Warning: This one's a little depressing.
"Yeah!" the child cheers as she knocks the spoon away for maybe the thirtieth time. "Yeah!" I sigh and gather more corn mush on the spoon. "Yeah!" Knock. Splat.
I am sitting in a plastic chair in Mother Teresa's again. I'm attempting to feed the disabled child I have been calling Celine. I call her this because she loves to sing. She also has a much better aim then I predicted. An attendant comes by and tells me that Celine will only allow herself to be fed by a person of her choosing. Clearly, I wasn't it for today. "Yeah!" yells Celine. Splat.
I'm reassigned to another child with special needs. He likes my feeding him a bit too much. He puts his feet in my face and bites the spoon with his oversized jaw. By the time we're done, the floor and my shoes have also gotten a fair share of the meal, but the kid is happy and fed.
Meanwhile, my professor friend is having no difficulties. The child she is feeding occasionally shouts at her angerly, but then gets back to the task at hand. It was an honnor to be able to show a friend of mine around this place. She told me it made her feel humble to be healthy and whole-minded. It's true. I still think that this facility is one of the saddest, but most beautiful, places I have ever volunteered.
I started volunteering at a new place this weekend, too. Abenezer state orphanage was started by a Candadian (also named Elizabeth)and is only about a mile from my home. The majority of the children who liver there were abandonned. All have legally been declared "orphans of the state". Adoptions are rare and only come from international sources.
There is one child there, Daniel, who is probably only two or three weeks old. When I pick him up I feel like I am holding the world's most delicate flower. It's like holding baby bird, he's so small and fragile. The attendent who speaks English told me that they named the boy Daniel because he was left out for the hyenas, but survived. I never wanted to let him go.
Afterwards, I was introduced to the older children. They all stood at attention waiting for me to shake their hands. "Hello, my name is ___________. It is very nice to meet you." They all did this well except for one smiley four-year-old who kept running around me yelling "Mommy! Mommy!" and laughing.
I spent a few minutes with a woman who has leporacy the other day. She was begging in the market. She seemed incredibly happy there in a sunny patch near a patato seller and another woman seeling bark for incense.
How these places can be both so beautiful and so sad is a mystery to me. I never know what will happen next, or what exactly I'm supposed to be doing, but I know it is a blessing to be able to meet the nuns, children, and just everyday people of this place. I'm glad I got to be here.
Monday 21 November 2011
Wednesday 16 November 2011
Things Fall Into Place, Maybe
"Hey lady, buy my potatoes!" I look at the woman shouting at me. She's half asleep under a parasol. Her brightly colored dress and hijab stand out like flower petals against the orange-colored sand. I tell her "another day" in Amharic and she cackles.
Meanwhile two little girls run by kicking a round object that may have been a soccer ball at some point in time. "Chineeese! Chineeese! You from China!" They yell at me in English. It's probably what they would yell at any foreigner. Then they disappear among the tin and mud houses along the street.
I'm only a mile from my apartment, but I'd never know it if I hadn't just walked here. That's one of the things I like about the city of Harar, it can rapidly change and feel like many places (and times) at once.
Life in Harar is challenging, but I like it. I have to buy vegetables almost daily in a market that has been running for hundreds of years. Every time I go, I feel like I have just dived into a pool of people whose lives are very different from my own. It's loud, colorful, easy to get lost in, fascinating. I have walked through filthy alleyways where chickens and goats run in front of my feet and old women sell tons of beans in burlap sacks. I got lost in the part of the "plastics market" where the shacks are so close together there is very little light. There is a market that stretches for at least a half mile where it seems like everyone just sells bug-infested used clothing.
If I take the early morning and evening buses, the forty minute commute to and from my work is uneventful. I stare out the windows and watch the villages, camels, and events of other people's lives go by.
If I take the "line taxi" to or from work, God knows what will happen. I have been blessed, cursed out, proposed to, spat upon, propositioned, made fun of, made friends with, offered drugs, and been begged from on line taxis.
The first time I was in a "mosque shakedown" (no offense intended) I was riding next to a window that does not close all the way and a large man rushed my car door yelling "Allu Akbar forengi! Allu Akbar!" He friends yelled the same thing and started beating their hands on the metal of the old 1960-something model car. It was all I could do not to yell back. Now I know that this is how they collect money for the multiple mosques that are being built in the Jugol area. If everyone gives them a birr or two, the men start blessing everyone in the car or singing. This procedure has come to seem almost normal.
