The Children

Samuel

                I have lost my heart to a little African boy named Samuel.  We think he is around 2-3 yrs old, but can’t walk.  Instead he scouts across the floor on his bottom.  Samuel has been at the nutrition center for just over a week.  His mom died a year ago during childbirth, and his dad couldn’t stay with him because he works during the day.  So Samuel is here all by himself, our little orphan child. At times we will see him sitting by himself on his mat, and that when we will bring him home to our house  so we can give him some love and attention. Since hanging out with us he has started to pick up some English.  He mimics everything you say, to the point where he sounds like a parrot!!  I have taught him to blow kisses and say I love you. Samuel has the cutest dimples when he smiles, and laughs which he does often.  Even though he is here by himself he is a very happy child.  Jocelyn one of the women here helps take care of him during the day and night.  She has a son named Douna that is a patient at our nutrition center.  Jocelyn is in charge of making the two meals for the kids at the nutrition center during the day.  When you look at Samuel you might not think he is malnourished by his big tummy.  But like a lot of kids here in Chad, the big stomachs don’t represent being fat.  It represents edema from lack of protein and other nutrients in their bodies.  This type of malnutrition is called kwashiorkor’s.  Samuel also was starting to develop edema in his feet.  After being at the nutrition for three days his edema in his feet is gone.

                It’s so easy to get attached to the kids here at the nutrition center.  At the hospital you don’t have the problem.  But at the nutrition center you see them every day, and get to know them.  Death here is so common, but never easy to deal with even when you are surrounded by it.  It’s hard to become attached to the kids then lose them.  I have tried to harden my heart, and keep my distance, to try and lesson the pain of losing them.  But when they smile at me, take my hand in their small one, beg to be picked up, fall asleep in my arms, look at me with their big brown eyes I am lost.  The walls I try and put around my heart crumble, and I can’t help but let them in.  I have decided that even though we can’t save them all, and even though it hurts every time we lose a kid to malnutrition, that at the end of the day my life is so much fuller by loving and getting to know the children.

Merci and her mother Josephine 

                We just found out yesterday afternoon that one of our out patients died.  Her name was Merci (meaning thank you in French) and she was just over a year.  She was a patient at the nutrition center for about 2-3 weeks before she became an outpatient.  She was a beautiful little girl with the longest eyelashes.   I don’t believe that Merci died from malnutrition, because she wasn’t very malnourished.  We believe that she died from some respiratory problem.  The last two weeks she was with us her respiratory rate was very high, and she had nasal flaring.  Her lungs were clear but you could hear a wheezing sound when you listened to them. We sent her down to the hospital multiple times to get treated and looked at but there isn’t much they could do.  We tried giving her prednisone to help open her airways but it didn’t seem to help. She was treated with quinine for malaria, and was one three different antibiotics but nothing helped her breathing.  Her mom Josephine always made me laugh.  She only spoke a couple words in French, so she would always speak in Naderia to me.  She would carry on these long one sided conversations in Naderia as if I understood what she was saying!!  And the funny thing was half the time I could kind of understand what she was saying!!  I am not saying I have the gift of tongues because God hasn’t decided to bless me with that gift yet, but somehow we were always able to communicate with each other. Anytime I picture what a Chadian woman I picture Josephine.  She made charcoal out of wood by building a mud oven in the ground, she should me how to pound peanuts and millet using a big wooden bowl and this big wooden stick.  The African use this to pound everything from peanuts to rice.  The big wooden stick is thick about the size of a arm, and about 4-5 feet tall.  Both ends are flat and they use the ends to pound stuff into the wooden bowl.  They toss the wooden stick into the air, catch it then bring it down to pound it into the bowl.  Sometimes when they will toss the stick into the air they will clap twice, catch it, pound it into the bowl then toss it up again. Josephine had me try it once when she was pounding peanuts into peanut butter.  I thought it didn’t look to hard and gave it a try.  What I didn’t realize was how heavy the wooden stick was and, how easy it was to tip the wooden bowl over!! Luckily the other women who were standing around caught it so I didn’t spill the peanuts.  They found this to be hilarious, and couldn’t stop laughing.  Since my first try I have gotten better, but I still haven’t conquered the double clap after tossing the wooden stick (which is more like a small tree trunk) up in the air.  I see kids here that look like they are 6 years old with skinny little arms tossing the huge pounding stick up in the air, and I think to myself, “Come one Carlie, if a child can do it, so can you!!” I will have to practice more.

