Mtoto Angu

Mtoto angu! My child! Carring Joseph home from the hospital in a khanga.

Who wouldn't want this little slice of joy to be happy and healthy?

As the nurses that live in my house are leaving soon, I asked them if they wouldn't mind stopping by the orphanage and checking out the kids quickly. This morning they came with me, and I am so overjoyed they did! I got them to first look at Joseph, who along with missing a penis also sounded like a 50 year old smoker, with this nasty rattle in his chest. They told me what we already sort of figured, that Joseph will need a prosthetic penis and that it is going to be expensive. The scabs on his head they said were most likely fungal and he had a fever along with his rattle. Bottom line was he needed to go to the hospital. Other than a runny nose, Bryson checked out fine, both of them were more than content with the candy the nurses brought. All the other kids got a quick look over too, Esther Paoul needs to see an orthopedic surgeon for her legs, as her step father had snapped them and they had both been braced improperly and healed with a strange forward arch. Kelvin Maasai, cutest little boy, has burn scars from his knees down, so severely on his feet that some of his toes are missing. He should have had skin graphs done before the skin healed itself. Now, the nurses just recommended that his skin be kept moisturized to avoid tightness as he grows. I've made plans with them to see a doctor at their hospital tomorrow about both Esther and Joseph. What pains me is not just the stories, but the things that should've, could've, and would've been done in Canada, but just weren't. After the extraordinarily kind ladies left, I approached Mama Wambura, telling her that Joseph needed some medical attention.

After some major miss-communications, we finally agreed that one of the mama's would accompany me and two other volunteers with Joseph to the hospital. After getting the boy washed up and dressed in his best clothes, and the mama doing the same for herself, we were off. It started to pour rain, and we trudged through the fields behind the house, along a dirt path, really not sure where we were headed. This to me felt like authentic Africa. Mama carrying a baby in a khanga on her back, through the rain and mud, nothing civilized in sight. After 20 or so minutes, we arrived at this strange little building. Walked inside and sat down on a bench alongside three or four other families. We were called into see the doctor within five or so minutes, I'm thinking the Mzungu accompaniment helped a bit. The doctor quickly realized we (the Mzungu's) were the only ones who thought something was wrong, so she addressed us in English, instead of the mother in Kiswahili. The room the doctor saw us in, I wouldn't even call an office. It had a desk in the centre of the room, a chair for the doctor, one for the patient and a tattered red bench along the wall for a lie-down examination. Not even closely comparable to a doctor's office at home. While mentally taking not of the lack of instruments and other 'doctor-y stuff' in the room, I told her we thought he had a chest infection and a fungal infection on his head. She weighed him, took his temperature and listened to him, then set us to the 'laboratory' to get his blood tested. A different lady came into this new room and pricked Joseph's finger, explaining that she was testing first for Malaria then HIV/AIDS. She slipped the blood onto a slide and asked us to wait in the reception area. I can't even begin to explain how incredibly nervous I was for this little guy and his diagnosis. It seemed like forever before the doctor called us back into her little room. She explained that he didn't have malaria, but did in fact have pneumonia and ringworm on his head. The HIV test was thankfully negative. She listed the medication he needed, and a price beside it. As she wrote this down, the mama gave me an expecting sideways glance. We collected the medicine from the reception desk, and I payed the 4,000 shillings, or just over $2, for two bottles of medicine, one of which was antibiotics, and two packages of pills for Joseph. Leaving the hospital, in butchered Kiswahili I offered to carry Joseph. The mama laughed and agreed, helping to hoist him on my back and tie the khanga. It was surprisingly easy to pack him home, this is definitely a trend I'm going to bring back to Canada. I did get a ton of snickers and pointed fingers with him on my back, but I loved carrying him, my mtoto (child).

I didn't realize until most of the way back home that we were walking because the mama wasn't given any money for the dala dala fare to the hospital. The ride would have cost us only 100 or so shillings, less than 10 cents. This couldn't be spared by any of the people at the orphanage. Had I known this was the issue, I wouldn't of minded springing for her, but she was much to proud of a woman, and seriously lacked any English skills, to ask.

Back at the house I called a girl named Emily, and confirmed the HIV test for all of the children of Camp Joshua and Camp Moses this Saturday. Everyone has been tested before, but this is just precautionary. Today was an eye-opener for sure. The lady dispensing drugs at the hospital could not have been more than 17 or 18 years old; in Canada isn't it something like 12 years of higher education to become a pharmacist?! I would also like to think that a child of no more than 2 years would go several weeks with a rattle in their chest and not be taken to a doctor. Things here are more than mellow, and I'm quickly learning that that applies to every aspect of life. No hurry is great for getting work done, and keeping relaxed, but when it comes to health is that really appropriate? What if it had been malaria that Joseph had contracted.. And I hate to say it, but where would the money have come from for his antibiotics if I wasn't there today? Would he have even been taken to a hospital? Correct me if I'm wrong, but can't a child die from pneumonia? How do you go about educating illiterate and solely-Swahilli speaking mama's on things like this, and other basic child hygiene issues, such as the need to change them sooner than an hour or two after they've wet themselves in either the garbage bag or piece of cloth that has been tied around their bums? I realize that at home we are somewhat germ-a-phobic when it comes to our children, but how much is too much in both countries? Obviously they aren't completely wrong here, as no one is seriously ill. The nurses theorized that Joseph's pneumonia came from a bladder infection that went untreated and spread to his lungs, but how would you diagnose this in a toddler that wets himself regularly anyways.

I was most definitely left with more questions than answers today, but I feel a lot more positive and optimistic than I have been lately. My patience is definitely growing, and I'm most definitely starting to get the hang of Africa-time. I even think my reverse culture shock is starting to kick in; I'm having difficulty reading the book "What The Dog Saw" by Malcolm Gladwell (a truly fascinating read!), talking about Enron and the unnecessary millions it screwed people out of, when no one on this continent would even be able to comprehend that amount of money.

There really are at least two different worlds out there..