The Bug that Bit Me

I had an interesting and educational experience at the hospital this last week. Forgive me if this is long and detailed, but this is one of those moments I want to remember for a while.

You know the phrase, “Don’t let the bed bugs bite?” Well, technically it wasn’t a bed bug, but it definitely bit me. On the arm, to be specific.

I don’t have any proof that the little culprit attacked at night, but last Monday morning I noticed the crease in my arm looked a little red. By that afternoon there was a bright red crescent on the inside of my arm. It looked like I had been neatly bit by a Chadian vampire. I smeared some aloe vera on it and figured it would go away.

The next day it was worse. It looked a little bumpy and it burned. My host parents took a look and decided right away it was an insect bite. They picked some aloe vera and applied it to my now nasty-looking arm. It didn’t help. Although I was in pretty good spirits, I couldn’t use my right arm. The little bugger picked the right spot to keep me from bending and extending my arm comfortably. So I ate, hauled water, and brushed my teeth with my left hand (anyone who thinks that is easy should try brushing their teeth with their other arm. not as effective).

Wednesday morning my arm began to bubble. It was doctor time. Sem (our go-to guy and my new best friend) took me to a clinic near his house. By now I was pretty self conscious about how gross my arm looked. Most Chadians looked at it and made that noise that seems to indicate that situations that aren’t good (“iiiiee” – phonetically). I followed Sem onto the tidy hospital grounds and to a tiny house area that turned out to be the office/pharmacy. They filled out a little paper book with my name and age and, after eyeing up my little wound,  sent me to the next building (no paperwork necessary).

This next building had cement benches around the door that seated about 30 people; an outdoor waiting room. I was the hot thing to watch as a nurse weighed me and stuck a thermometer in my armpit. Then she pointed me into the hospital, gesturing that I should remove my shoes before I entered the curtained doorway. The room I walked into housed 4 beds separated by curtains, and one of those blood pressure machines. I got my blood pressure checked, then sat on the edge of a hospital bed and tried not to touch anything or get freaked out. The place was very clean and neat considering where it was located, but it was also very basic and smelled like…a hospital.

A blessing walked around the corner when a blonde girl, a little older than me, appeared to ask me some questions in beautiful English. She and another girl, both Danish, were spending a month in Moundou working at the hospital. Like most others, she didn’t know what exactly was happening on my arm. Unfortunately, the American doctor who ran the clinic was in N’djamena so I met with another Chadian doctor. He was young with a round face and slightly spastic manner. I must have made him a little bit nervous because he giggled a lot (or maybe that was his personality). He introduced himself (giggle) and then took my hand and physically led me to a curtained doorway (giggle). Then changed his mind (giggle) and yanked me the other direction. Now, I am not a huge fan of strangers touching me especially in a foreign hospital, but the big problem was that he happened to be pulling on my tender arm. I hate to admit that I made some quick and unfair judgments right then about this man’s credentials.

The young doctor must have decided that his office was the best place to go because I was led into a small room with a desk. Thankfully, Tine, one of the Danish girls, followed along with a Chadian woman who I think was a trainee. Tine told him that I might have been bitten by an insect and he agreed without really looking at my arm. He decided I was having an allergic reaction to a bug bite and prescribed some pills (similar to benodryl I think) and an ointment. By the time I left the trainee was asleep in the chair next to me and I was not feeling particularly confident that I would recover quickly.

Sem and I ended up searching Moundou’s pharmacies (all which were run by Muslims, interestingly) and only finding the pills. Sem sent for the cream in N’djamena, although I never got it. The pills made me drowsy and that was about it. The next day the little bubbles on my arm were turning colors, although it didn’t hurt quite as bad. This meant another trip to the doctor on Friday!

I actually felt better on Friday, but we made the trip anyway on the rumor that the American doctor would be in. I went through the whole process again and ended up seated, again, on a hospital bed trying not to watch a sick woman get an IV. One of the Danish girls walked by and said, “You’re back! Is it worse? Oh, yes it is.” The American doctor, and young man in his 30s named James, was there but was pretty busy (saving lives by the sounds coming from down the hall ) so guess who I got to spend some more time with?? Dr. Giggles!!

