One morning in February Mary and I were getting ready to leave my site for Segou. As I locked my door a young couple with a baby appeared in my courtyard asking for help. Because of a severe birth defect called palatoschisis, or more commonly cleft palette, their baby was unable to feed and severely malnourished. These unexpected pleas had been occurring quite frequently since we had returned from our trip home over the Christmas holidays. Before I left Mali I asked Adama, my work counterpart, to distribute a leaflet about a project that was performing free reconstructive surgeries on cleft palettes in Bamako. While I was in America, people had been making the voyage to Cinzana to inquire about the surgeries.
I told the couple that the project had left Mali and would not return until the following October to perform the next round of surgeries. The hope in their faces vanished in an instant as they humbly thanked and blessed me, and began the trek back to their village. We were upset by the feeling of helplessness, but like a thousand other experiences in Mali, the dying baby was put into the “numb” file to be dealt with at a later date. We arrived at the Segou office and Mary began reading an old Rolling Stone magazine while I read news about the upcoming Super Bowl. She found an advertisement in the magazine for a Canadian group called “Smile Train”. On a whim, Mary decided to email the group, and within minutes she received a response. Amazingly, the team of plastic surgeons would be in Bamako the next week performing surgeries. The Doctor agreed to perform the surgery if we could get the baby down from her village. I contacted Adama and told him to get in touch with the young couple as soon as possible and tell them the good news. Another family was notified of the project and we made plans to meet in my village and take a bus down together to Bamako. Everything looked as though it would work out fine, and we were excited to actually be doing something that directly impacted lives.
I knew the baby was sicker than I had first assumed when it remained silent for the entire ride down to Bamako. I was shocked when the baby was unwrapped and placed on a scale in the hospital. She weighed barely 2 pounds and her skin was slack, she was in serious trouble. I had to leave the room for a moment to compose myself or all the things I had pushed into that “numb” file would suddenly come tumbling out. When I returned the Doctor took us to the side and said the baby wouldn’t have lived another 48 hours if we wouldn’t have brought her with us. They immediately began feeding her through a tube and said she would have to put on some weight and get healthier before they would consider doing the surgery. We were very happy to have helped saved the baby and looked forward to her being healthy enough one day to receive her surgery. It was decided that the baby and mother would remain in the hospital in Bamako for a few weeks until she got healthy enough to reassess the diagnosis. Meanwhile the other family was being questioned by the Doctors.
Both families had been very overwhelmed by the entire process. They come from very small villages up north and the shock of being in an actual hospital with western Doctors was visible on all their faces. We helped translate as much as we could for the doctors, at one point Mary was recruited to explain skin grafts to a Malian girl who looked at her in disbelief as she described the process. After the initial consultation we were again pulled to the side and told that the child had a disease called NOMA.
NOMA is a disease in poor countries around the world where malnutrition, unhealthy drinking water, and close proximity to livestock are common. The disease begins as an infection of the gums and then eventually eats its way through most of the tissue of the face, leaving the patient deformed. Because NOMA also results in lockjaw, the patients can’t feed themselves and become so malnourished that their immune system eventually shuts down and they die from any one of a million diseases here in Mali. It is a horribly painful way to die and it is even more horrible because it is easily treated with an improved diet high in protein and antibiotics.
The second child, Safi, had already lost most of her face leaving her jaw and eye exposed to the elements. She walked around at all times with a covering on her head. Her bottom jaw had already locked, but thankfully had jutted out just enough to be able to drop a few pieces of rice onto her tongue. Her hair was rust-colored and her belly was distended she was slowly starving to death. After speaking with the doctors for a while it was decided that Safi and her family would go to a special NOMA treatment facility to educate them about the disease and begin the long treatment process. It will take several different surgeries to fix her jaw and then several more to repair the facial damage. A Malian doctor called Traore Hamady arrived to explain to us that a car would pick us all up and bring us to the treatment center. The family would stay for a week or so and then return several times as the treatment progressed. The family agreed to go and we all walked outside to find the car that would take us to the treatment center. We all got in and we were on our way. I then had the following conversation with the driver. (Translated literally)
Me- Man friend where are we going?
Driver- You speak Bambara?
Me- Yes a little.
Driver – Oh my god red ears speaks Bambara
Me- Man friend doctor’s house is found where?
Driver- What’s your last name
Me- (Sigh) Diarra
Driver- That’s not good, Donkey’s have that last name
Me- My mother, thank you…what area of the city is the treatment center found in?
Driver- Diarra man it is in Koulikoro!