Duna and his mother Jocelyn 

                 Athens and I are planning to go to Merci funeral sometime this week.  Usually a funeral goes on for about a week after the death.  You drop by the house and sit with the family for awhile.  I have not been to a funeral yet since I have been here and don’t know exactly what its like.  But we both want to give our respect to the family.

Vacation is almost over

I've been home in Minnesota for the past month and i have loved spending time with my family and friends that I've missed so much while we were away. Thank you so much to everyone for all your thoughts and prayers while we have been over in Africa.
On Monday May 14th i will be on my way back to Tchad to finish my great adventure without my better half...Carlie. :( Im going to miss you!

Urgence/Medicine- Carlie

September

For the whole month of September I am working in Urgence/Medicine which is basically the ER.  I am working the afternoon shift which goes from 1500-2100.  Compared to Pediatrics, ER is a piece of cake. 

Because the fields have not been harvested yet, many people are low on money so this month the hospital has been low on patients.  Well all except for Peds that always stays pretty full.  The most patients I have had in Medicine are four patients and the least amount has been zero.  We usually admit at least 3-6 patients during my shift sometimes even less than that.  So I bring a book, study French, do word searches or sit outside and people watch when there is nothing to do. One day I was quite entertained watching a bunch of guys try and jump start a truck by pushing it.  I lost count on how many times they tried to jump start it with no success, but I would give them an A for determination!!

On one of those slow days, I was sitting in Urgence by myself doing a word search (Benard the guy that was working with me was sitting outside somewhere eating dinner) when I hear  a big commotion outside headed my way.  The next thing I know a group of like 8 people are streaming through the door.  I quickly assess the situation and notice one of the guys is covered in blood; his shirt is soaked with it.  I jump out of my shirt and yell out the door for Benard, as I grab my headlamp and usher the bleeding guy into a exam room.  (Even though we have electricity at the hospital, we only have one overhead light so all the exam rooms are dark)  I put on gloves, and start to strip the guy out of his bloody shirt to get a look at what kind of wound I am dealing with.  By that time I have at least 12 people surrounding the exam room entrance trying to see in.  No one is speaking French, so there is no understanding what they are saying. Where is Benard!!  This is not a time to be eating dinner!  I need him! I keep working on getting the shirt off the bleeding guy; he is speaking and crying all at once.  I grab some gauze and stick it on the wound which is high on his right side.  It looks like a stab wound but I am not able to ask.  By that time Benard is there with me.  He kicks all the observers out, and starts speaking the local language and figuring out what happened.  Apparently the guy was drunk and got in a fight with someone else.  I wonder what the other guy he was fighting with looks like? I keep applying pressure to the wound and the blood finally stops flowing. We do a quick set of vital on the patient and make sure he is stable.  The doctor is notified, and all we can do is sit and wait.

Two hours later after the patient arrives the doctor shows up.  He hands me a 10 cc syringe of lidocane and I inject it into the wound and the doctor sticks his finger into the wound trying to tell how far the wound goes in.  The patient is starting to show signs and symptoms of a pneumothorax and it’s decided a chest tube needs to be put in.  By that time its almost 2130 and I should have been off shift 30 mins ago.  I give my stab wound patient over to the next nurse and head home.  What an exciting day!! And I thought Urgence was boring!!

Another time in Urgence we had a patient come in with an enlarged prostate that was preventing him from urinating.  He was in severe pain and very uncomfortable.  We tried putting a Foley in him to drain out the urine, but were unable to because of his enlarged prostate.

The physician was notified and we brought him into the ECHO room where Olen did an ultrasound on his bladder.  Then he handed me a 60cc syringe and offered me the job of draining the bladder. I was all for sticking the guy with a giant syringe into his bladder, but I did inform Olen that I had never done something like this in the states.  Which he replied with, “And you never will.” Great another skill learned in Africa that I will never use back home!  I stuck the needle into his bladder and had to empty the 60 syringe 11 times!!  It took about 30 minutes to do.  Here I was in a dimly lit room with my head lamp on, sweat running down my back, and my left arm shaking from the effort to pull urine out through a syringe.  As I worked Olen sat at the desk keeping me company, and telling about the upcoming vacation him and his family was going on.  As I emptied my sixth syringe, I realized why he happily handed over the job to me, this was hard work!!  Who knew draining some guys’ bladder would be such a workout!!  Once we finished our patient was much more comfortable, and I was in desperate need of a shower.  Thankfully, I was in need of a shower from my own sweat and not my patient’s urine.

