Bed-Nets and Band-Aids

Truth? First aid [or, rather, anything medical] kind of freaks me out here in Africa.

In the beginning, we were told that if anything remotely medically serious happened to us, we'd need to fly out of Tanzania to Nairobi or Cape Town (or out of Africa all together). Before I arrived, I got epic numbers and prescriptions of vaccinations and meds, all precautionary. My travel doctor recommended I not pet any monkeys, as I wasn't willing to cough up several hundred USD for rabies shots. That was cause enough for caution and worry... to say the least. Since arriving, we've had special lessons on HIV and AIDS risks, been lectured about sunscreen, and are surrounded by reminders of other potential illnesses (in the form of horror stories, posters, and bed nets, etc.). Nurse volunteers return home from their hospital placements with images of AIDS-infected babies and Mamas swimming in their heads. Not a week goes by here that a volunteer (and, more often than not, a pack of them) falls ill with something, whether it be a "bug" or virus or food poisoning. It's truly a ticking bomb.

One night last week, myself and another volunteer accompanied our mutual friend to a local "hospital" clinic in Rau, as she was suffering various awful symptoms. As it is, I abhor visiting hospitals in the States... full of sterile smells and illness and unhappy memories. Visiting one in rural Tanzania is an epic, otherworldly experience entirely. Let's just say my vote of confidence was not overwhelming and that the word "sterile" no longer applied. If she wasn't feeling as rotten as she was, I would have recommended she avoid it at all costs, but there seemed to be no alternative. One quick consult, one shady blood test, and two hours of chilling in the open-air waiting room later, my friend was diagnosed with "complex" malaria and checked in for an expensive overnight stay. She wasn't given a bandage after giving blood (I had one in my purse, thank goodness), someone had to leave the hospital to bring her clean water and meals, and when she was released several delirious days later, she had gained a staph infection in her hand via the botched injections they gave her. "Awesome sana." Thanks, but no thanks. Bring on that bug spray, early bedtime, and High Potency Vitamin C, for me.

In early December, I had the unfortunate opportunity to attend a Tanzanian funeral. One of the security guards at our very own CCS Home-Base compound had passed away from malaria complications earlier that week. From what I can remember, he was only in his mid-40s and had been healthy and strong until that time. The story (although no one is quite certain) is that because he let the malaria he contracted go untreated, his weakened immune system fell victim to several other illnesses, including pneumonia and possibly TB. Regardless, even someone young and present at a workplace wherein international volunteers blather on and on and on to each other about Malarone and DEET is at risk. Malaria is no joke.

The death rocked the home base with a tidal wave of incredulous grief. For some reason, it felt really important that I attend the funeral, as I already felt like part of the CCS family. The ceremony itself (which myself and three other volunteers attended, along with nearly every member of CCS staff and hundreds of people from the surrounding community) was both remarkably sad and beautiful. It began at his home, where everyone who couldn't make it to the actual burial site (next his father) gathered to say goodbye. It then continued at his childhood home on the side of a mountain. Everyone, including myself, walked past his open casket to pay our final respects and then took part in sticking brightly colored roses into the mound of dirt atop his grave. I could not get over how many people attended; they lined the mountainside around the ceremony, sitting and standing against trees, clothes lines, and small houses in every which way, draped in simultaneously bright but somber kangas. It seemed every person I had ever met since arriving in Tanzania was present. There's nothing like a "family" death to remind you how fragile we are here, how important it is to take care of yourself, and to value each and every day, as our time here may be limited and is not really our own.

Yesterday, at school, I completely failed Ally (one of my preschool students who has been in my class since I began in November). I ALWAYS carry a small first-aid kit (or at least a baggy of band-aids and wipes) in my school bag and purse, as a week doesn't go by that one of my kids doesn't cut his finger (or whatever) on something ...usually their "pencil sharpener" razor blade. I even made a first-aid kit for the kids at Tuleeni Orphanage, because I couldn't believe how many injuries they had and how real the HIV risk was there. Yesterday, however? I failed. I realized I had forgotten to return my personal kit to it's proper place in my backpack after removing it for my weekend trip to Nairobi. SADNESS. Naturally, Ally came to school that morning with a deep, oozing flesh wound on his pointer finger (complete with pleading puppy eyes)... and I had NOTHING for him. After digging around in my bag for a bit, I found my last clean tissue (which I usually carry around for impromptu bathroom trips, as you rarely find a roll near a TZ toilet) and sat gently patting and cleaning his wound for the next ten minutes, whispering encouraging words and promising he would be okay, meanwhile inwardly cursing myself and vowing never to leave home without an army of bandages and anti-bacterial gel ever again. I will carry around my Mary Poppins bag of supplies with pride.

Last month, I lost one of my smaller students, Issa, because he broke his arm when a motorcycle FELL on him. This week, I returned to find Prosper had a burn wound healing on his face, only to find out he'd acquired it when his older brother held a hot iron to his face. Today, I planted a first-aid kit complete with gloves, medical tape, and all of the previously mentioned into Teacher Olivari's hands and said "This is for Amka kids." Even so, I think I'll have paper-cut, infection, and razor blade-themed nightmares for years to come.