See you later.
Well I'm down to the last several days now and I'm working on a budget of around $1.75... I probably shouldn't be on the internet right now but I thought I should give the blog some closure. I didn't post as much as I thought I would, mainly because most of my time is spent inside the compound, and the interesting stories from the compound are either depressing or disgusting. I can't afford too many minutes on here, so I'll do one last Berg's Eye View and call it good. I'm supposed to arrive in New York on Friday the 11th at around noon, so I'll talk to you all soon.
A BERG'S EYE VIEW
- Instead of pidgeons, Addis has eagles.
- I can never tell which type of handshake to expect here.
- Finding the rare piece of cake among the free airline bread provides a high unmatched by any illegal substance (I assume).
- Jean Claude Van Damme is a god here, but still some kids at the compound are telling everyone I beat him in a fight.
- According to the Ethiopian calendar, it's 2002. I guess the cars aren't as old as I thought they were.
- The Ethiopian clock is six hours off what the time zone says it should be... So the day starts when my watch, which is set to this time zone, says 6am.
- The only Ethiopian card game I've heard of is called "Crazy." It's kind of like Uno, only crazier.
- The only Ethiopian billiards game I've heard of is called "Crazy." It's kind of like pool, only crazier. They start with all the balls against the bumpers.
- The Pay to Park machines here are even worse than in Seattle. You put the ticket on the outside of your car... if you actually buy one.
- The streets here are fine, but the sidewalks are all kinds of torn up. I generally walk in the street.
- When you greet an Ethiopian, you ask them how they are. Then they ask you how you are. Then you ask them how they are a different way. They ask you back. You ask a third way. They ask you back. I don't ask them how they are anymore.
- Today, a stranger named Dave asked if he could show me around the city. I said no, and that I didn't need a guide. Dave said he wasn't a guide.
- Today, a stranger named Job started following me around the city. He told me I look like Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump. I told him Forrest Gump is, though mentally handicapped, one hell of a long distance runner.
- Ethiopian television (ETV) is the worst television I have ever seen. One of the two stations is dedicated to music videos typically filmed with a cheap handheld video camera in a public park.
- I saw a dog on a leash yesterday.
- Occasionally the government here flies over some areas of the country dropping spoiled meat to poison the wild dogs.
- Yesterday I met an Ethiopian who lives on First Hill in Seattle. Don't remember his name.
- Today a man spit on me, I think accidentally. Wisely, he used the occasion to try to take my camera out of my pocket as he wiped the spit off.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Slaughterhouse Amist
It's been a while since I've blogged, but nothing new really happened
before this weekend. Luckily the last few days have been rather
eventful.
KIBRU
There's a guy, Kibru, who seems to make his living off befriending
volunteers from the compound. He won't be making any living off me,
of course, but we can still spend time together. On Friday afternoon
Will (American), Louise (Austrian), and I went to Kibru's house for
lunch and a coffee ceremony. His girlfriend prepared miserwat
(lentils with sauce) and injera the night before and it was some of
the best wat I've had here. The coffee was also amazing and when
Kibru submitted himself to the fact that we weren't going to let him
guide us around the Ethiopian countryside he offered instead to have
us over for lunch again. Getting increasingly excited about the idea,
he concocted a plan for a grandiose gathering at this tiny house that
involved some wine, a lot of coffee, a sheep, a chicken, and a
slaughter. We accepted the invitation, forked over around $8 each to
pay for everything and promised to invite the rest of the volunteers.
On our way out, Kibru asked if we would come over Saturday again for
lunch. Louise, who we now just call Lucy, and Will silently looked at
me for guidance and, rattled, I accepted that invitation as well.
When we got back to the compound both Will and Lucy revealed that they
didn't want to go back for lunch the next day and asked why I said
yes. When lunch time rolled around on Saturday, Will and I "had to
work late" and Lucy was "feeling sick," so we told Kibru the sad news
and said we'd see him Monday, which he assured us was a go, having
bought the small sheep and the chicken that morning at the market.
More to come later.
THE GREAT ETHIOPIAN RUN
I didn't get registered for the 2009 (or 2002 according to the
Ethiopian calendar) Great Ethiopian Run, but Kate and Lucy and I went
down to check it out anyway. The minibus dropped us off at the 5km
halfway point so we walked with the crowd from there to the
finishline. Everyone involved was cheeful and friendly and there were
an obscene amount of foreigners who made us feel right at home. It
was fun to be able to walk through some of the city's busy streets
without having to worry about getting clipped by an 80's era Toyota.
THE KILLFEST
The highlight of this post: the slaughter. Apparently the chicken
died of natural causes on Sunday night and had to be sacrificed to the
hyenas, so our only victim was the poor little sheep. The plan was
for Will and Lucy and I to head to Kibru's at lunch time to help
prepare all afternoon, then to go back to the compound to pick up the
rest of the volunteers closer to dinner time. We drank coffee at
around 1:00 and wasted no time post-ceremony before getting to the
sheep. I volunteered to act as executioner, so Kibru and his
girlfriend hogtied the sheep and held it down together, orienting its
outstretched neck over a shallow plastic bucket that would serve as
the blood recepticle. The knife they gave me looked deadly but was
about as sharp as a Robin Williams joke, so Kibru's girlfriend/wife
told me to use "strong force." My initial force was not strong
enough, but after a couple back-and-forths I got through the windpipe
and shortly after, the target artery. I wasn't sure I'd be able to go
through with it until I was suddenly sawing away. It was over more
quickly for me that for the poor sheep, whose rapid breathing betrayed
the lifeless expression on her face as the blood slurped out of her
into the bucket. Strangely I felt no remorse afterward, but I have a
sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't be able to do it so easily in the
US. After my work was finished, I hung back and took pictures as Will
and Ms. Kibru skinned, decapitated, and emptied the sheep,
occasionally asking if I was feeling alright. I realized later I
hadn't killed so much as a fish before, so maybe I looked a little
pale, but I didn't feel any different.
Post-gutting, the intestines were braided and cut into small pieces
for the dulet, and the bones were broken up and sheep disected for the
roasting. Every piece of meat was thrown onto a flat round pan over
the eucalyptus-branch fire with green peppers, tomatos, onions, and
garlic. Scraps were thrown to the lucky neighbor dog to wet his
whistle for his main course: sheep head. He chewed the face off,
exhibiting notable vigor while taking the ears to task. The food was
great even if slightly undercooked. Nobody there has fallen ill yet
so I think I'm in the clear. We had more coffee after finishing
dinner and headed back to the compound, but not before Kibru asked us
if we could come back soon to do it all over again. I said we'd let
him know.
COUNTING DOWN
I have just over two weeks left here now and time is passing faster
than ever. It has helped a lot to have Will here because it means I
can finally use some normal English. I just finished reading "Little
Children" by Tom Perrotta. It is the best book I've read here and
recommend it to everyone. Also if anyone can confirm Will's claim
that it was made into a movie I'd appreciate it. Marco and Carlos,
the gay couple, are leaving tonight. Yesterday Marco busted his head
open on a window and consequently became our first volunteer visitor
to the wound clinic. Today a young Irish kid named Josh arrived, and
I can't help being captivated by his accent. I don't know what it is
about the Irish accent but it is utterly mesmorizing to me... could
just be the combination of the accent and the Catholic setting
reminding me of Boondock Saints. Volunteers are always coming and
going, but I'm happier with the situation now than I ever have been
and it couldn't have come at a better time. I'm eager to come home
but am happy to finally be having some fun in the compound. I'll see
you all soon, and I'll try not to wait too long before my next blog.
before this weekend. Luckily the last few days have been rather
eventful.
KIBRU
There's a guy, Kibru, who seems to make his living off befriending
volunteers from the compound. He won't be making any living off me,
of course, but we can still spend time together. On Friday afternoon
Will (American), Louise (Austrian), and I went to Kibru's house for
lunch and a coffee ceremony. His girlfriend prepared miserwat
(lentils with sauce) and injera the night before and it was some of
the best wat I've had here. The coffee was also amazing and when
Kibru submitted himself to the fact that we weren't going to let him
guide us around the Ethiopian countryside he offered instead to have
us over for lunch again. Getting increasingly excited about the idea,
he concocted a plan for a grandiose gathering at this tiny house that
involved some wine, a lot of coffee, a sheep, a chicken, and a
slaughter. We accepted the invitation, forked over around $8 each to
pay for everything and promised to invite the rest of the volunteers.
On our way out, Kibru asked if we would come over Saturday again for
lunch. Louise, who we now just call Lucy, and Will silently looked at
me for guidance and, rattled, I accepted that invitation as well.