What I actually do at work is still in question. I'm still not officially working yet and I'm beginning to wonder if I will sign a contract with the university. It takes three months to get out of a contract and I don't know if I want to stay that long in a place that doesn't really have a role for me, at least not yet. I'm planning on traveling some too. And I'm still slated to volunteer at an orphanage in Dire Dawa. At the moment, I'm keeping my options open.
I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next. I am happy to have a steady place to cook, eat, and sleep. There's still a lot of downtime, but I still feel like I'm having an adventure. And now I need to get back to a place to stay before the hyenas come out and play.
Meanwhile two little girls run by kicking a round object that may have been a soccer ball at some point in time. "Chineeese! Chineeese! You from China!" They yell at me in English. It's probably what they would yell at any foreigner. Then they disappear among the tin and mud houses along the street.
I'm only a mile from my apartment, but I'd never know it if I hadn't just walked here. That's one of the things I like about the city of Harar, it can rapidly change and feel like many places (and times) at once.
Life in Harar is challenging, but I like it. I have to buy vegetables almost daily in a market that has been running for hundreds of years. Every time I go, I feel like I have just dived into a pool of people whose lives are very different from my own. It's loud, colorful, easy to get lost in, fascinating. I have walked through filthy alleyways where chickens and goats run in front of my feet and old women sell tons of beans in burlap sacks. I got lost in the part of the "plastics market" where the shacks are so close together there is very little light. There is a market that stretches for at least a half mile where it seems like everyone just sells bug-infested used clothing.
If I take the early morning and evening buses, the forty minute commute to and from my work is uneventful. I stare out the windows and watch the villages, camels, and events of other people's lives go by.
If I take the "line taxi" to or from work, God knows what will happen. I have been blessed, cursed out, proposed to, spat upon, propositioned, made fun of, made friends with, offered drugs, and been begged from on line taxis.
The first time I was in a "mosque shakedown" (no offense intended) I was riding next to a window that does not close all the way and a large man rushed my car door yelling "Allu Akbar forengi! Allu Akbar!" He friends yelled the same thing and started beating their hands on the metal of the old 1960-something model car. It was all I could do not to yell back. Now I know that this is how they collect money for the multiple mosques that are being built in the Jugol area. If everyone gives them a birr or two, the men start blessing everyone in the car or singing. This procedure has come to seem almost normal.
What I actually do at work is still in question. I'm still not officially working yet and I'm beginning to wonder if I will sign a contract with the university. It takes three months to get out of a contract and I don't know if I want to stay that long in a place that doesn't really have a role for me, at least not yet. I'm planning on traveling some too. And I'm still slated to volunteer at an orphanage in Dire Dawa. At the moment, I'm keeping my options open.
I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next. I am happy to have a steady place to cook, eat, and sleep. There's still a lot of downtime, but I still feel like I'm having an adventure. And now I need to get back to a place to stay before the hyenas come out and play.
Thursday 3 November 2011
Perpetual Adoration at Mother Theresa's
The newest member on my personal list of heroes (and heroines) asks my father and I to attend her convent's chapel of Perpetual Adoration for an hour. After a month of very limited church it feels so nice to just sit in a chapel and pray. We pray for the time, until a new shift of nuns comes in to replace the sari-wearing nun kneeling in front of us.
During prayer, I hear the sounds of the nearby alley. I hear families talking. Children laugh and the goats and donkeys make their sounds, but it seems quiet here somehow. In front of us, a starved looking Jesus hangs on a crucifix with the words "I thirst". He looks far more like the typical resident here then my father or I do.
The lead sister returned and asked if I could play with the children. They are having physical therapy today, but she needs someone to watch the rest of a specific group. They need to be constantly monitored.
On the way to children, a mute pregnant woman that I recalled from last time found us and gestured that she wanted to show us her other baby. I remembered her older child from my previous visit. The toddler whose crib she lead us to was not her baby. She proudly showed us this and three other sleeping children. "They are mine!" She gestured. "I love them."
"These are not your children." Said the lead nun. "But I am sure that you do love them."
The pregnant woman beamed and then wished us adieu. She had just wanted to show off the children.
Laughing, the lead sister took me to a poorly-lit room with seven children with profound developmental disabilities. They sat in plastic chairs and strollers, often tied into place with a white band of fabric under their arms. One child, who appeared to have Downs Syndrome as well as other difficulties, shrieked rhythmically and banged on his chair. The lead sister went over and started banging the rhythm with him and turning it into a song. The boy calmed down. "He's a great drummer." She said, "And look at this girl's smile!" The girl she led me to had cerebral palsy, mental retardation, and a great laugh.