Me- (Sigh)
For those of you who don’t know, Koulikoro is not in Bamako it is a town about an hour drive north. So, we settled in for the ride. About 20 miles before Koulikoro, the driver abruptly turned off the road and headed into the bush. The gravel road became dirt, and then became stone slabs. We proceeded through a ravine in the mountains slowly making our way to this treatment center. I remember wondering why in the world someone would put a medical clinic in the middle of nowhere in the mountains in Mali. Finally, after about 30 minutes we reached the NOMA village. It was a series of small huts, surrounding a proper medical center. It was flanked on the left by a large swing set and merry-go-round for the children who inhabit the village. The car pulled up to the curb and 3 disfigured children quickly approached. They were very happy to see us and they immediately began preparing a hut for the new family that had arrived. Some of the children had been given up by their families and they had been at the center for years. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life and I will never forget that ride into the mountains.
After the family was comfortable in their new place, we said our goodbyes and we left. We arrived at our Peace Corps house exhausted from a long emotionally draining day. The next day we would return to the hospital and check on the baby, give the mother money to get back to Segou and head home. When we arrived we discovered the woman hadn’t eaten and she had spent all her money on bottled water to mix with the Simulac that they were feeding the baby. I tracked down a nurse and asked who I could pay to feed the mother because she wasn’t able to leave and find food. She said she didn’t know, so we walked outside and found a woman called Hawa Dembele selling food next to the hospital. This is why Mali is great, we walked up to her and began insulting her and then asked if she would bring a patient food for us. Without hesitation she agreed and promised she would bring three meals a day as long as she was in the hospital. I handed her, I am sure, way too much money and we went back in to check on the baby. We spent the rest of the day at our office in Bamako finishing work we had neglected and decided to go back to Segou the next day. We were hesitant to leave the mother alone in a strange big city. We woke the next morning and returned to the hospital. Hawa had kept her word and brought the meals and the mother seemed happier. We gave her money and promised to call and check in regularly. We left and returned to Segou. They stayed in the hospital for 3 weeks and then were released and returned to their village.
My morning routine has remained constant since I arrived in this country. I awake as my host mother begins pounding millet and wash. I walk to the wall that separates our houses and give the morning greetings and blessings. Usually Adama walks over smiling and shakes my hand. Yesterday, he wasn’t smiling as he approached me. His head was hung low and the mood at the house was one of melancholy. He told me that the father of the baby called early that morning to say that she passed away. I blessed him and the child and went to tell Mary the news. We didn’t speak for a long while and both our eyes were red the entire day. The baby had only been in our lives for a couple of days, but she had touched our lives immensely. I have attended dozens of funerals here in Mali, many of which were for children, but this was the first one that really bothered me. I tried to put it in my “numb” file but it snuck out. We tried really hard to do everything we could….Her name was Djomine Diarra she only lived 43 short days.
Safi, will begin her surgeries by the end of the year, her diet is improved and she seems more energetic. We go and visit the family when we can and she no longer wears her head wrap. The surgeries will save her life, but the scars will remain forever. If you would like to learn more or donate to the doctors that treat these diseases please visit www.smiletrain.org.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
2 years in 2 paragraphs
Dear faithful readers:
Most Peace Corps journals are started before leaving the states. Volunteers’ statements of uncertainty and excitement follow long packing lists of essential items, like toothpaste and biodegradable toilet paper. They document the departure from America, the first steps on a new continent, the smells, the tastes, everything. This blog is going to be a little different because I have already been in Mali 2 years and I am not trying to impress anyone. So, for those of you who don’t know me I’ll sum up my last two years in just a few sentences. In July of 2007 80 or so volunteers and I spent 3 days in Philadelphia filling out papers, getting shots, and drawing pictures of spiders. Then we boarded a rather large aircraft and headed to Paris. Once in Paris we were whisked off to the airport hotel and told to shower and dress professionally for our arrival in Mali. We got to Mali at 3 in the morning and were greeted by some dirty looking Americans and a bunch of buses. We loaded our luggage and drove to a training center where we were taught how to pooh in a hole, and then scammed out of American cigarettes by older volunteers. We spent a while at the training center and taught enough Bambara to only seem mildly retarded (no offense to Trig) when we got to our villages. We stayed in temporary villages for a few weeks and learned the local culture and more language and then we were sent to our permanent villages to see where we’d live for the next couple of years. I spent three days in my village and was on my way back to the capital, when