better name for that game. Let me know if you’ve got one. I spend the next few hours intermittently running to triage to run a blood test and entertaining the children. Having tired of playing with the ball, we try teaching the children “Duck, Duck, Goose.” Unbeknownst to us at the time, they already know this game only call it “Duck, Duck, Turkey.” Nevertheless, neither knowing the words for duck, turkey or goose, the game ends up getting called “Bird, Bird, Pig.” At least, that’s what I think it’s called. Also unbeknownst to me is who I should and should not go to for Spanish translations! So we really end up playing a game with completly made up words that could be loosely translated into “mispronunciation of the word bird, mispronunciation of the word bird, pork” (avios, avios, puerca). So it goes. The children could have cared less, and for all they know, maybe they just thought we were speaking in English. I seemed to be the favorite candidate for the “pork” so after running around the circle a good dozen times (at altitude, in 90 F weather, probably dehydrated) I eventually learn to pick another member of the medical brigade just so I have a quick breather before I have to run around the circle again! Really though, the kids just lifted my heart. I have never been surrounded by so many smiles and their laughter echoed throughout the courtyard and made it all worth while. As the clinic came to a close, one little girl shyly hung around the doorway trying to get my attention. As I step through the door, she runs off behind an out-building and waves her hand at me to come closer. I forget, though, that in Ecuador the hand signal for “come here” is the American signal for “Shoo! Go away” (palm down with a flick of the wrist towards the individual). I step forward, step back, step forward trying to figure out what she really means before she grabs my hand and pulls me out of view. Is it wrong to be thrilled by this exchange?! Finally a personal connection with someone we’re here to assist. I don’t know what she’s saying, but body language being nearly universal as it is, it is eventually resolved that she would really like an inflatable ball to take back home with her even though she doesn’t have any money to pay for one. As I emerge from the clinic and hand her one, trying to reassure her that it’s okay to take it; that they’re for everyone no payment necessary her face lights up, she shakes my hand Chaio and skips off down the road. I have redeemed myself. No longer the mean child finger poker-er, I am now the ball giver-awayer-er. A calm settles over me.

Afterwards, we made our way to the Tsachila cultural center—an extension of one of the villages aimed at prompting economic growth for the village as well as a deeper understanding and acceptance of their traditions. We found ourselves now in the homes and dwellings of those people whom earlier that day had traveled to see us at the clinic. It was a wonderful cultural exchange. The Tshacila Indians are pre-Incan and are identified by their hair dyed red with the oils of achiote seed thought to protect from sickness after a epidemic of yellow fever spread through their communities over a hundred years ago. Translation was often difficult because neither Spanish nor Quechua is the first language; instead they speak their own language, Sufiki (excuse the likely misspelling) only spoken by roughly 300 people. Men wear skirts of black and white stripes, representing a local snake known for its speed and skill at hunting. Women wear multicolored skirts which represent the rainbow. Their clothing is hand-woven and traditionally made using wool dyed using local plants, but now made using yarns obtained at markets.

Towards the end of our visit, the Shaman opened the floor for questions which we were able to ask through the assistance of the Peace Corp volunteer working in the village who could translate. As much as I was interested to learn about the various reasons and details of their life (how did one become shaman, when do men dye their hair) a cultural exchange involved both parties giving and receiving. I asked what message they would like us to take back to our homes, and to our friends and family and people we meet through our life and what they would want us to share about them. The Shaman wanted us to invite people to visit their village and their center and let them know they exist; that both us and them can learn through cultural exchanges. Today they visited us for biomedical care and we later learned of their healing arts. Another man spoke up and said what I thought was vitally important to share here in hopes that as many people as possible can read:

Let the world know that there is a population here trying to conserve their language, their cultural, their dress and their traditional medical practices.

As the world becomes more interconnected through telecommunication and commercialism, cultures are dying out and fighting to survive the influence of other nations. Here in Ecuador these villagers have survived the imperialism of the Inca empire, the Spaniards and now this mass-globalization of Western ideals. I think it’s important we acknowledge and respect these other ways of life and learn from them, rather than erase them off the map. As we left, they offered us their handicrafts for sale—woven bags, belts, jewelry. I bought several items for slightly less than $5. Five dollars for these items that back home will be considered novelties and exotic memorabilia of these strange, primitive people—evidence of my off-the-beaten path travels. I can’t express how wrong that notion would be. Its five dollars to help a community maintain their identity. And when I wear these items and explain the significance and people say “How cool” I will say yes. Yes it is cool, but not because of its origin, but because of its power to help a population save themselves from homogenization.

Today touched me on a deeply personal level. I can’t explain at what point my transformation began, but I feel myself being reinvented. This thin mountain air must be getting to me.

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Photos

Achiote Seed
Used to dye the hair of Tsachila men

Clinic Work
Running a hemoglobin test for anemia

Music and Color
This little girl in particular will be hard to forget.

Triage
After losing my hair-tie, the heat and humidity made me feel like an orangutan. I later pulled it back with a dried vine. We're quite the sight!

The Ever Impressive Team Two!
We never come up with a fancy team name, but our ability to pull together made it unnecessary.

La Farmacia
The pharmacy

Royal Palm
If you hug this endangered tree with a wish in your heart, the spirit of the tree will consider your desire.