October

I enjoyed working in Urgence/Medicine and asked to be put on same shift 1500-2100 for the month of October.  Work has picked up, and more people are coming to the hospital now.  Fields are being harvested and they are able to pay their hospital bill.  We get a lot of malaria cases coming through Urgence, as well as hernias, dog bites/snake bites, hydroceles the size of basketballs (collections of fluid around the testicles usually caused by filarial worms clogging the lymphatic drainage and the occasional motorcycle and ox cart accidents.

Urgence- Crazy Town Thursday

Last week Thursday October 4^th was the busiest I have ever seen Urgence.  I barely had time to set down, people kept coming non-stop.  We also had a combative patient in Medicine that day.  It took 6 guys to hold her down so we could put a new IV in her and give her some much needed diazepam to calm her down.  I was holding her arm as one of the nurses was trying to find a good vein when she grabbed my arm with her other hand and started to pull.  I thought she was going to rip my arm off!!  Thankfully of the 6 guys was able to get her to let go of me, but I lost some arm hair in the process.  Later after she was calmed down I asked Alexi (the nurse I was working with) what her deal was.  Besides being combative she was wailing and crying like she was in severe pain before we gave her some diazepam.  He told me that she had “traditional crying”.  I don’t ever remember learning about “traditional crying” in nursing school….. I wondered what my teachers in school would have said if I put “traditional crying” down as one of my nursing diagnosis!!!  We were treating her for malaria, but according to the nurse I was working with “traditional crying” was the reason she was combative.  I did a quick assessment of her to see if there was another reason for her wailing and carrying on, but found nothing.  Apparently “traditional crying” was the reason for the way she was acting.  My nursing career has hit a high point with my diagnosis of “traditionally crying” for one of my patients.

November  

This month has been really busy in Urgance.  Most days we are going nonstop from 1500- 2000,

Then by 2030 its time to pass out medication on medicine, do change of shift and leave little after 2100.  This last week I have been leaving later and later because people keep coming in through Urgance nonstop.  Last week every day I had 2-3 paints come in through Urance that were unable to walk.  We had to carry them into an exam room.  They were either unresponsive or combative, showing signs of dehydration, low blood sugar and classic malaria.  A couple times we had to hold the pts down because they kept thrashing when we tried to put in an IV.  Diazepam became my new favorite drug, helping to calm the patients down so I didn’t have to worry that they were going to pull out there IV, hurt me or other staff, or roll off the bed.

I had another person die on me today in Medicine.  The guy was 21 years old with heart problems.  He was admitted for treatment of malaria and was on IV quinine, which is never good if you have heart problems.

I was passing medication with Seraphim who I was working with when all a sudden he started convulsing and died with in 1 minute.  There was nothing we could do.  I wish there was something I could have done.  I went home that night feeling like I had let him down, that I wasn’t able to save him.   No matter how old or young or how many times you see someone die it still hurts.

The man in bed 8

His name is Bogael and his 33 years old.  I remember I was working the day he was admitted into the hospital.  He wore a turban wrapped around his head and face, which is not abnormal seeing when you live in Africa.  But then he took off his turban and I understood that his head wrap was used as shield.  Bogael had Burkett’s lymphoma, which is a cancer of the lymphatic system.  Bogaels face was completely distorted by the cancer.

Bogael was my patient in bed 8 in Medicine for 41 days.  I treated him twice for malaria while he was there getting treated for cancer.  He was always polite to me and I always tried to talk to him in my limited French.  He was always good about helping me find my missing patients who were not in their beds but outside sitting on the veranda.  I could never pronounce their names right so Bogael would help me call for them so I could give them their medication.

The day Bogael was discharged was bitter sweet.  Though he treatment for the cancer was finished I knew that he wouldn’t live much longer.  I was glad he was finally leaving but I was going to miss seeing him laying there in bed 8 listening to Arabic music on his portable radio.  The cancer might have disfigured his face but he had a beautiful smile that could always brighten my day.