When we got back to the compound both Will and Lucy revealed that they
didn't want to go back for lunch the next day and asked why I said
yes. When lunch time rolled around on Saturday, Will and I "had to
work late" and Lucy was "feeling sick," so we told Kibru the sad news
and said we'd see him Monday, which he assured us was a go, having
bought the small sheep and the chicken that morning at the market.
More to come later.
THE GREAT ETHIOPIAN RUN
I didn't get registered for the 2009 (or 2002 according to the
Ethiopian calendar) Great Ethiopian Run, but Kate and Lucy and I went
down to check it out anyway. The minibus dropped us off at the 5km
halfway point so we walked with the crowd from there to the
finishline. Everyone involved was cheeful and friendly and there were
an obscene amount of foreigners who made us feel right at home. It
was fun to be able to walk through some of the city's busy streets
without having to worry about getting clipped by an 80's era Toyota.
THE KILLFEST
The highlight of this post: the slaughter. Apparently the chicken
died of natural causes on Sunday night and had to be sacrificed to the
hyenas, so our only victim was the poor little sheep. The plan was
for Will and Lucy and I to head to Kibru's at lunch time to help
prepare all afternoon, then to go back to the compound to pick up the
rest of the volunteers closer to dinner time. We drank coffee at
around 1:00 and wasted no time post-ceremony before getting to the
sheep. I volunteered to act as executioner, so Kibru and his
girlfriend hogtied the sheep and held it down together, orienting its
outstretched neck over a shallow plastic bucket that would serve as
the blood recepticle. The knife they gave me looked deadly but was
about as sharp as a Robin Williams joke, so Kibru's girlfriend/wife
told me to use "strong force." My initial force was not strong
enough, but after a couple back-and-forths I got through the windpipe
and shortly after, the target artery. I wasn't sure I'd be able to go
through with it until I was suddenly sawing away. It was over more
quickly for me that for the poor sheep, whose rapid breathing betrayed
the lifeless expression on her face as the blood slurped out of her
into the bucket. Strangely I felt no remorse afterward, but I have a
sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't be able to do it so easily in the
US. After my work was finished, I hung back and took pictures as Will
and Ms. Kibru skinned, decapitated, and emptied the sheep,
occasionally asking if I was feeling alright. I realized later I
hadn't killed so much as a fish before, so maybe I looked a little
pale, but I didn't feel any different.
Post-gutting, the intestines were braided and cut into small pieces
for the dulet, and the bones were broken up and sheep disected for the
roasting. Every piece of meat was thrown onto a flat round pan over
the eucalyptus-branch fire with green peppers, tomatos, onions, and
garlic. Scraps were thrown to the lucky neighbor dog to wet his
whistle for his main course: sheep head. He chewed the face off,
exhibiting notable vigor while taking the ears to task. The food was
great even if slightly undercooked. Nobody there has fallen ill yet
so I think I'm in the clear. We had more coffee after finishing
dinner and headed back to the compound, but not before Kibru asked us
if we could come back soon to do it all over again. I said we'd let
him know.
COUNTING DOWN
I have just over two weeks left here now and time is passing faster
than ever. It has helped a lot to have Will here because it means I
can finally use some normal English. I just finished reading "Little
Children" by Tom Perrotta. It is the best book I've read here and
recommend it to everyone. Also if anyone can confirm Will's claim
that it was made into a movie I'd appreciate it. Marco and Carlos,
the gay couple, are leaving tonight. Yesterday Marco busted his head
open on a window and consequently became our first volunteer visitor
to the wound clinic. Today a young Irish kid named Josh arrived, and
I can't help being captivated by his accent. I don't know what it is
about the Irish accent but it is utterly mesmorizing to me... could
just be the combination of the accent and the Catholic setting
reminding me of Boondock Saints. Volunteers are always coming and
going, but I'm happier with the situation now than I ever have been
and it couldn't have come at a better time. I'm eager to come home
but am happy to finally be having some fun in the compound. I'll see
you all soon, and I'll try not to wait too long before my next blog.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Hail Mary, Full of Grace...
MARCATO
For my lunch break Wednesday, I made a quick decision to join the Spaniards on their trip to the legendary Marcato. The Marcato was the first open air market in all of Africa and today is, I believe, the biggest. Historically it was set aside by the Italians as a district for the black people to sell things for each other. Seeing as how there are quite a few black people in Ethiopia and most of them need to buy or sell something at some point, the market grew into enormity. However, it's so gargantuan that it just looks like every other street with a few more people and a few more shops. It's not even worth taking pictures of. Unless you're Spanish. But then again if you're Spanish all you need for a photo op are some local people minding their own business. In typical fashion, the Spanish crowd was a spectacle. They counted their money by the hundreds out in the open after being warned not to repeatedly by the Ethiopian guide they were paying. They insisted on taking pictures of all the children who asked them for money. They even took pictures of the coffee bean vendors set up next to the vendor from whom they were buying coffee. I tried to tell them to at least photograph the person they were already paying, but it's impossible to get a word in when they are in their everyone-yelling-at-once element. They bought insense by the kilo and overpaid for clay coffee pots and other things they weren't able to fit in their suitcases. Three of the Spaniards left yesterday but were quickly replaced in the volunteer house by the lunatic British doctor, a late-20's American EMT, and Joe's friend Hide. Suddenly we are more men that women and less Spanish than not. It's about damn time.
CHEROKEE
There is an organization here based out of North Carolina called Cherokee. Apparently they are some sort of investment firm but they also own and operate some non-profits, one of which sends Americans here to teach English. One such teacher is a 23-year old named Scott who volunteers with us on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. On Wednesday night Abebe (nurse) and I went to the Cherokee house for dinner. The house is luxurious and comes equipped with a guard, two dogs, and an Ethiopian women who cooks every day. Wednesday was taco night. Hallelujah. Closer to burrito sized, I had three tacos, three chocolate chip muffins, two brownies, a cinnamon roll, and three pieces of apple cinnamon cake, all prepared by the Ethiopian cook. Abebe barely finished two tacos. If I wasn't so busy being satiated I would have been embarrassed by my American gluttony. Scott's roommates and fellow teachers were two fat Texans and a 23-year old married couple also from somewhere in the South, strengthening my belief that the only people who get married before 25 are religious, military, or both. Scott, who is clearly the coolest and the nicest of the bunch, paid his taxi driver friend to drive Abebe and I all the way home. It was an enjoyable evening.
...THE LORD IS WITH YOU
On Thursday evening I went to Adoration at the compound chapel. It was boring as sin. I couldn't tell what the nuns were saying because they sounded like they didn't give a damn about it. They droned on for an hour and a half in a tone not quite energetic enough to be eery. I was hoping that as my first church service since.............................................................................................................. it would at least be educational, but all I learned was that Mary is only blessed among women so I am not required to care and that the chapel carpeting has fleas. The next morning, because it was the last for the three Spaniards and because they promised to sing something, I woke up early for the 6:30 mass. Mass is also sinfully boring. The sisters are awful, uninspired singers and so were the volunteers. I figured as long as I was there I might as well take communion, so at least I got some free breakfast out of it.
A BERG'S EYE VIEW
- Religion is boring as hell. I can't blame radicals for needing to spice it up a little.
- I saw my first Ethiopian fat kid in Piazza the other day. He must have been rich.
- There are apparently some affluent Ethiopians living at the compound and milking the system for free treatment.
- The traditional Ethiopian tea tastes like Christmas. I make sure to have at least one small cup of Christmas every day.
- Not every patient prefers the white foreigner...
- Naor is actually not timid at all, he's just a little sheltered. He's really nice and pleasant to be around because everything is new and exciting for him. I'm envious of the amusement he draws from every little thing here, but I wish he would stop coming up to me in bed every morning to say "you're not going to eat breakfast?" I will eat breakfast when I'm good and ready, Naor.
- Marco and Carlos (French and Spanish) are almost certainly a gay couple. And both of their hands shake uncontrollably.
- Many volunteers smoke freely outside the volunteer house, despite the two notices inside the house asking that people refrain from smoking anywhere inside the compound.
- When I leave I will regret not getting a chance to see the sights outside of the city.
- The closer I am to the compound, the more comments I get about being a foreigner. People should be used to all the volunteer whiteys by now.
