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.