As I look back on my last month

I have had pts admitted for snakebites, dog bites, human bites, and scorpion bites.  Moto accidents, ox carts accidents, enlarged prostates, hernias, hydrocele, TB, liver failure, and cancer tumors.  I have seen wounds from stabbings, bites from human and animals, hitting someone over the head with a stick, and dropping a brick on the foot.  I have seen malaria, and more malaria.  I have had people come to Urgance who are combative and some who are unresponsive because of their malaria.  I have had to help carry them into Urgence, and have had to hold others patients down as we try and insert an IV.  I have had children come into Urgence who have developed cerebral malaria and are having seizures.  I have had both children and adults try and bite me when assessing them (one of these days I am just going to bite them back).  I have learned to great pts in French, Nadara (local language) and Arabic.  I can understand when a pts tells me in Nadara that they are vomiting or having diarrhea.  With my limited writing ability in French I can prescribe meds in the pts Carne, and write up their Doce (pts med sheet). 

Their days that I have to go into the nurses station (which is a tiny room with a desk and chair and a curtain for a door) and have a good cry.  I have seen more death in 8 months than most people see in a lifetime.  And there are day that I have understood while I was brought to Africa.

The other day I had a “this is Africa” moment. I was walking around medicine checking on my patients and as I was walking by a bed I had one patient just squat on the floor next to their bed and pee on the concrete floor.  I was so shocked I just stopped and stared. You go to be kidding me!!  Then I went and got the bleach and our mop/ broom so that the family member could clean up the mess.  Then I had Hamadu talk to them in the local language explaining to them about asking for a bedpan or walking to the bathroom.

Understanding Arab

I have found that I have a talent that I didn’t know I had.  I can understand Arabic.  It came to a shock to me, because I have never taken a class in speaking Arabic.  I was working with Homadu in Urgence when we had a patient’s father come in from Pediatrics and start yelling at Homadu in Arabic.  The father was upset because he couldn’t find the nurse in Peds and needed someone to look at his kids IV.  So he came to Urgeance and told Homadu that he HAD to come fix his kids IV.  Homadu told him that he was working in Urgance and that we couldn’t help him because we were in the middle of a consultation but he could as the guard to help him find the pediatric nurse.  Well the Arab father wasn’t happy about that and there was heated words said with angry gestures.  With out realizing it had slowing stared backing out of the room and by the time the guy left I was standing by the door.

The crazy thing was that this whole conversation was said in Arabic and I understood exactly what was going on.  I confirmed what I heard with Homadu and he was shocked asking if understood Arabic.  There was other instanced working in Urgance where I would have an Arabic patient and understand what they were saying, shocking both my Arab patient and my coworkers.  Speaking Arabic back to them is not my talent. 

I am the Nurse SIT DOWN!!

I lost it at work the other day.  I yelled at a patient’s family member and it was liberating.  I was taking care of a patient in medicine doing an IV push when the family member decided that they new more than me.  They kept telling me to slow down in French.  I was going slowly so I ignored them and kept doing my IV push.  When I was done I started to get my IV bag and medication out to start a quinine drip for malaria when the family member decided to butt in again.  They grabbed my arm and started to tell me that it was not time for the IV bag.  That’s when I lost it.  I turned around and in French yelled at him, “ I am the nurse not you!  SIT DOWN!”  Needless to say it shocked the patients family member and myself.  He quickly sat down and didn’t say another thing to me as I finished up with the patient.  I couldn’t stop smiling.  Patients family member are always telling me what to do, and family member of other patients that are not even my patient are telling me what to do.  They love to be involved in everyone’s business.  I have learned to ignore them but that night I couldn’t contain myself.  When I got back to Urgence and told Alexei (the nurse I was working with) what had happened we both laughed.  The rest of my time working there it became our private joke.  He would tell me, “Carlie you are the nurse” which I would say, “I am the nurse, SIT DOWN!!”

Last Day

My last day of work wasn’t all that I wanted it to be.  I started out well.  I was working with Seraphim who is always a lot of fun.  It was busy but not overall busy.  But then we had some parents bring in their little girl who looked to be about 4.  She had developed cerebral malaria and was unresponsive and having seizures.  We started her on IV quinine and gave her some diazepam.  But it didn’t help.  She died with in an hour.  The wailing was how I had discovered she had died.  As I pushed back to the curtain to the Urgence admission room I knew what I would find.  As I used my stethoscope to confirm that she was dead I couldn’t stop the tears that came to my eyes.