For my lunch break Wednesday, I made a quick decision to join the Spaniards on their trip to the legendary Marcato. The Marcato was the first open air market in all of Africa and today is, I believe, the biggest. Historically it was set aside by the Italians as a district for the black people to sell things for each other. Seeing as how there are quite a few black people in Ethiopia and most of them need to buy or sell something at some point, the market grew into enormity. However, it's so gargantuan that it just looks like every other street with a few more people and a few more shops. It's not even worth taking pictures of. Unless you're Spanish. But then again if you're Spanish all you need for a photo op are some local people minding their own business. In typical fashion, the Spanish crowd was a spectacle. They counted their money by the hundreds out in the open after being warned not to repeatedly by the Ethiopian guide they were paying. They insisted on taking pictures of all the children who asked them for money. They even took pictures of the coffee bean vendors set up next to the vendor from whom they were buying coffee. I tried to tell them to at least photograph the person they were already paying, but it's impossible to get a word in when they are in their everyone-yelling-at-once element. They bought insense by the kilo and overpaid for clay coffee pots and other things they weren't able to fit in their suitcases. Three of the Spaniards left yesterday but were quickly replaced in the volunteer house by the lunatic British doctor, a late-20's American EMT, and Joe's friend Hide. Suddenly we are more men that women and less Spanish than not. It's about damn time.
CHEROKEE
There is an organization here based out of North Carolina called Cherokee. Apparently they are some sort of investment firm but they also own and operate some non-profits, one of which sends Americans here to teach English. One such teacher is a 23-year old named Scott who volunteers with us on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. On Wednesday night Abebe (nurse) and I went to the Cherokee house for dinner. The house is luxurious and comes equipped with a guard, two dogs, and an Ethiopian women who cooks every day. Wednesday was taco night. Hallelujah. Closer to burrito sized, I had three tacos, three chocolate chip muffins, two brownies, a cinnamon roll, and three pieces of apple cinnamon cake, all prepared by the Ethiopian cook. Abebe barely finished two tacos. If I wasn't so busy being satiated I would have been embarrassed by my American gluttony. Scott's roommates and fellow teachers were two fat Texans and a 23-year old married couple also from somewhere in the South, strengthening my belief that the only people who get married before 25 are religious, military, or both. Scott, who is clearly the coolest and the nicest of the bunch, paid his taxi driver friend to drive Abebe and I all the way home. It was an enjoyable evening.
...THE LORD IS WITH YOU
On Thursday evening I went to Adoration at the compound chapel. It was boring as sin. I couldn't tell what the nuns were saying because they sounded like they didn't give a damn about it. They droned on for an hour and a half in a tone not quite energetic enough to be eery. I was hoping that as my first church service since.............................................................................................................. it would at least be educational, but all I learned was that Mary is only blessed among women so I am not required to care and that the chapel carpeting has fleas. The next morning, because it was the last for the three Spaniards and because they promised to sing something, I woke up early for the 6:30 mass. Mass is also sinfully boring. The sisters are awful, uninspired singers and so were the volunteers. I figured as long as I was there I might as well take communion, so at least I got some free breakfast out of it.
A BERG'S EYE VIEW
- Religion is boring as hell. I can't blame radicals for needing to spice it up a little.
- I saw my first Ethiopian fat kid in Piazza the other day. He must have been rich.
- There are apparently some affluent Ethiopians living at the compound and milking the system for free treatment.
- The traditional Ethiopian tea tastes like Christmas. I make sure to have at least one small cup of Christmas every day.
- Not every patient prefers the white foreigner...
- Naor is actually not timid at all, he's just a little sheltered. He's really nice and pleasant to be around because everything is new and exciting for him. I'm envious of the amusement he draws from every little thing here, but I wish he would stop coming up to me in bed every morning to say "you're not going to eat breakfast?" I will eat breakfast when I'm good and ready, Naor.
- Marco and Carlos (French and Spanish) are almost certainly a gay couple. And both of their hands shake uncontrollably.
- Many volunteers smoke freely outside the volunteer house, despite the two notices inside the house asking that people refrain from smoking anywhere inside the compound.
- When I leave I will regret not getting a chance to see the sights outside of the city.
- The closer I am to the compound, the more comments I get about being a foreigner. People should be used to all the volunteer whiteys by now.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Lucy
This weekend I walked around the corner to the National Museum of Ethiopia and right next door to Lion Zoo. The Museum was decent and cost 10 birr for foreigners. However most of the exhibited items lack descriptions so if you want to know what you're looking at you'll have to pay a little more for a guide. Scams like that make me angry, so I went in alone and eavesdropped on other peoples' guides. The temporary special exhibit was the works of some Ethiopian photographer from the turn of the century. The "photo reportage" chronicled the story of a king who got sick and picked a kid to be the next king and the first king died and the kid became the next king until he wasn't king any longer and then somone else was. It was really quite memorable. Also at the museum, which is attached to King Haile Selassie's (Ja's) old digs, is the famous Lucy skeleton... or, a copy of the famous Lucy skeleton. The real Lucy is probably in the US somewhere paying for the existence of this museum. My favorite part of the museum was the random artwork, especially the paintings by some guy named "Unknown," an Ethiopian legend I assume. His versatility and ability to master different styles was unparalleled. I took a fair amount of pictures and will hopefully have them up sometime before I return to the States.
Lion Zoo. I.... hm... Lion Zoo. Lion zoo has five different animals. One animal is a white rabbit. Two animals are small monkeys with erections. One animal is a kudu (mini-antelope). The last and most remarkable animal is the lion. In the middle of the zoo is a round pen, maybe 60 feet in diameter, with six or seven lions in it. The pen is surrounded by a path. The path is surrounded by a fence. To get onto the path you have to pay the same amount you already paid for admission. Since I had already paid 10 birr for myself and another 20 for my digital camera, I replaced physical proximity to the lions with technical proximity (zoom lens). A video camera would have cost me 150 birr. Really it's my fault for expecting anything more. Its miniscule size is obvious from the outside. The real attraction is the kiddie section with rides. I stopped to take a couple pictures of kids on the ferris wheel and the slide, but even that didn't push my total zoo time over 20 minutes.
COMINGS AND GOINGS
Well just comings, really. On Sunday night Naor arrived. Naor is a 25-year old ex-security guard from Israel. Of course "security guard" in this instance means about as much as "guard dog" does at the compound. Naor is tiny. And timid. He is roughly 5'4", 130 lbs with a strange pattern of premature baldness and bushy red hair peaking out of his collar. He keeps kosher and I was worried initially that we wouldn't be able to find anything for him to eat. Then he told me he doesn't really like vegetables either and usually just eats rice and potatoes or pasta with sage at home. Rice and potatoes will be no problem here. So far he's lived off the free bread and jam and lentil sambusas (samosas) from the lady around the corner. About a month ago he left Israel to volunteer at an HIV/AIDS clinic in Uganda but left after a month, apparently because the other volunteers got drunk too often... He returned to Israel for a two weeks and left for Addis, where he plans to stay for roughly three months. He speaks Hebrew, Arabic, English, and French, which is pretty impressive in my book. All Israeli men are required to serve in the army for three years after 12th grade (two years for women) and his job had something to do with translating for Palestinians who needed admittance to hospitals or other similar services. He's doing a decent job of keeping his composure in the wound dressing wound but has no plans to move from assistant to dresser, which will work out fine for us.
There is also a new doctor here, Dip (Deep). Born in London to Indian parents, Dip is straight out of a cartoon. If it weren't for the sprinkle of grey in his crooked beard his face would be totally ageless. His hair is completely disheveled and sprays out in all directions from his head. He is an extremely nervous-seeming religious fanatic. Today someone told him he was doing a good job and he whipped his head around and said "well, God is good." He asked me why I was here and when I said I was just here to volunteer he said "yeah but who sent you? Did God send you?" He tried to get me to lead a prayer at lunch today because I am the man of the volunteer house. I told him I don't pray, and he said "even when you really need something?" We asked him to show around today's two new volunteers and he said he would make sure to show them the chapel first. I admit I have a tendency to exaggerate at times, but this guy embodies everything I imagine when I hear the word "fanatic" from his physical ticks to his mental obsession with God. It's actually really entertaining listening to him, awestruck by the idea that he could possibly get through medical school. Perhaps medical school is no longer a requirement for calling yourself a doctor in London. What do I know?
