The Harsh Reality
I had a fantastic time in the grand city of Kara for my twenty fifth birthday. It was very chill and much enjoyed. At that point I had spent nearly a month without leaving Ataloté and needed a break from all that integration work. I love it but it can be exhausting. I brought an interminable amount of stuff back with me and must have looked a sight with a wicker basket and a watering can tied to the back of my huge backpack! The ride back to town took a bit longer than normal because there was a turned over lorry blocking the road. At this point I hold my breath every time we mount the hill pass that leads into Kanté because nearly every time there are horrendous wrecks like this, it is just a matter of if it is blocking the way or not. In many cases you just see mounds of goods on the side of the road with a group of expectant looking people. Then you know that the truck had plummeted off the edge and these people had trekked down to salvage what they could from the wreckage while waiting for another lorry to load it on to and continue the cycle and goods transportation in this region of the World. This time wasn’t as bad, the truck, severely overloaded and nearly twice the height of a semi-load in the States, had simply tried to get by another truck and the drop off of the pavement to the “shoulder” had caused it to tip over and the road was blocked because there was a tow truck with a crane to cinch it back upright (!! first time I have ever seen this!! and is most likely because of the proximity to Kara where the president is based and there is a lot of government funding… hence the nice/developed-ish nature of the city) Anyways, I had to switch taxis cause the other one didn’t want to wait and heading back to Kara and wait for a while on the side of the road. Classic of Peace Corps Togo I ran into a couple of volunteer friends from up North I wouldn’t have otherwise seen for who knows how long and so it was fairly painless.
All the good feelings of the birthday trip evaporated immediately as soon as my moto driver picked me up. As we were heading out of Kanté and towards village he let me know that Victor’s wife Madeline was at the hospital with their four month old baby Adelph. He was very ill and he had taken them there earlier that day. As I entered the graveled pathway up to the pediatric compound of the hospital I could see Madeline’s face and my stomach dropped. Adelph was writhing in her arms and crying in a high pitched, pained manner. There were four or so other mothers with sick children sitting around. Waiting; waiting for the illness to pass or for it to ravage and take their babies away. There was a television in the corner and the doctors and nurses were watching a soccer match. Madeline looked so helpless, scared. She didn’t know what to do for her baby who was clearly in pain and sweating from fever. I couldn’t find any words to say but I touched the baby and felt how warm his tiny body was. As if on cue when I came in the doctor started to shout at Madeline telling her to give more medicine to the baby. Yanga and I helped measure out the four or five products he was to take. One looked like amoxicillin, the others I have no idea other than one solution for dehydration. Then we helped her feed him some watered down pâte (millet flour with water) which most ran down his face and all over his body which necessitated a wash. Madeline held the baby on her feet on the ground and we poured cool water over him as he screamed and writhed.
I knew the real unspoken concern. Yes we were concerned about the baby’s recovery. Yes we were concerned that he might have a bad case of malaria at so young an age. But here in Togo many children die because they never make it to this stage. Parents keep their sick babies at home until the last possible moment because they cannot pay the hospitals; which will not treat the babies without payment, they will and often do turn away sick babies, children and adults that are in real danger of death because of money. I knew she wouldn’t ask and I knew that while Yanga brought me here as a concerned friend to visit the sick, he also brought me here to help our friend in the only way I could. I asked her how much all the care would cost, gave her what I had on me to cover the medicine and promised to be back the next day with the rest and to hear about the test results.
I biked in the next day, normally I wouldn’t leave village again so quickly after just arriving but these were special circumstances. I left on my bike at the worst possible hour, 11AM just when the heat of the day is starting, but the thought not only of the baby but of my best friend in village alone and helpless with the mean doctors helped me push through the heat and the sand of the 15k ride until I got to the hospital on the outskirts of Kanté. He was doing a bit better and Victor was there. I held Adelph and never thought I could be so happy to make a baby smile. V. seemed on edge, rightfully so, and the three of us followed the doctors around with the baby getting/paying for more products, waiting for the lab results. At one point one of the doctors noticed me and asked me what I needed. I told him I was here to support my friends and that we wanted to know what was wrong. He was unable to give us a definite answer. The malaria test came back negative and to be frank it seems like that is the only thing they know how to test for. Everything is the “Palu”.
We went back to sit down in the waiting area. There were some of the women from the day before and also a young girl of maybe 7 or 8, it was hard to tell because she wasn’t much more than a skeleton and didn’t say a word. The doctors were starting to get a little brash, one of them started asking me questions about life in America in relation to life here. I was a little short with him because I failed to see how this was an appropriate time, but I suppose the situation was irrelevant for him. People dying because they are poor. Then he devolved into a typical Togolese man and started asking me if I was married, I told him I was and that my ‘husband’ was in a village to the West. He didn’t believe me, told me that I should take another, himself. I walked away disgusted. Far from the first time I have gotten comments like this, but I expected a level of professionalism from the staff but it seems the more powerful the position a man here has, the more he abuses it. Victor and I took Madeline to get a quick drink of Tchouck, to give her a little rest/relief, before heading over to the marché. We walked the long walk there in silence.
My neighboring PCV was also sick and I paid her a visit. She had malaria but seemed to be doing alright if a little weak and shaken. I stopped by the hospital on my way home and gave V. the money to pay the bill. I knew this was difficult for them but necessary and was nothing to me. I never had a second thought about lending the money. Something I have been battling at post, continually turning down requests for money to help people suffering in one way or another. This was different. This is my family.
As I walked out of the compound I ran into the nurse. I seized the opportunity to corner him and questioned him about the baby. I asked him what was wrong, he shook his head slowly back and forth looking at the ground and said “C’est le Palu”. It is Malaria. I mentioned that the test had come back negative, he replied “Yes, but it is Malaria.” I rode away with a sour taste in my mouth; a residue of the medical staff who are supposed to help these people. Sometimes it seems so futile. Adelph and Madeline stayed for the entire week, the baby had lost a lot of weight and was weak from the parasite and the fever, but he survived and is recovering well. He is lucky.