Later that evening at work I developed horrible stomach pain.  It felt like a knife was been thrust into my abdomen repeatedly.  I was passing meds and every time I bent over to get into the patients medicine box under their bed I thought I was going to puke.  Finally when the pain got so bad that I was doubling over I decided that I needed to leave work early.  I didn’t want to quite early on my last day but I didn’t have a choice.  I went and got 1 ampule of promethazine from the pharmacy and had Seraphim give me a shot before I went home for my nausea and stomach pain.  Thinking that the medication wouldn’t kick in for at least 15 minutes I thought it was safe to drive my motorcycle home.  That was NOT a good idea.  By the time I walked into the house I couldn’t walk straight.  I barely made it to my bed before I passed out for the night.  Thankfully the stomach pain was gone.  And I drifted off into a drug induced sleep pain free.

Fete (Hoilday)

There are always people out late into the night dancing to the pounding of drums. But this weekend was different. It’s the African version of Memorial Day. Two days of dancing and horse racing. Everyone and anyone wants to come to this party. People from all over Tchad come back to Béré for this special weekend. People bring their horses and race around a circle. These people bring pictures of their dead relatives and friends. They wear clothing and even wear wigs to honor their dead family members. Others dress in loin clothes and animal skins with feather head dresses and dance around.

 The work week is done and everyone in Béré is headed to the Tigo tower. You can hear the drums and see the dust from the horse racing before you see the people.  As we approach the group with our friend and translator Naomi all eyes are on us. We’re the only white people so it’s a given. Only a handful of men are racing their horses so we take the opportunity to look around and watch the people gathering from all over. The drums are producing a rhythm that reminds you that you’re in Africa. We get reprimanded by one man because we took a picture and he got in the way and then a military man walks us to us. Fortunately he is pleased to see us and happy that we are interested in the Chadian culture. After about half an hour of watching that horses go round and round I decide that I want to give it a shot. The age range of riders looks to be around 10 to 50’s. Naomi’s cousin is one of the riders and was happy to let me ride with him. I’m short and lacking in the vertical jumping category so getting onto the horse was the toughest challenge. Without warning Naomi picks me up and places me on the back of the horse. Ok. Problem solved. Then I’m off.  Not comfortable at all. I’m sitting on the back of the horse and as I bounce my butt bone grinds into the horses bone. Not comfortable. Halfway around the first lap I turn around to see what’s going on behind me just to see two horses slam into the back of us. I’m going to die by stamped. When I finally open my eyes I find that I’m still on the horse and I’m still alive to find people waving and smiling up at me. I feel like a princess. So I smile and wave back. I made it around the loop twice then my bottom was officially bruised. Now I can check riding a horse off my African bucket list.

Note the dirt on Carlies face ha ha

Home Wrecker

When working in Urgence/Medicine I work with a Chadian nurse who can speak Nadaria, French, Arab and a couple other local languages.  There are three male nurses that I rotate with every other week.  Their names are Hamadu, Serifem, and Alexi.  The first two want me to be there second wife and the last one wants me to give him a white baby.

Hamadu and I have had many discussions on how you should only have one wife, but it makes no difference to him what I say.  He wants two wives and 12 children.  He has told me more than once that he prays to God that I am for him.  Which I kindly explain to him that I will not be someone’s second wife.  He accuses me of not loving African people because I will not marry him or another African man.  I tell him that I am going home in December and that it’s not all about him!  

Serifem asked me to marry him the first day I worked with him.  He found out that I was not married and decided that I needed to marry him.  I asked if he was married and he said no.  But then I later found out he had a wife and two little girls.  I told him I won’t marry a man that is already married.  He told me that was fine, that he would send his first wife away, and then I would become his first wife. He is willing to divorce his wife for me!!! I asked what would happen to his two girls.  He told me that we would keep the girls and that I would give him two boys.  He wants a total of four kids.  He has two girls and now needs two boys.  Though I tell him I won’t marry him, Serifem has begun to address me as “Second Wife”.  He even introduces me to patients as, “Carlie my second wife.”  Serifem once told me that I should take him home on my moto after work and stay for a visit.  When I asked him if he would lock me in his compound he just smiled and laughed.  I took that as a yes, and told him there would be no visiting at his home.  I will not be forced into being someone’s second wife by being locked in their compound.