MICHAEL
One outpatient who comes to us every Tuesday and Saturday is Michael, a 50-year old man with an amputated leg. Michael is nice and speaks English well, and I was flattered when he told me I bring him great comfort. The flattery didn't last long, though, because a few minutes later he said he would like to sit down and have a long talk with me about his life. In Ethiopia that only means one thing: he wants money. With this in mind, I still agreed to meet with him Monday after work. We sat down briefly as he got straight to the point. He lived with the sisters for five years, expected to live with them forever, but was discharged after his leg healed. Now he wants to make a job for himself, but he needs money to start that. With a little prying I discovered that he has a brother, sister, and mother living in the country side but is too ashamed to ask them for help. When I asked why it was easier to beg for help from strangers on the street, he smiled and shrugged. Apparently the sisters receive applications for financial assistance from patients and ex-residents. Michael showed me his and said he hasn't had any response. I gave him 50 birr and told him if he expects someone to give him enough money to start a business he's going to have to come up with a real plan with real numbers. I was really hoping he would say something to impress me, because he seems like an intelligent man, but it was really just a slightly more strategic way to beg for money. He even had the audacity to say "you can change me, Alex!" I was insulted by the assault on my intelligence. Unfortunately jobs are hard to come by here, as 50% of the population is unemployed, but there are plenty of opportunities to support yourself day-to-day (shining shoes, selling lottery tickets), which he admitted to me, but couldn't really tell me why he hasn't tried them yet. He then bought me a cup of tea with the 50 birr I gave him and silently watched TV at the cafe. Turn that 50 birr into 60 and then we can talk more about your entrepeneurial prospects, Michael.
A BERG'S EYE VIEW
- I don't feel tall here until I see someone who looks really tall and I realize I am taller than they are.
- The more common beggars are, the harder it is to give them money.
- I shower and use the internet on alternating days, so you can rest assured that everything you read here was written by dirty fingers.
- It took almost three weeks for my allergies to take over my whole body.
- Some of our patients still think I'm a doctor. They regularly come to me begging for help after already visiting a hospital for consultation.
Lion Zoo. I.... hm... Lion Zoo. Lion zoo has five different animals. One animal is a white rabbit. Two animals are small monkeys with erections. One animal is a kudu (mini-antelope). The last and most remarkable animal is the lion. In the middle of the zoo is a round pen, maybe 60 feet in diameter, with six or seven lions in it. The pen is surrounded by a path. The path is surrounded by a fence. To get onto the path you have to pay the same amount you already paid for admission. Since I had already paid 10 birr for myself and another 20 for my digital camera, I replaced physical proximity to the lions with technical proximity (zoom lens). A video camera would have cost me 150 birr. Really it's my fault for expecting anything more. Its miniscule size is obvious from the outside. The real attraction is the kiddie section with rides. I stopped to take a couple pictures of kids on the ferris wheel and the slide, but even that didn't push my total zoo time over 20 minutes.
COMINGS AND GOINGS
Well just comings, really. On Sunday night Naor arrived. Naor is a 25-year old ex-security guard from Israel. Of course "security guard" in this instance means about as much as "guard dog" does at the compound. Naor is tiny. And timid. He is roughly 5'4", 130 lbs with a strange pattern of premature baldness and bushy red hair peaking out of his collar. He keeps kosher and I was worried initially that we wouldn't be able to find anything for him to eat. Then he told me he doesn't really like vegetables either and usually just eats rice and potatoes or pasta with sage at home. Rice and potatoes will be no problem here. So far he's lived off the free bread and jam and lentil sambusas (samosas) from the lady around the corner. About a month ago he left Israel to volunteer at an HIV/AIDS clinic in Uganda but left after a month, apparently because the other volunteers got drunk too often... He returned to Israel for a two weeks and left for Addis, where he plans to stay for roughly three months. He speaks Hebrew, Arabic, English, and French, which is pretty impressive in my book. All Israeli men are required to serve in the army for three years after 12th grade (two years for women) and his job had something to do with translating for Palestinians who needed admittance to hospitals or other similar services. He's doing a decent job of keeping his composure in the wound dressing wound but has no plans to move from assistant to dresser, which will work out fine for us.
There is also a new doctor here, Dip (Deep). Born in London to Indian parents, Dip is straight out of a cartoon. If it weren't for the sprinkle of grey in his crooked beard his face would be totally ageless. His hair is completely disheveled and sprays out in all directions from his head. He is an extremely nervous-seeming religious fanatic. Today someone told him he was doing a good job and he whipped his head around and said "well, God is good." He asked me why I was here and when I said I was just here to volunteer he said "yeah but who sent you? Did God send you?" He tried to get me to lead a prayer at lunch today because I am the man of the volunteer house. I told him I don't pray, and he said "even when you really need something?" We asked him to show around today's two new volunteers and he said he would make sure to show them the chapel first. I admit I have a tendency to exaggerate at times, but this guy embodies everything I imagine when I hear the word "fanatic" from his physical ticks to his mental obsession with God. It's actually really entertaining listening to him, awestruck by the idea that he could possibly get through medical school. Perhaps medical school is no longer a requirement for calling yourself a doctor in London. What do I know?
MICHAEL
One outpatient who comes to us every Tuesday and Saturday is Michael, a 50-year old man with an amputated leg. Michael is nice and speaks English well, and I was flattered when he told me I bring him great comfort. The flattery didn't last long, though, because a few minutes later he said he would like to sit down and have a long talk with me about his life. In Ethiopia that only means one thing: he wants money. With this in mind, I still agreed to meet with him Monday after work. We sat down briefly as he got straight to the point. He lived with the sisters for five years, expected to live with them forever, but was discharged after his leg healed. Now he wants to make a job for himself, but he needs money to start that. With a little prying I discovered that he has a brother, sister, and mother living in the country side but is too ashamed to ask them for help. When I asked why it was easier to beg for help from strangers on the street, he smiled and shrugged. Apparently the sisters receive applications for financial assistance from patients and ex-residents. Michael showed me his and said he hasn't had any response. I gave him 50 birr and told him if he expects someone to give him enough money to start a business he's going to have to come up with a real plan with real numbers. I was really hoping he would say something to impress me, because he seems like an intelligent man, but it was really just a slightly more strategic way to beg for money. He even had the audacity to say "you can change me, Alex!" I was insulted by the assault on my intelligence. Unfortunately jobs are hard to come by here, as 50% of the population is unemployed, but there are plenty of opportunities to support yourself day-to-day (shining shoes, selling lottery tickets), which he admitted to me, but couldn't really tell me why he hasn't tried them yet. He then bought me a cup of tea with the 50 birr I gave him and silently watched TV at the cafe. Turn that 50 birr into 60 and then we can talk more about your entrepeneurial prospects, Michael.
A BERG'S EYE VIEW
- I don't feel tall here until I see someone who looks really tall and I realize I am taller than they are.
- The more common beggars are, the harder it is to give them money.
- I shower and use the internet on alternating days, so you can rest assured that everything you read here was written by dirty fingers.
- It took almost three weeks for my allergies to take over my whole body.
- Some of our patients still think I'm a doctor. They regularly come to me begging for help after already visiting a hospital for consultation.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Ciao, Claudio
Since my first day here I have been working in the dispensary with two Ethiopian workers and Claudio, a 42-year old former marble worker from Florence, Italy. For the last eight years he's been travelling to different places volunteering for other branches of the Missionaries of Charity and similar organizations. I sense this trend was spurred by some heavy personal loss. Our many hours together have allowed me to observe the way he slips into distant trances and stares at one spot, clearly thinking about more than the task at hand. Our shared interests and work in the dressing room were also the reasons I considered him to be my best friend in the volunteer house. Because his understanding of English was dwarfed by his speaking ability he confided in me more than I in him, but as the only other non-Spanish volunteer he was an eager outlet for my complaints about los otros. He's a classic Catholic Italian man, passionate and physically expressive. Not realizing that poor children on the street only approached him because they wanted money, he always crouched down and palmed their heads like some divine healer. Walking somewhere with him always took twice as long as walking alone because he would have to stop and raise his arms to show the gravity of the opinion he was sharing. I also got a kick out of his oversized sweaters and undersized pants, and the way he raged about the unsanitary practices in the dressing room as he absent-mindedly touched anything from medical instruments to my bare skin with soiled gloves. Unfortunately, Claudio found out yesterday that his mom was sent to the hospital and placed permanently on oxygen, so he took a red-eye flight back to Italy. He had been dreading the prospect of cutting his trip a month short for his new job in Italy and was devastated to have to leave two months early for such an unexpected tragedy. He suppressed tears all afternoon but had fallen into an emotionless slump by the time we cooked dinner for him, which was easier for the rest of us to witness. So now the volunteer room houses only two Spanish women and me until Tuesday, when the rest of los viejitos return from their extended weekend vacation. (The prophecizing Jesucristo freak dropped another one of her one-line wisdom farts on me after hearing the news about Claudio:
Jesucristo Freak: "When do you return to the United States?"