"Their mothers leave these children at our gate." The nun said. "We raise them from infants. They are the true children of God. Comfort them for an hour. Be Christ to them. Come back any time you want to. God bless." and then she left me.
Immediately, a small, drooling child slipped out of his cloth band and nearly fell out of his stroller. I caught him, dried him, and retied him into place. He "slipped" again, to the same cramped and nearly out of stroller position, about every seven minutes while I was there.
The laughing girl spoke gibberish to me. I realized at one point that she was spoke in the regular lilts of iambic pentameter. "You're creating poetry for God." I said, and she laughed at life.
Every now and then one of the children would start shrieking or crying and I would go over and rub their heads, hold their hands, sing songs. When nothing else was happening, I would circle them and wave off the ever-present waves of flies.
Mentally "normal" children soon came by to listen to me sing and prattle to the kids in the dim room. We practiced English greetings. They kissed my hands.
There were cribs in the corner and a baby awoke and stood in one of them. I picked him up and walked with him while I helped the other children. When one of the attendants came by I asked who was supposed to take care of the little one. "You." She said. "He happy when you carry. You stay him." So I carried the baby too.
By the time the hour was up, I was tired. It was worth it though.
Later, we went shopping and got delicacies like butter, cheese, bread that isn't flat, and fruit juice. Beggars on the way back told me that they were hungry. I handed out small bills to them. I just couldn't walk around with a bag of fancy food while they asked for help. I didn't give them any of the food, and I'll probably (guiltily) ignore them next time, but hopefully I helped a little today.
When I gave an old, old woman one of the bills she pointed to Heaven and smiled. There was an infant tied to her back. I wondered what her story was.
On the way back to campus and my home here, I thought about the children at the hospital and the nuns who constantly pray and watch over them; how all of us are true children of God. All of us are perpetually seen and adored.
What a world. I'm glad I got to see this part of it.
During prayer, I hear the sounds of the nearby alley. I hear families talking. Children laugh and the goats and donkeys make their sounds, but it seems quiet here somehow. In front of us, a starved looking Jesus hangs on a crucifix with the words "I thirst". He looks far more like the typical resident here then my father or I do.
The lead sister returned and asked if I could play with the children. They are having physical therapy today, but she needs someone to watch the rest of a specific group. They need to be constantly monitored.
On the way to children, a mute pregnant woman that I recalled from last time found us and gestured that she wanted to show us her other baby. I remembered her older child from my previous visit. The toddler whose crib she lead us to was not her baby. She proudly showed us this and three other sleeping children. "They are mine!" She gestured. "I love them."
"These are not your children." Said the lead nun. "But I am sure that you do love them."
The pregnant woman beamed and then wished us adieu. She had just wanted to show off the children.
Laughing, the lead sister took me to a poorly-lit room with seven children with profound developmental disabilities. They sat in plastic chairs and strollers, often tied into place with a white band of fabric under their arms. One child, who appeared to have Downs Syndrome as well as other difficulties, shrieked rhythmically and banged on his chair. The lead sister went over and started banging the rhythm with him and turning it into a song. The boy calmed down. "He's a great drummer." She said, "And look at this girl's smile!" The girl she led me to had cerebral palsy, mental retardation, and a great laugh.
"Their mothers leave these children at our gate." The nun said. "We raise them from infants. They are the true children of God. Comfort them for an hour. Be Christ to them. Come back any time you want to. God bless." and then she left me.
Immediately, a small, drooling child slipped out of his cloth band and nearly fell out of his stroller. I caught him, dried him, and retied him into place. He "slipped" again, to the same cramped and nearly out of stroller position, about every seven minutes while I was there.
The laughing girl spoke gibberish to me. I realized at one point that she was spoke in the regular lilts of iambic pentameter. "You're creating poetry for God." I said, and she laughed at life.
Every now and then one of the children would start shrieking or crying and I would go over and rub their heads, hold their hands, sing songs. When nothing else was happening, I would circle them and wave off the ever-present waves of flies.
Mentally "normal" children soon came by to listen to me sing and prattle to the kids in the dim room. We practiced English greetings. They kissed my hands.
There were cribs in the corner and a baby awoke and stood in one of them. I picked him up and walked with him while I helped the other children. When one of the attendants came by I asked who was supposed to take care of the little one. "You." She said. "He happy when you carry. You stay him." So I carried the baby too.