Alexi has never asked me to marry him, but he has asked me to give him a white baby.  He loves kids, and wants a white baby for some reason. I told him that I am leaving soon and it would not be possible to give him a white baby in two months. He told me that I could mail it to him once I get home.  Like the baby was chocolate in a box!! LOL!!   Alexie is 27 but not married which is rare here in Chad.  Most young people are “married” by their 20’s.  Alexi explained to me he is not married because he needs to earn more money.  You have to pay a bridal price to the girl’s parents.  The bridal price can be in money, cows, horses, or camels. Alexi says he does not own any animals so he will pay money.  One time I asked him how many camels I was worth, which he told me, “I don’t have any camels.”  I told him that I knew he didn’t have any camels but if he did have some camels, how many camels I would be worth.  “But I don’t have any camels.” AHHH!! I know you don’t have any camels Alexi!  Never mind.  He couldn’t seem to understand my question.  So I didn’t find out how many camels I would be worth.

All three nurses I work with are harmless.  Not once have I felt threatened by their comments of marriage, babies, or spending the night with them.  And they don’t seem to mind that I laugh in their face over their ridiculous comments and proposals.  I have enjoyed working with all three of them even on the days when I can’t find them and forced to do all medication by myself and try and admit a patient who only speaks Nadria.  They have all made me feel welcome at the hospital and I have learned much from working with them.  Even though some of my nursing skill I have learned I would never be able to do in America.

The Band-Aid Gang and the Lime Thieves

Athens and I run a wound clinic at our house.  Kids and adults come to get their wounds cleaned and a bandaged for free.  Most of them are not serious just needing some ointment and a band aid.  The more serious wounds we refer to the hospital.  The children usually come in a group to our house because they are afraid to come alone.  A group of seven might show up on our door step but only two out of the seven needs a band aid.  The children show up all throughout the day, sometimes as early as 0645 in the morning.

“Lapia” they say as they solemnly shake my hand.  They act like they are here to be tortured rather than get ointment and a band aid.  The whispering starts the minute I pull out my plastic bag filled with different kinds of band aids.  Though I can’t understand their local language I know they are whispering about what kind of band aid I will be using.

Their dirty little faces break out in smiles as I smooth a Sponge Bob Square Pants band aid onto the leg of my patient.  Their excited whispers let me know that they agree with my choice of band aid. And when I look up I see that the other children are trying to find cuts on their body that are band aid worthy. Pants and shirts are being lifted as they search for some sort of wound. Soon I am surrounded by arms and legs being thrust into my face.  It’s hard to tell a child “no” when their little face is so serious as they show me a cut that has long ago healed.  Most of the time I give in, and put a band aid over a healed scar.  The smiles on their faces as they shake my hand before they leave makes my day so much brighter.  I stand their smiling as I watch the Band-Aid Gang run out our front gate; their brightly colored band aids visible on arms, legs and heads.

The other part of my morning is spent yelling at the children (some of the same children I just put band aids on) who are stealing the limes from our trees.  I can see them from the house; sneak through a hole in the fence and run to the lime trees stuffing their shirt, pockets and pants full of limes, and then scurrying back through the hole.  One time I scared a little boy so bad that he tossed all the 12 or so limes out of his shirt and ran as fast as he could back through the fence to safety.

Some of the braver children come to our door to ask if they can get some limes.  I used to say yes and go back into the house.  That was until I realized that they were taking as many limes as they could carry.  As I left one day for work, Bronwyn and I met the lime thief’s at the front gate.  These children had limes stuffed in their pants, wrapped in their shirts, stuffed in pockets and holes in their clothing.  That’s when I decided there had to be limits to the limes they take.  I counted one boy who had 20 limes stuffed in his pants!!  He could barely walk, with limes bursting out of all the holes in his pants.  We are slowly training the children to only get two limes a day.  We still get children who come in through the hole in the fence and take limes, and I still enjoy yelling at them as I watch them run for their lives.  (Athens chases them as she yells at them in English, and Bronwyn chases them on her motorcycle.  I have yet to try that scare tactic.)  