Me: "December"
JF: "We hope... we see now that anything can happen."
Thank you, preachess, for another enouraging sermon. Her profound quips are always accompanied by an obnoxiously suggestive smile that shows the overflowing pride she feels for the ability to drop knowledge on the young American.
Not to worry, though. I only have to hold out another week or so for the departure of Los Locos and the arrival of the Italian and Japanese legends.
IN OTHER NEWS
Because of my skin color and my inability to dispell misunderstandings in Amharic, many of the patients still think I'm a doctor and regularly request that I change their bandages instead of the more experienced Ethiopian employees and volunteers. One such man is a new patient, admitted for the gaping hole in his leg through which an iron rod was removed by Ethiopian doctors who didn't stitch the crevice back up when they were done. The man is a former soldier whose femur was shattered by a bullet and repaired with the standard iron-bar procedure. It's a relief now on my inpatient rounds with Abebe #2 to arrive at the angry Rastafarian oldtimer who won't let foreigners touch him. (Part of the relief is also due to the rancid odor of his extensive bed sores). This week also marked our first complete treatment: rectal absess dude has been discharged from the compound due to his not-so-miraculass recovery. Congratulations, rectal absess dude. We are as happy to see you go as you are to leave.
BOOKS
A few of you have expressed concerns over both the quantity and quality of the reading materials available to me. Today I looked deeper into the collection of the compound library and found quite a few books that should last me until I leave. I'm up around 2100 pages now, coming out to around 1000 a week, and some quick mental math concludes that they have enough to last until the end of my trip. Particularly valuable due to their length and the slow and sweet molasses-like nature of their subject matter are Volume 1 of Harry Truman's memoirs and Tolstoy's Resurrection, which promise to slow down my pace. So thank you for offering to send me books, but it won't be necessary.
Jesucristo Freak: "When do you return to the United States?"
Me: "December"
JF: "We hope... we see now that anything can happen."
Thank you, preachess, for another enouraging sermon. Her profound quips are always accompanied by an obnoxiously suggestive smile that shows the overflowing pride she feels for the ability to drop knowledge on the young American.
Not to worry, though. I only have to hold out another week or so for the departure of Los Locos and the arrival of the Italian and Japanese legends.
IN OTHER NEWS
Because of my skin color and my inability to dispell misunderstandings in Amharic, many of the patients still think I'm a doctor and regularly request that I change their bandages instead of the more experienced Ethiopian employees and volunteers. One such man is a new patient, admitted for the gaping hole in his leg through which an iron rod was removed by Ethiopian doctors who didn't stitch the crevice back up when they were done. The man is a former soldier whose femur was shattered by a bullet and repaired with the standard iron-bar procedure. It's a relief now on my inpatient rounds with Abebe #2 to arrive at the angry Rastafarian oldtimer who won't let foreigners touch him. (Part of the relief is also due to the rancid odor of his extensive bed sores). This week also marked our first complete treatment: rectal absess dude has been discharged from the compound due to his not-so-miraculass recovery. Congratulations, rectal absess dude. We are as happy to see you go as you are to leave.
BOOKS
A few of you have expressed concerns over both the quantity and quality of the reading materials available to me. Today I looked deeper into the collection of the compound library and found quite a few books that should last me until I leave. I'm up around 2100 pages now, coming out to around 1000 a week, and some quick mental math concludes that they have enough to last until the end of my trip. Particularly valuable due to their length and the slow and sweet molasses-like nature of their subject matter are Volume 1 of Harry Truman's memoirs and Tolstoy's Resurrection, which promise to slow down my pace. So thank you for offering to send me books, but it won't be necessary.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Full House
ARRIBA ESPANA
The volunteer house filled back up quickly. On Sunday six more Spaniards arrived, all over 40. The good thing about having old Spanish people around is that they like to cook. I've made a nice arrangement with them that involves me sitting around while they cook and washing the dishes afterward. It's also allowing me to practice some Spanish, but I can only take it for so long before retreating across the room to my bed to read. I've read over 1700 pages since being here and showing no signs of slowing down. I'll need to find another hobby soon, though, or I'll read every printed English word in the compound within a few weeks, Bibles and all. Two of the women have been in the dispensary with us bloodthirsty men and are enthusiastic about the work. Unfortunately the space is crowded as it is with the four of us and we can typically only dress one patient at a time. Seeing the redundancy, the sisters sent one of the women and another man to a Mother Teresa home in another nearby city. The remaining woman is religious as sin. She's always talking about her job with the Missionaries of Charity back in Spain, asking me about the locations of the 20+ branches in the US like I know a goddamn... I mean thing... about it, and having ridiculous conversations with the nuns, which I actually rather enjoy. Listening to the nuns talk about their unwaivering faith gives you a sense of safety and comfort, even if once you walk out of the compound it doesn't mean anything. Despite being completely nonsensical at times, I can see why so many people are drawn to religion. For instance, Sister Martha John kept repeating the phrase "hope is more than knowing" as if you can quantify the two. She said we only know things we can see, but we hope for things we can't... which she decided means that hope is more than knowledge. Seems to me like you could use the same argument to conclude that hope is less... whatever... Martha John is still my favorite sister. She's a plump Polish woman who loves fantasizing about edible luxuries and giggling over this violation of her holy rules.
One of the other Spanish women was violently ill last night and tonight, which for me was bittersweet. I really did feel bad at the frequency and amplitude of her cookie tossage but I also really felt good that I didn't have to squirm through her weird habit of staring at you expectantly far after you've finished talking. Jorge, the only Spanish man left, is awesome. He has a rich booming voice like the man from movie trailers. He also brought a culo-load of chorizo, prosciutto, and wine from Spain. In ten days most of the Spaniards will be gone, replaced by two legendary volunteers - Hido from Japan and Marco from Italy... from what I hear two strong personalities who go way back but are not afraid to cross swords.
ENTOTO MOUNTAIN
On Sunday, before the great Spanish migration, the other three volunteers (Anna, Marina, Claudio) and I ventured up to Entoto mountain to see the famous church that overlooks the city. A lot of the churches here seem to be circular and closed to the public for most hours of the day and Entoto was no exception. It was pretty building, though, and was next to the old "palace" (group of huts) of King Menelik and company. I finally took some pictures and will have those up as soon as I find an internet connection I trust. After leaving the church we sat down for some drinks and were later joined by a couple weird white guys and their guides on horseback. I assumed after the rehydration party we were going to walk back home, but the nosy Spaniards had other plans. For some reason they couldn't stop talking about wanting to find the top of the mountain, somehow not realizing that we had been at the top the entire time. There was a path showing a slight incline into a bunch of trees and I guess they were determined to say they made it to the apex (even though we took a bus there), so I followed, hiding my frustration. That task became harder when Anna started walking through peoples' properties. She would poke her head through a fence, be laughed at an invited in by the residents, and take pictures like she was in a museum. Eventually she accepted an invitation into an old woman's tiny mud and thatch hut and I was the only one reluctant to follow. The woman shared with us some homemade injera and offered coffee, which we turned down. Unlike the other three, I waited until the woman was outside to sneak a picture of the inside of her hut. On the way out Marina gave the woman ten birr, after which I was more comfortable taking a picture of the woman huddled in her tiny cooking shack.
The walk back was scenic and my mood was improving until we passed through the first village. Once again, Anna and Marina insisted on blatantly taking pictures of people. They received their just due, though, first from some kids playing ping-pong who stopped to tell them they had to pay if they wanted a photo, and second from some little kid no more than six years old who covered his face, yelled "NO!" and gave a very adult facial expression that allowed for no mistaking its message: 'What the fuck are you doing? Since when is it okay to just walk up to someone and take their picture without asking?' Marina didn't catch the not-so-subtle hint somehow and was told off twice more before finally laughing and giving up. It is infuriatingly embarrassing to walk around with adults in a foreign land who act like everyone else is around for their amusement.
MIGIB
Food. I subside mostly on the free bread and cheese and jam donated to the compound twice a day by Bole International Airport, but the one meal a day I pay for is always a treat. Lately the Spaniards have been cooking a lot... traditional Spanish soups, mostly, which are simple but delicious. When we don't eat together I either go down the block to a place with injera as tasty as the Restaurant's name is illegible or around the corner to Lion's Cage Pastry for some type of burger or sandwich and stale french fries. Injera is between 11 and 17 birr a plate depending on the toppings, and with an exchange rate of roughly 12 birr to the dollar is an unbeatable deal. It's slightly more sour than the injera I've had in the US but I'm told the better, "white" injera is easily found at more expensive restaurants. I'll never be able to verify that. The two most popular Ethiopian beers, St. George and Dashen, are actually pretty good and insanely cheap but I usually opt for tea or a macchiatto. Italian restaurants are common but I haven't tried one yet, worried that one bite of pizza during my time of remission will send me into a cheesy saucy tailspin from which I won't recover.
