Death in Dombila

I’m feeling great lately, health wise. I’ve been eating well, exercising a lot, sleeping great and staying cool. My body is really adapting to this place. It knows the rhythm of things, it awakes with the rising of the steaming African sun, it rests as the moon comes out. It’s found its place in nature- I find nutrients in the leaves of trees hidden in the fields to cook in my dinner. I never worry about getting lost in the vast espace of rolling hills because the sun guides me home.

As my own self has been refreshed and renewed under Dombila’s sky, this peace has been clouded by the poor health of my neiighbors. For some reason, a lot of people died this week. It began with a phone call to my homolouge. Her close, middle-aged friend had fallen sick and died unexpectedly. As she cried outside her home, no one really comforted her. Malians don’t hug, as I have written before. And though I wanted to put my arm around her, I settled with giving blessings and leaving her be. She left town for the rest of the week.

Shaka and Amadu, two of my three sidekicks, experienced the death of their grandfather. I had met the guy, old yes, but still in tact with things. The funeral was quite strange. No one really did anything. The men sat in a clump together, the women sat together, some chatted, some gave blessings. We ate. We left. And I still felt awkward, I still felt strange that no one was showing any major reaction to this death. Shaka seemed fine the whole day. But as we went for our afternoon run, he took me by his grave, and we stopped to look at the mound of fresh dirt. There are many ways to say “I’m sad” in Bambara. He chose: “Aminata, my heart is angry.” We took it slow and jogged back home. I spoke of the day my grandmother died, and how I felt. We agreed it was ok to cry, that he is not suffering anymore, that he is with God in heaven.

I can understand when an old person dies. It is tragic, but I can accept it. But when a child dies, good God.
This is hard for me to write right now. I am almost hesitant in publishing my feelings here, but I have to at least write them down. Vaccination day- the head nurse had left for another village, my homolouge was gone at her friend’s funeral. It was just me and the vaccinator and a few helping hands to deal with 30 or so screaming babies. It’s become customary to hand over the malnourished kids to me, because I have taken on the rehabilitation program as one of my projects, and weighing babies is one of the simple tasks I can handle now. Most of the children getting vaccinated were 3 months old, and their mothers tried to listen to my demonstration on ameliorated porriage over the cries of squirming children.

“Aminata, look. Here’s a malnourished child. Put him on the program.” Now most of the children in the program are around 1 years old. This kid was 6. I took one look at him and the first thought that shot through my head was “He is going to die.” His mother tried to feed him some porriage, and he could barely keep his eyes open. At 11 kilos, he was less than 60% of his peferred body weight. Less than 80% is considered malnourished. I’ve never seen a skinnier, sicker looking child. And here, they handed him over to me. “Give him some of the rehabilitation food packets.”

So what do I do? Alright, I measured him, I weighed him. I checked for dehydration, body swelling. I went through the motions and then I just realized, God, there is nothing I can do for him.

“I think this child is really sick. We should send him to the hospital.” The vaccinator came to look at him, “Yes, you’re right. But we can’t do that without the head nurse. He needs to write a referral.” He send the woman home, who had already walked 5 miles with this 6 year old child on her back, and instructed her to come back in the morning.

I’m not a doctor. Even if I was, there is no equipment here to work with. I have no car. Even if I did, there are no reliable roads, no ambulance. Perhaps tomorrow, we can call for a car. When the nurse gets back, we have to send him to the hospital. Yet the urgency I felt was not reflected in my company. The boy’s mother, the vaccinator, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to say they didn’t care. But what can they do?

I told the nurse of this situation the next morning. And I waited and waited for their return. By lunchtime, I asked the vaccinator why they hadn’t come back. He turned to another man who had come from his village to ask of his whereabouts. “Oh he died,” he responded casually. When? “Last night.” And that was it.

And I went into the empty maternity by myself, the same place I had examined the boy, and tried to straighten out his crippled body over the measuring board. I had held him just a few hours before his death. And my anger came from every direction, I was looking for someone to blame but truthfully, the thought that haunted me was that there was nothing we could have done. I came here to help in someway, but there are children dying in front of me, and all I know how to do is hand them a package of “Plumpy Nut” and write their weight on a sheet of paper, only to stuff it away because usually, the babies we see come once and never return again.

There is a long way to go. A long way. Another PCV came to visit for a few days to look at the water sanitation situation in Dombila. Anxious to get the projects going, he gave me great advice. “You can’t feel guilty about not doing work in the first three months.” It’s true. The first three months are for assessment purposes and our projects are to start after our mid-service training in January. But how can I not feel guilty when women are coming up to me, explaining symptoms of a pinched siatic nerve, or a stomach ulcer. And I know what’s wrong. I know there are medicines to treat this. But none that they can access, afford, or find someone qualified enough to administer them. So I hesitantly say, “I’m sorry, I’m not a doctor.” They understand. But they tell me when I go back to states, I should become one, and then return to help them again. Do you want to learn how to make ameliorated porriage?

Belly Laughs

The guard at the CSCOM is one of my joking cousins. And as my language is improving, the jokes are getting more and more elaborate. This guy and his wife remind me of my neighbors back on Hickory Lane, the Bonivillas. They are just hysterical, and have made me laugh more than I ever have in Dombila before. Binot, the guard, wears camlefloge every day. He shaves his head, has a gotie, but really, he doesn’t do anything but sit around, drink tea and smoke cigarettes. I’d like to take this opportunity to document some of his comments to me. The translation is not direcet, but I’m trying to get the full effect here.

“Aminata- when you play guitar, you sound like you are crying” He then imitates me wailing and playing a ballad on the guitar. “You cry and cry- you really need to just rock it and dance around.”

“You can’t even find a husband Aminata. I’m gonna go to the Peace Corps office and pay someone to get you a husband. You’re worth about $1.”

“Nah, I don’t like her. She’s too skinny. I like women with some meat on them. They gotta be fat. Like this woman over there. She’s fat. But I don’t like her, because he mind is totally gone.” (He’s refering to my homolouge’s daughter, who I am learning day by day really is a little wound up in the head)

“I’m going back to America with you.” (Now, everyone says this to me, and it’s usually followed by “I’m gonna make a lot of money”)
“What are you going to do in America Binot?”
“I’m gonna be Barak Obama’s body guard. I’m gonna wear cool sunglasses and ride around in a big, sweet, black car, and if anyone messes with Barak, I’m gonna pound them….. And I’m gonna make a lot of money.”

His wife shows up at the maternity. “Aminata, it’s time for my prenatal counsel.” “Oh really! I didn’t know you were pregnant!” “Yup. Quadrupulets.” She points to four places on her stomach and I hear the roaring laugh of her husband in the background.

It’s the Malian version of the Bonavillas!

PICTURES!

1. My hut! The first door on the left goes to by bedroom. The next door goes to my “negen” or little hole in the ground where I poop. And on the right is my kitchen/ storage area.
2. Bakary, the vaccinator, waiting for baby vaccinations to start in one of the distant villages
3. My homologue, Irene, shucking peanuts
4. Me and my homolouge’s daughter, Denise
5. Me and Irene
6. My host brother, Pacho, goofing off as always
7. Working in the peanut fields. That’s my host dad in the teal shirt and red hat brewing up some tea
8. Me outside the door of my hut