But even our yelling does not keep them away and now more and more children show up at the door asking for limes.  Most of them know by now they only get two limes and will run back to the house and show me that they have only picked two.  But even telling them only two limes does not always work.  Yesterday I fished out 7 limes from a little boy’s shirt, even after I told him he could only take two limes.  As he started to walk away I almost missed the other 5 limes he had stuffed in the back of his shirt.  I yell in English at them, but always end up smiling and laughing so it’s no surprise that they are not afraid.  But it’s hard to keep a straight face when you are digging 12 limes out of a three year olds shirt and he is standing there smiling up at you with no shame.

This is Africa

 This is Africa (TIA)  This saying can be applied to any of the many different circumstance and situation in Africa.  When I first got here I thought it was more of an excuse people used, but since living here I have learned otherwise.

 Chad the center of Africa, the “dead heart” of Africa was voted the 3^rd most corrupt country in 2007 and not much has changed since then.  Money and guns are what “talks” here.  The more money and fire arms you have the more powerful you are.  Bribing an official is thought of as a common curiosity here and is expected if you want anything accomplished when dealing with a government official. TIA. 

You love Africa but just as equally you can hate it.  Hate it for the death, corruption, witchcraft, sickness, depression, poverty and loneliness that is everywhere here.  But you also love it for the people, the children, the wilderness, the beauty, and wild heart that beats in this place; making up the rhythm that is Africa.  There is something about this place that pulls you in and once you’re hooked it won’t let you go. TIA.

The children of Africa are beautiful.  Most of them are dirty with clothes that look like they are hanging on by a thread. Some are bare foot and naked.  Some of the little ones have snot running down from their nose into their mouths. Their arms and legs are tiny but their bellies are big and round with malnutrition. They run around unsupervised by their parents or adults.  Most of them are carrying their younger siblings on their back. Young children taking care of even younger children.  Their chanting, laughing, singing and dancing can be heard long into the night.  Their voices, the pounding of the drums, the buzzing of gigantic bugs, and the wind moving through the trees, makes up the music that I have began to associate with Africa.  The nights when I don’t hear chanting and drumming I find it hard to sleep.  I know that I will miss the sounds of an Tchadian night. TIA.

Africa has its own time.  Things here are done at a much slower place.  The rush that I’m used to isn’t here.  The people here are content to sit for hours visiting.  Making time for people is more important than the “to do list” you have for the day.  At times it can be frustrating when people show up at my door wanting something but they sit there in silence for a good 10- 15 minutes not telling me what they want.  I sit there waiting for them to tell me why they are here. We got through the usual, how are you?, how’s your family?, your house?, your village?, but not what they want.  And people here don’t show up on a Nasara’s door step without wanting something. But what I have began to realize that the sitting in silence is them just showing respect, and that they are willing to invest into a relationship before asking something of me. TIA.

But how do you pick who to help and which one you tell no too?  Most natives here see a white person and instantly think “money”.  So even though they might be able to help themselves they still come to you.  You can sometimes pick these people out by their nicer clothing, jewelry, and shoes.  But when three different mothers come to you in one day with their sick children wanting you to pay for the hospital bill, what do you do?  Which child do you pick to help?  Do you pick the one that looks mostly likely to survive?  The child that is healthier?  Or do you pick the sicker child, hoping that the healthier looking children will be fine?  I am not God, and I hate feeling like I am deciding who will live and who will die.  Athens and I don’t have the money to help everyone who shows up on our doorstep.  But where do you draw the line? How do you weed out the truly needy from the deceivers?  How do you choose?  What gives me the right to decide?  I can’t help but feel selfish when I look around me, and when I buy something in the market for myself.  I have so much compared to them.  If I am unwilling to pay for their child’s hospital bill, will they have to go home and sell their cow, goat, or horse?  Or will they go hungry for a whole week just to pay the hospital bill? Or maybe in the end they won’t go the hospital, instead just except that their child will die.  Who then is to blame for the death of the child?  Me for not paying the bill?  Or the parents for not trying to exhaust every resource to save their child?  The more I tell myself that I can’t help everyone, the more it sounds like an excuse. TIA.