A BERG'S EYE VIEW
- Begger's are much quicker to leave you alone if you turn them down in Amharic instead of English. I think it's the shock that silences them, not the obvious dishonesty of the claim that I have no money.
- The smell of dirty wounds is unmistakable... unless that's just the smell of 1200 dirty Ethiopians who all happen to have wounds...
- I have switched from wool blankets to a thin sleeping bag and a fleece blanket in the hope that fleas can't survive in synthetic materials. Experiment results in next blog.
- In the instance of a break-in, a couple bed-ridden patients from the TB ward would be more effective at warding off intruders than the pathetic charity case "guard dogs." Apparently there used to be more ferocious dogs but they kept surrounding and tearing the clothes off the mental patients who occasionally roam the grounds at night. They were replaced.
- Some guy just walked in the internet cafe wearing a "United States Navy MOM" hoodie.
The volunteer house filled back up quickly. On Sunday six more Spaniards arrived, all over 40. The good thing about having old Spanish people around is that they like to cook. I've made a nice arrangement with them that involves me sitting around while they cook and washing the dishes afterward. It's also allowing me to practice some Spanish, but I can only take it for so long before retreating across the room to my bed to read. I've read over 1700 pages since being here and showing no signs of slowing down. I'll need to find another hobby soon, though, or I'll read every printed English word in the compound within a few weeks, Bibles and all. Two of the women have been in the dispensary with us bloodthirsty men and are enthusiastic about the work. Unfortunately the space is crowded as it is with the four of us and we can typically only dress one patient at a time. Seeing the redundancy, the sisters sent one of the women and another man to a Mother Teresa home in another nearby city. The remaining woman is religious as sin. She's always talking about her job with the Missionaries of Charity back in Spain, asking me about the locations of the 20+ branches in the US like I know a goddamn... I mean thing... about it, and having ridiculous conversations with the nuns, which I actually rather enjoy. Listening to the nuns talk about their unwaivering faith gives you a sense of safety and comfort, even if once you walk out of the compound it doesn't mean anything. Despite being completely nonsensical at times, I can see why so many people are drawn to religion. For instance, Sister Martha John kept repeating the phrase "hope is more than knowing" as if you can quantify the two. She said we only know things we can see, but we hope for things we can't... which she decided means that hope is more than knowledge. Seems to me like you could use the same argument to conclude that hope is less... whatever... Martha John is still my favorite sister. She's a plump Polish woman who loves fantasizing about edible luxuries and giggling over this violation of her holy rules.
One of the other Spanish women was violently ill last night and tonight, which for me was bittersweet. I really did feel bad at the frequency and amplitude of her cookie tossage but I also really felt good that I didn't have to squirm through her weird habit of staring at you expectantly far after you've finished talking. Jorge, the only Spanish man left, is awesome. He has a rich booming voice like the man from movie trailers. He also brought a culo-load of chorizo, prosciutto, and wine from Spain. In ten days most of the Spaniards will be gone, replaced by two legendary volunteers - Hido from Japan and Marco from Italy... from what I hear two strong personalities who go way back but are not afraid to cross swords.
ENTOTO MOUNTAIN
On Sunday, before the great Spanish migration, the other three volunteers (Anna, Marina, Claudio) and I ventured up to Entoto mountain to see the famous church that overlooks the city. A lot of the churches here seem to be circular and closed to the public for most hours of the day and Entoto was no exception. It was pretty building, though, and was next to the old "palace" (group of huts) of King Menelik and company. I finally took some pictures and will have those up as soon as I find an internet connection I trust. After leaving the church we sat down for some drinks and were later joined by a couple weird white guys and their guides on horseback. I assumed after the rehydration party we were going to walk back home, but the nosy Spaniards had other plans. For some reason they couldn't stop talking about wanting to find the top of the mountain, somehow not realizing that we had been at the top the entire time. There was a path showing a slight incline into a bunch of trees and I guess they were determined to say they made it to the apex (even though we took a bus there), so I followed, hiding my frustration. That task became harder when Anna started walking through peoples' properties. She would poke her head through a fence, be laughed at an invited in by the residents, and take pictures like she was in a museum. Eventually she accepted an invitation into an old woman's tiny mud and thatch hut and I was the only one reluctant to follow. The woman shared with us some homemade injera and offered coffee, which we turned down. Unlike the other three, I waited until the woman was outside to sneak a picture of the inside of her hut. On the way out Marina gave the woman ten birr, after which I was more comfortable taking a picture of the woman huddled in her tiny cooking shack.
The walk back was scenic and my mood was improving until we passed through the first village. Once again, Anna and Marina insisted on blatantly taking pictures of people. They received their just due, though, first from some kids playing ping-pong who stopped to tell them they had to pay if they wanted a photo, and second from some little kid no more than six years old who covered his face, yelled "NO!" and gave a very adult facial expression that allowed for no mistaking its message: 'What the fuck are you doing? Since when is it okay to just walk up to someone and take their picture without asking?' Marina didn't catch the not-so-subtle hint somehow and was told off twice more before finally laughing and giving up. It is infuriatingly embarrassing to walk around with adults in a foreign land who act like everyone else is around for their amusement.
MIGIB
Food. I subside mostly on the free bread and cheese and jam donated to the compound twice a day by Bole International Airport, but the one meal a day I pay for is always a treat. Lately the Spaniards have been cooking a lot... traditional Spanish soups, mostly, which are simple but delicious. When we don't eat together I either go down the block to a place with injera as tasty as the Restaurant's name is illegible or around the corner to Lion's Cage Pastry for some type of burger or sandwich and stale french fries. Injera is between 11 and 17 birr a plate depending on the toppings, and with an exchange rate of roughly 12 birr to the dollar is an unbeatable deal. It's slightly more sour than the injera I've had in the US but I'm told the better, "white" injera is easily found at more expensive restaurants. I'll never be able to verify that. The two most popular Ethiopian beers, St. George and Dashen, are actually pretty good and insanely cheap but I usually opt for tea or a macchiatto. Italian restaurants are common but I haven't tried one yet, worried that one bite of pizza during my time of remission will send me into a cheesy saucy tailspin from which I won't recover.
A BERG'S EYE VIEW
- Begger's are much quicker to leave you alone if you turn them down in Amharic instead of English. I think it's the shock that silences them, not the obvious dishonesty of the claim that I have no money.
- The smell of dirty wounds is unmistakable... unless that's just the smell of 1200 dirty Ethiopians who all happen to have wounds...
- I have switched from wool blankets to a thin sleeping bag and a fleece blanket in the hope that fleas can't survive in synthetic materials. Experiment results in next blog.
- In the instance of a break-in, a couple bed-ridden patients from the TB ward would be more effective at warding off intruders than the pathetic charity case "guard dogs." Apparently there used to be more ferocious dogs but they kept surrounding and tearing the clothes off the mental patients who occasionally roam the grounds at night. They were replaced.
- Some guy just walked in the internet cafe wearing a "United States Navy MOM" hoodie.
Friday, October 30, 2009
The Dutch Oven
Once again this is my second attempt to publish this post. The first attempt was a waste of two hours on the Ethiopian internet. Let's seeif I can remember what I was trying to write about...
On Sunday I went to lunch at the home of Diny, a Dutch nurse who lives and works in Addis. She was the woman I contacted to get the go-ahead for my trip from the sisters at the compound. Every few weeks she has these gatherings for volunteers but the occasion this time was the upcoming departure of one of her friends and a fellow Mother Teresa-er. The crowd was an eclectic mix, to say the least. There was one truly free red-blooded American (guess who), three Canadians, a Brit, two Ghanaians, one Nigerian, three Koreans, a German, three Dutch, and three Ethiopians. We ate Korean noodles, kim chee, some kind of Dutch meatballs, lentils, rice, green beans, some kind of apple pie with banana custard, fruit, yogurt, and cake. The food was delicious and the conversation draining. It reminded me of the scene in Hung where Rick's pimp goes to her mother's house and runs into all of her highly educated international friends. My end of the backyard was dominated by the conversation between the Ghanaians and a young Canadian woman, Jenna, regarding the plight of... anyone in the world with a plight... American economy, Ghanaian off-shore oil drilling, Ethiopian street children, etc. etc. All important issues, I'm sure, but none of them got a rise out of me like the way Jenna kept prefacing all of her good samaritan opinions with "I think." "I think people really need to reprioritize if we are to help the street children in Addis" or something. If that even qualifies as an opinion, as opposed to fact, saying "I think" only serves to claim some sort of propriety over that opinion, or perhaps suggest that maybe other people present don't think the same thing. Wow... you think that... I wish I could think that. I think if you talk like that you're likely to get Blah Blah Blogged about. I suppose that's how conversations between strangers always progress... some sort of obvious statement received by raised eyebrows and a nod and an acknowledgment of the idea in different words, and repeat. What a waste of time. I also talked to a man who works for the International Livestock Research Institute (the company that owns the highly secure property that Diny lives on) and lives on what I understand to be the Canadian San Juan Islands. He taught me that everyone who talks about the inefficiencies of eating beef are uneducated liars. Despite my cynicism, I enjoyed the company and the soiree as a whole, and this week I've had lunch or coffee with Jenna's English boyfriend, Damien, three times (the pleasant parts just aren't as fun to read or write about).