I broke my leg. I lay on the dirty floor for 2 hours while people asked me questions in a language I didn’t understand. Finally an “ambulance” came and rolled me onto a stretcher. Obviously the men in the ambulance weren’t used to picking up Americans, they managed to lift me approximately 17 inches off the ground and dropped me. Finally, after some discussion, I was lifted into the ambulance/truck and driven to the “hospital”. I was laid on a gurney covered in someone else’s blood and wheeled into a room. A few minutes later a man walked in wearing a dirty lab coat, flip-flops, and a woman’s t-shirt from the Grand Canyon, he was the orthopedist. He smiled asked me my name and then reset my broken leg. I promptly passed out and woke up in another room by myself. An empty tomato paste can was placed on the floor for me to urinate in and an air splint, like John Candy’s in Summer Rental, had been placed on my leg. An hour later the Peace Corps nurse showed up, and I was driven to the capital. I was put on a plane the next day for New Orleans and arrived wearing the same bloody and muddy clothes I was wearing on the other side of the world. I had surgery, rehabbed my ankle, and returned to Mali in January 2008. For the first few months of 2008 I was playing catch up with language and cultural integration. My first projects were a series of soak pits to reduce standing water in the village and prevent Malaria and other diseases. My second project was a school garden, to teach the schoolchildren both agricultural and business techniques. For my third project I teamed up with another volunteer, Mary Althoff, to build a 6 room schoolhouse with 3 sets of bathrooms, an office for the teachers, and a rainwater harvesting system to collect much needed water during the dry season. So, basically I have spent the last year begging for money from everyone from Oprah to my dad, and that is the reason I am still here for a third year. Now, you’re caught up to the present. Today is my birthday, it is the third one I will celebrate in Mali.
Most Peace Corps journals are started before leaving the states. Volunteers’ statements of uncertainty and excitement follow long packing lists of essential items, like toothpaste and biodegradable toilet paper. They document the departure from America, the first steps on a new continent, the smells, the tastes, everything. This blog is going to be a little different because I have already been in Mali 2 years and I am not trying to impress anyone. So, for those of you who don’t know me I’ll sum up my last two years in just a few sentences. In July of 2007 80 or so volunteers and I spent 3 days in Philadelphia filling out papers, getting shots, and drawing pictures of spiders. Then we boarded a rather large aircraft and headed to Paris. Once in Paris we were whisked off to the airport hotel and told to shower and dress professionally for our arrival in Mali. We got to Mali at 3 in the morning and were greeted by some dirty looking Americans and a bunch of buses. We loaded our luggage and drove to a training center where we were taught how to pooh in a hole, and then scammed out of American cigarettes by older volunteers. We spent a while at the training center and taught enough Bambara to only seem mildly retarded (no offense to Trig) when we got to our villages. We stayed in temporary villages for a few weeks and learned the local culture and more language and then we were sent to our permanent villages to see where we’d live for the next couple of years. I spent three days in my village and was on my way back to the capital, when I broke my leg. I lay on the dirty floor for 2 hours while people asked me questions in a language I didn’t understand. Finally an “ambulance” came and rolled me onto a stretcher. Obviously the men in the ambulance weren’t used to picking up Americans, they managed to lift me approximately 17 inches off the ground and dropped me. Finally, after some discussion, I was lifted into the ambulance/truck and driven to the “hospital”. I was laid on a gurney covered in someone else’s blood and wheeled into a room. A few minutes later a man walked in wearing a dirty lab coat, flip-flops, and a woman’s t-shirt from the Grand Canyon, he was the orthopedist. He smiled asked me my name and then reset my broken leg. I promptly passed out and woke up in another room by myself. An empty tomato paste can was placed on the floor for me to urinate in and an air splint, like John Candy’s in Summer Rental, had been placed on my leg. An hour later the Peace Corps nurse showed up, and I was driven to the capital. I was put on a plane the next day for New Orleans and arrived wearing the same bloody and muddy clothes I was wearing on the other side of the world. I had surgery, rehabbed my ankle, and returned to Mali in January 2008. For the first few months of 2008 I was playing catch up with language and cultural integration. My first projects were a series of soak pits to reduce standing water in the village and prevent Malaria and other diseases. My second project was a school garden, to teach the schoolchildren both agricultural and business techniques. For my third project I teamed up with another volunteer, Mary Althoff, to build a 6 room schoolhouse with 3 sets of bathrooms, an office for the teachers, and a rainwater harvesting system to collect much needed water during the dry season. So, basically I have spent the last year begging for money from everyone from Oprah to my dad, and that is the reason I am still here for a third year. Now, you’re caught up to the present. Today is my birthday, it is the third one I will celebrate in Mali.
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