Not much has changed in Bere Chad Africa since bible times.  It’s like the world kept turning but left Chad behind.  There are no paved roads in Bere or Bendale.  No street lights, stop signs, or cross walks.  Instead you have road that turns into a river in the wet season, and a sand trap with huge holes in the dry season.  People cook over open fires, grow their own food, and sleep on mats on the ground.  Their houses are made of mud brick mixed with straw, with a grass roof.  The tools they use to weed their fields are nothing like what you can buy at Home Depot.  Instead it’s a crude flat piece of metal that is somehow tied onto a curved looking stick.  The stick is only as long as your hand to your elbow, so working in the field is back breaking work.   Transportation here is limited.  Horses and donkeys are ridden.  Cows are used to pull carts and occasionally ridden by the young boys.  Motorcycles are owned by some people that have money, and are also used as a taxi service for others.  There are only about 5 cars that are owned in this area and three of those are owned by white people that work at the Adventist Hospital. The only people who have electricity here are the white people, the hospital, and anyone able to afford a generator (which is only some of the Arab store owners).  When night falls here in Bendale and Bere it’s like a black blanket has been pulled over your head.  You don’t know what pitch blackness is until you have been in a place with no electricity.  Your only source of light being the moon and stars in the night sky.  The darkness can be overwhelming, making you feel small and alone, until you look up, and realize you have never felt this close to the stars, and just maybe if you reach a little higher you can hold one in your hand. TIA.

I know people wonder why we choose to come out here to be nurses, so far from civilization; to a place where death, poverty, despair, witchcraft, and sickness are so prevalent. There are days that I wonder why I am out her and if I am really making a difference in this place.  I have been tested physical, emotionally and spiritually.  I have seen both the beginning and end of life.  I have learned that a smile is the same in every language, how to sort rice and beans, haggle for a good price at the market, say hello and ask how are you, in French, Nandera, and Arabic, make peanut butter, deliver a baby, make the traditional African boul, and the proper etiquette for handshaking at a funeral.  I have drawn my own water from a well with a bucket, experienced malaria badly enough that I needed IV quinine, swam in a river where hippos were seen the day before, been to an African wedding, carried a baby African style on my back, balanced water buckets on my head, and have driven my motorcycle with two chickens tied to each handle bar and 3 kilos of rice strapped to the back.  TIA.

And like the dirt that has permanently stained the bottom of my feet, Africa has left a mark on me.  Long after I leave this place, I will still remember the time I spent in the wilds of Africa.  I have been caught up in the rhythm of this place, the steady beating of the African drums. And I can’t help but dance along. This Is Africa.

Cattle Drive

We had some excitement during our market run the other day.  We were just finishing getting some flour from one of the Arab stands when we noticed a huge herd of cows that were being driven down the main road of the market.  The cows here are huge, with humps on their back, and horns so long they almost look like elephant tusks. The cows here are used to plow the fields and pull carts.  It’s very intimidating and a little scary to be driving down the road on the moto and pass these cow driven carts.  Especially, when the cow’s horns are so big they look like spears about to reach out and stab you.  The people here are pretty good about controlling them, and they seem tame…. for the most part.  But you still hear horror stories about people being gored by these huge horns.

Seeing a couple cows together is a common thing here, but we have never seen a huge herd of them before.  So you can imagine our surprise to be watching them herd all these cattle down the main road of the market.  Once we finished at the market we started for home, only to get stuck behind all this huge herd of cattle.  The road was awful because it had rained all night, so the puddles in the middle of the road were huge!  The sand that had been nicely compact on the drive to the market was now all torn up from the hooves of all the cattle.  There was a man that was leading the cattle and was walking about 20 feet ahead of them.  They had two other men who were walking on the outskirts of the heard waving sticks to keep them moving.  The man at the back was one horse back.  He was dressed like an Arab and looked very intimidating on his horse waving his stick. He kept the cattle moving, and made sure none tried to get away. Then brining up the rear was Athens and I riding my red Honda motorcycle.  I have never been part of a cattle drive before, and never thought I would be herding cattle with a motorcycle, but that’s exactly what happened.

When I think of cattle drives I picture cowboys on horses, with spurs, cowboy hats and six shooters strapped on their hips.  I don’t think of Africa or men with turbans waving long sticks herding cattle down a muddy road filled with huge puddles.  But when in Africa, do like the Africans do!!  We joined the cattle drive little after the market and left them once they got to our house.  Africans were lined up on both sides of the road watching the cattle go by.  I think they found it a little funny to see two white people brining up the rear on a motorcycle. LOL!!  But we enjoyed every moment our accidental cattle drive experience, and now feel like real African cattle drovers.  American cowboys have nothing on us! =]