By the time the hour was up, I was tired. It was worth it though.
Later, we went shopping and got delicacies like butter, cheese, bread that isn't flat, and fruit juice. Beggars on the way back told me that they were hungry. I handed out small bills to them. I just couldn't walk around with a bag of fancy food while they asked for help. I didn't give them any of the food, and I'll probably (guiltily) ignore them next time, but hopefully I helped a little today.
When I gave an old, old woman one of the bills she pointed to Heaven and smiled. There was an infant tied to her back. I wondered what her story was.
On the way back to campus and my home here, I thought about the children at the hospital and the nuns who constantly pray and watch over them; how all of us are true children of God. All of us are perpetually seen and adored.
What a world. I'm glad I got to see this part of it.
Wednesday 2 November 2011
Adventures in African Health Care
Disclaimer: Okay, so I'm recording this here because I'm trying to keep this blog at least somewhat accurate in recalling my time here and this was a somewhat important event. That being said, I got sick. So if you don't want to hear about it, go watch this clip of a kitten fighting a watermelon. Awww, so cute!http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vmoZEaN_-o&feature=feedrec_grec_index
So yeah, I got food severe poisoning. I know what caused it. It set in over the course of about three hours. At five on Halloween, I'm making jokes about not having brought a decent costume. At eight I was ill. I declared myself unable to stay conscious and breathe properly at about eleven.
I paged my father, who knows people in the emergency clinic. He came to get me to take me to the facility only to find that I was having difficulty walking. We managed to get to the clinic and wake up a guard. They got me settled on the one bed that they have in the emergency room while a health officer showed up. The officer was one of the more exotic looking people I have met here. He was tall, had tribal scaring, and wore what looked like a tablecloth around his head. He was also kind, competent, and very good at managing a complex situation.
The officer prescribed a huge IV, a few shots in the IV connector thing of something polysyllabic, and glucose. My father left with an interpreter to go to the pharmacy for the supplies since there was no medicine in the health center. They woke up the pharmacist who sleeps there and came back with the materials very quickly. The IV didn't hurt, but felt very chilly.
I was very cold so a blanket was found for me. The blanket had fleas, but I didn't care. Everything else was very sanitary. I started to feel better after about fifteen minutes. I went home about two hours later.
I was completely dehydrated and still very actively ill when I went to the clinic. I don't like to think about what would have happened if such a good system wasn't in place. I am extremely thankful for all of the people who assisted me.
My health is almost back to normal now, although I will have to make some pretty important decision regarding my diet, at least in the immediate future. I know what made me sick ( a special "holiday treat" from the staff here) so at least I can avoid that. It blows my mind that the price of the medicine used to re-route what my body was doing and rehydrate it to a working level cost a total of US$5. What an adventure! I hope I never, ever, do it again.
So yeah, I got food severe poisoning. I know what caused it. It set in over the course of about three hours. At five on Halloween, I'm making jokes about not having brought a decent costume. At eight I was ill. I declared myself unable to stay conscious and breathe properly at about eleven.
I paged my father, who knows people in the emergency clinic. He came to get me to take me to the facility only to find that I was having difficulty walking. We managed to get to the clinic and wake up a guard. They got me settled on the one bed that they have in the emergency room while a health officer showed up. The officer was one of the more exotic looking people I have met here. He was tall, had tribal scaring, and wore what looked like a tablecloth around his head. He was also kind, competent, and very good at managing a complex situation.
The officer prescribed a huge IV, a few shots in the IV connector thing of something polysyllabic, and glucose. My father left with an interpreter to go to the pharmacy for the supplies since there was no medicine in the health center. They woke up the pharmacist who sleeps there and came back with the materials very quickly. The IV didn't hurt, but felt very chilly.
I was very cold so a blanket was found for me. The blanket had fleas, but I didn't care. Everything else was very sanitary. I started to feel better after about fifteen minutes. I went home about two hours later.
I was completely dehydrated and still very actively ill when I went to the clinic. I don't like to think about what would have happened if such a good system wasn't in place. I am extremely thankful for all of the people who assisted me.
My health is almost back to normal now, although I will have to make some pretty important decision regarding my diet, at least in the immediate future. I know what made me sick ( a special "holiday treat" from the staff here) so at least I can avoid that. It blows my mind that the price of the medicine used to re-route what my body was doing and rehydrate it to a working level cost a total of US$5. What an adventure! I hope I never, ever, do it again.
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