COMPOUND UPDATE
Seeing as how the compound is essentially for people on their death beds I've been wondering how frequently residents pass away. Today I learned that this morning three or four of them died. Apparently a high percentage of patient deaths are from malaria, contracted in rural areas before arrival at the clinic. Also today I followed around the other Abebe, a "nurse's assistant" (titles here don't necessarily reflect any formal training) who dresses wounds for bed-ridden patients. His job stinks. Like death. Many of his patients suffer from cancers of some kind and almost all have bed sores. One man with a catheter has bed sores from his waist to his ankles and needs his dressings changed every day. I admire Abebe's dedication to his job and I will hopefully assist him regularly from here on out. In the dispensary there has been a wave of patients with problems that require dropping trou... Three in a row yesterday and two today after having none in my first week. The most painful of them was clearly the rectal absess, which made the man wail and cry just from climbing onto the bed. I'll spare you the details of the more disgusting ones. Another patient I won't forget anytime soon is the woman whose right breast had been (intentionally) burned by a fire to the point of melting her nipple clean off. Tuesday was my second outpatient dressing day and was busier than the first. Most of the patients we had seen before, which is good, but clearly don't/can't do much to take care of their wounds between visits. I was relying on emotional reward for the sake of my endurance here, but there really isn't much when you scrub and wrap hard, open flesh from knee to ankle of a man who can't feel what you're doing. The wounds are obviously just symptoms of much bigger problems faced by the poor here and rarely show improvement. Unfortunately the alternative is a patient who can feel his wounds but won't receive painkillers or antibiotics. I would like to say I'm having a good time here, but"fun" is an inaccurate description. It has already been one of my more interesting experiences, though, and I'm sure will be invaluable in the future. Volunteers have come and gone, 80% of them Spanish and all of them significantly older than me. Consequently, I am doing a lot of reading.
A CALL TO ARMS
This is directed to the (large) portion of my readership who have steady jobs and are financially comfortable. I have been spending more time with Dr. Rick who, probably because I am American, has started to take me under his wing. He does some amazing work here and is famous for it in Addis. Sadly, many patients come after other doctors have turned them away, often times because they have some incurable and fatal condition. However, Rick's program has been able to send many spine and cardiac patients abroad for life-saving surgery. People leave for Ghana or India with S-shaped spines and $1000 later return straight as an arrow (fashioned by an amateur whittler, but an arrow nonetheless). Without surgery, the spines deformed by scoliosis or tuberculosis become worse and gradually reduce lung capacity, a fatal process. Rick's biggest fault seems to be his inexperience with fundraising... or maybe it's just the impossibility of sending all 300 spine patients abroad. He arranges these procedures, which would cost 20 times as much in theUS, whenever possible but relies on small, private donations. If you feel like passing on the newest generation MacBook and keeping your old, outdated, 2008 model instead, you can save the life of a stranger by donating to Dr. Rick's cause at https://jdc.org/donation/donate.aspx . The entire donation will go to Rick, so be sure to add a note withyour donation including the name "Dr. Rick Hodes." You can watch avideo interview with Rick at www.cbc.ca/sunday/2009/05/051709_6.html . If you can't donate or don't feel comfortable doing so, please consider passing the information on to your affluent colleagues (City of Bellevue).
A BERG'S EYE VIEW, THE RETURN
- Ethiopian men of all ages love to hold hands or link arms. ClearlyR-71 passed here.
- There are enormous holes all over the sidewalk, big enough for me to hide unconscious in after falling in one after the sun goes down.
- There are no street lights.
- People urinate without discretion in the street, but typically aim for the aforementioned holes.
- Regardless of severity of illness, sick people invariable walk around with a blanket or hood on their heads, flanked by two friends or family members who act as crutches. It's really an excellent idea. I know not to walk up to and stick my tongue in the mouth of any such person like I do with the healthy people here. I don't want to catch a cold.
- If you show an Ethiopian person a picture of him or herself, the response will not be "me," but rather the person's name.
- Masses of goats and cattle are regularly herded through the streets.
- The days are hot but the nights are cold... nothing three flea infested US Military-issue wool blankets can't take care of.
- I came to Africa and didn't bring sunscreen. I suppose that's more of a mistake than an observation...
- They don't have contact lenses in Ethiopia... thus no contact solution... thus only glasses for eight weeks... thus constantly being mistaken for a doctor... thus being asked questions I can't answer.
- For a few days I thought Ethiopians kept gasping at what I was saying, as if shocked, until I learned that the Amharic equivalent of"uh-huh" is an audible inhalation.
- Orange soda is orange soda no matter where you go. And it is delicious.
- There was a guy on my plane who lives at the compound. He was sent to the US by Dr. Rick for some sort of facial surgery.
- The minibuses all have Nike stickers... I think it makes them go faster.
- Internet here is totally reliable, until you click "publish post" onyour blog.
On Sunday I went to lunch at the home of Diny, a Dutch nurse who lives and works in Addis. She was the woman I contacted to get the go-ahead for my trip from the sisters at the compound. Every few weeks she has these gatherings for volunteers but the occasion this time was the upcoming departure of one of her friends and a fellow Mother Teresa-er. The crowd was an eclectic mix, to say the least. There was one truly free red-blooded American (guess who), three Canadians, a Brit, two Ghanaians, one Nigerian, three Koreans, a German, three Dutch, and three Ethiopians. We ate Korean noodles, kim chee, some kind of Dutch meatballs, lentils, rice, green beans, some kind of apple pie with banana custard, fruit, yogurt, and cake. The food was delicious and the conversation draining. It reminded me of the scene in Hung where Rick's pimp goes to her mother's house and runs into all of her highly educated international friends. My end of the backyard was dominated by the conversation between the Ghanaians and a young Canadian woman, Jenna, regarding the plight of... anyone in the world with a plight... American economy, Ghanaian off-shore oil drilling, Ethiopian street children, etc. etc. All important issues, I'm sure, but none of them got a rise out of me like the way Jenna kept prefacing all of her good samaritan opinions with "I think." "I think people really need to reprioritize if we are to help the street children in Addis" or something. If that even qualifies as an opinion, as opposed to fact, saying "I think" only serves to claim some sort of propriety over that opinion, or perhaps suggest that maybe other people present don't think the same thing. Wow... you think that... I wish I could think that. I think if you talk like that you're likely to get Blah Blah Blogged about. I suppose that's how conversations between strangers always progress... some sort of obvious statement received by raised eyebrows and a nod and an acknowledgment of the idea in different words, and repeat. What a waste of time. I also talked to a man who works for the International Livestock Research Institute (the company that owns the highly secure property that Diny lives on) and lives on what I understand to be the Canadian San Juan Islands. He taught me that everyone who talks about the inefficiencies of eating beef are uneducated liars. Despite my cynicism, I enjoyed the company and the soiree as a whole, and this week I've had lunch or coffee with Jenna's English boyfriend, Damien, three times (the pleasant parts just aren't as fun to read or write about).
COMPOUND UPDATE
Seeing as how the compound is essentially for people on their death beds I've been wondering how frequently residents pass away. Today I learned that this morning three or four of them died. Apparently a high percentage of patient deaths are from malaria, contracted in rural areas before arrival at the clinic. Also today I followed around the other Abebe, a "nurse's assistant" (titles here don't necessarily reflect any formal training) who dresses wounds for bed-ridden patients. His job stinks. Like death. Many of his patients suffer from cancers of some kind and almost all have bed sores. One man with a catheter has bed sores from his waist to his ankles and needs his dressings changed every day. I admire Abebe's dedication to his job and I will hopefully assist him regularly from here on out. In the dispensary there has been a wave of patients with problems that require dropping trou... Three in a row yesterday and two today after having none in my first week. The most painful of them was clearly the rectal absess, which made the man wail and cry just from climbing onto the bed. I'll spare you the details of the more disgusting ones. Another patient I won't forget anytime soon is the woman whose right breast had been (intentionally) burned by a fire to the point of melting her nipple clean off. Tuesday was my second outpatient dressing day and was busier than the first. Most of the patients we had seen before, which is good, but clearly don't/can't do much to take care of their wounds between visits. I was relying on emotional reward for the sake of my endurance here, but there really isn't much when you scrub and wrap hard, open flesh from knee to ankle of a man who can't feel what you're doing. The wounds are obviously just symptoms of much bigger problems faced by the poor here and rarely show improvement. Unfortunately the alternative is a patient who can feel his wounds but won't receive painkillers or antibiotics. I would like to say I'm having a good time here, but"fun" is an inaccurate description. It has already been one of my more interesting experiences, though, and I'm sure will be invaluable in the future. Volunteers have come and gone, 80% of them Spanish and all of them significantly older than me. Consequently, I am doing a lot of reading.
A CALL TO ARMS
This is directed to the (large) portion of my readership who have steady jobs and are financially comfortable. I have been spending more time with Dr. Rick who, probably because I am American, has started to take me under his wing. He does some amazing work here and is famous for it in Addis. Sadly, many patients come after other doctors have turned them away, often times because they have some incurable and fatal condition. However, Rick's program has been able to send many spine and cardiac patients abroad for life-saving surgery. People leave for Ghana or India with S-shaped spines and $1000 later return straight as an arrow (fashioned by an amateur whittler, but an arrow nonetheless). Without surgery, the spines deformed by scoliosis or tuberculosis become worse and gradually reduce lung capacity, a fatal process. Rick's biggest fault seems to be his inexperience with fundraising... or maybe it's just the impossibility of sending all 300 spine patients abroad. He arranges these procedures, which would cost 20 times as much in theUS, whenever possible but relies on small, private donations. If you feel like passing on the newest generation MacBook and keeping your old, outdated, 2008 model instead, you can save the life of a stranger by donating to Dr. Rick's cause at https://jdc.org/donation/donate.aspx . The entire donation will go to Rick, so be sure to add a note withyour donation including the name "Dr. Rick Hodes." You can watch avideo interview with Rick at www.cbc.ca/sunday/2009/05/051709_6.html . If you can't donate or don't feel comfortable doing so, please consider passing the information on to your affluent colleagues (City of Bellevue).
A BERG'S EYE VIEW, THE RETURN
- Ethiopian men of all ages love to hold hands or link arms. ClearlyR-71 passed here.
- There are enormous holes all over the sidewalk, big enough for me to hide unconscious in after falling in one after the sun goes down.
- There are no street lights.
- People urinate without discretion in the street, but typically aim for the aforementioned holes.
- Regardless of severity of illness, sick people invariable walk around with a blanket or hood on their heads, flanked by two friends or family members who act as crutches. It's really an excellent idea. I know not to walk up to and stick my tongue in the mouth of any such person like I do with the healthy people here. I don't want to catch a cold.
- If you show an Ethiopian person a picture of him or herself, the response will not be "me," but rather the person's name.
- Masses of goats and cattle are regularly herded through the streets.
- The days are hot but the nights are cold... nothing three flea infested US Military-issue wool blankets can't take care of.
- I came to Africa and didn't bring sunscreen. I suppose that's more of a mistake than an observation...
- They don't have contact lenses in Ethiopia... thus no contact solution... thus only glasses for eight weeks... thus constantly being mistaken for a doctor... thus being asked questions I can't answer.
- For a few days I thought Ethiopians kept gasping at what I was saying, as if shocked, until I learned that the Amharic equivalent of"uh-huh" is an audible inhalation.
- Orange soda is orange soda no matter where you go. And it is delicious.
- There was a guy on my plane who lives at the compound. He was sent to the US by Dr. Rick for some sort of facial surgery.
- The minibuses all have Nike stickers... I think it makes them go faster.
- Internet here is totally reliable, until you click "publish post" onyour blog.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Back in Black...
... well, surrounded by it anyway. I am here, safe, and tired. My first attempt at posting was thwarted by a blackout but the internet was too slow and my face was too close to the screen to try again when power returned. The flight over was exhausting, mostly because I purposely stayed awake so that I could fall asleep at a normal bedtime here in Ethiopia (but the lap dog yapping away like Joan Rivers didn't hurt either)... unfortunately that method doesn't keep you from waking up at an obscenely eary hour, so I'm still callibrating that part.
I spent my first night at Taitu Hotel, the oldest hotel in Ethiopia. The accomodations were fine and the room was cheap, and now I am a part of African history. The next morning after waking up at 3am, sleeping sporadically until 6:30, I took a Taxi to "the compound," the name given to the enormous, walled Missionaries of Charity property. Apparently the nun in charge of volunteers is gone for a month and the rest are too busy running around to care much about their own work, so I was ushered around by some Canadian woman named Jerry who introduced me to some other volunteers and showed me the quarters I'm now staying in. The space is pretty nice but has been crowded with both the male and female volunteers due to some redecorating of the women's room. Most are leaving tonight for another city, though, so I'll be able to pick a bed that doesn't touch the dining room table. There are three volunteers from Spain, two young and one older; a 42-year old marble worker from Italy; a physiotherapist couple from Poland; a vet student from France; and a med-school applicant from Canada. All but the older Spanish woman, the Italian, and I will be gone after tonight.
On Friday morning after dumping my crud in the volunteer house I headed over to the wound dressing dispensory where I worked with Claudio, the Italian, and two local workers, Abebe and Araya. I watched them change the dressings of a couple patients and then jumped in for my first. Really most of the wounds are pretty disgusting... one noteworthy patient had a foot full of pus but couldn't stand the pain long enough to drain it all. Generally the mornings are busy and the afternoons slow, so from 8:30-noon we have a steady stream of patients and at 3 or 3:30 after the long lunch break we mostly prep for the next day. The real excitement comes on Tuesdays and Saturdays when a doctor takes over the wound dressing wound and we take a supply cart outside to treat outpatients coming in from the street. Needless to say, there were a lot of infections.
When there was no more wait, I tracked down Dr. Rick, an American cancer specialist working at the compound. For about four hours I shadowed him as he consulted patients. Because of the multitude of medical problems people present with, over the years he has chosen to limit himself to patients with heart, spine, or cancer problems. A good percentage of the patients had severe scoliosis or tuberculosis of the spine. One woman had an undiagnosed muscular deterioration condition that her nurses said hit her suddenly a couple years ago. There was nothing Dr. Rick could do for her, but instructed the translator to tell her to wait a month and come back anyway... easier than watching her find out she's doomed, I suppose. There was also a baby girl with bladder extrophy, meaning her bladder is on the outside of her body. Apparently she is also lacking a uterus, so it's possible there is still some ambiguity in regards to her gender. It's cool, though, she can still grow up to be a famous sprinter.
Dr. Rick is an interesting guy. He's a Jew from Long Island who lives full time in Addis and has adopted several local children. He is clearly brilliant, but might relish in the way people treat him like House... to be determined. He showed us a clip on his computer of his Today Show debut and a picture of a kid with a crooked back standing with Natalie Portman, who is apparently a friend of Rick's. His most interesting visit of the day was actually not medically related. It was the long-lost brother of one of Rick's adopted sons. Apparently Rick's son left his village for Addis ten years ago, and two years ago the younger brother also left the village for greener pastures. Rick's son spotted him randomly from a car shortly after and recognized him, talked to him, but for some reason didn't tell Rick about the encounter. Rick's son is now in college in the US, but some sort of communication between the brothers is being arranged and it sounded like the younger one will be able to move in with one of Rick's friends in Addis.
I haven't seen any of the city yet because I've been so tired, but I'll check it out this coming week. We are close to Addis Abeba University and the National Museum, and walking distance from the Piazza. There is potential for a lot of free time with nobody looking over your shoulder to enforce the already lax volunteer schedule. Everyone seems to speak English, so I might not learn as much Amharic as I had hoped, but it makes things a lot easier. Today I'm going to have lunch with the Dutch nurse, Diny, who Joe contacted for me to set this whole thing up. If there is time afterward I'll walk to the Piazza to see what all the fuss is about. Anyway that's it for now... blogs should improve as I get more sleep. Hope everyone is doing well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)