This time he really did inspect my arm, which was a little scary because he was pretty rough and kept getting really close to it while pointing things out. We actually played tug of war with my arm for a while until he giggled and noted that I was scared. No kidding! He decided I should start taking antibiotics and put the prescription in my little book. I decided to be proactive by now and asked if they could at least clean it and wrap it up. He thought this was a good idea and handed me over to Tine. After going to the little pharmacy to buy the gauze Tine needed, I ended up in a little examining room. Again, the place was clean but so stark. Tine cleaned my arm with a mixture of chlorine and water (which she says actually works) and right before she smeared zinc on it the American doctor peeked in.

He glanced at my arm and said that it was definitely going to be ok with just some cleaning. Before he could disappear I asked if he knew what bug bit me. He said nonchalantly, “Oh yeah, in Chad there’s these bugs that drip acid. It’s a good thing it wasn’t in your eyes.” The said antibiotics weren’t necessary and disappeared. I got wrapped up and sent on my merry way, feeling much better about my health and a little worse about Chadian insects.

In all honesty, I never really felt too bad during this experience. I had faith it would work out and felt lucky that it was only a patch of nasty on my arm. The hospital I visited was a good one, especially compared to the others in Moundou where even mending a break does not often go well. I paid under 20 US  for everything, but I also saw how far behind Chadian healthcare really is. It is incredibly sad. The American and European doctors that decide to give their lives to third-world medicine are selfless and brave.

I guess I need to rescind my previous statement saying that I was bit by a bug. I should say that I was dripped on by a bug. Hopefully now he can keep to himself.

Seriously, my parents were worried that this acidic drip would mar my experience, but I haven’t felt that way at all. I have had wonderful people take care of me (I gorged myself on fried plantains made by Sem’s amazing wife) and have had the opportunity to see what medical treatment might be like if I was not an American. I feel fortunate to have witnessed this, although it was from a distance. Again, this was another week where I discovered what a blessed life I lead. May everyone reading this be happy, and healthy, and aware of your blessings.

and don’t let the bug bugs bite…

The Thief in the Marketplace

In my opinion, in order to really get a feel for the culture of a place, one needs to visit the local market. In the United States our grocery stores are filled with neat lines of packaged food with soft music playing in the background. The shopping experience is a little different in Chad.

There are numerous markets littered across Moundou, but the one my family visits is about a 5 minute moto ride away. Every afternoon, an unorganized mass of people (mostly women) gathers in an open square (or triangle) with their mats, produce, and bargaining skills. The fish vendors tend to stay to one side, with the vegetables, spices, charcoal, and fruit to the other. Little paths in the dirt, and sometimes mud, remain for the buyers to navigate with their plastic bags and pocket change. Some sellers have a large mat fully covered with their particular goods, but others only have a plate with a few items on it; most likely picked from their own trees or gardens. Women sit on their mats and children walk around with platters. Traffic zooms by on either side, adding moto horns to the noise of bargaining, laughing, shouting, and the constant booming of music vendors who crank their poor sound systems in the direction of the market.

I have visited the market a few times with my host mother, and I definitely stood out. The first time I had the opportunity to watch the process was about three weeks ago. I tried to keep my feet out of puddles and my elbows out of other women’s bags, while platters of whole fish stared at me with glazed eyes. Every few seconds the fish ladies would throw some water on them to lift the screen of flies that crawled over everything. In unison, the flies would scatter, only to return again. I was thinking about the sanitation of gutting the fish next to these platters when I noticed that there were at least 4 children with platters following me. I don’t think they actually expected me to buy something, but I was something new to watch. So now I walk through the market like a mother duck with a little following.

Anyway, the last time I visited the market with my host mother I got to experience another aspect of the market place. I was standing behind my mother as a vendor gutted, without looking, the pile fish my mother had just purchased. As they dropped the fish straight into our plastic bag, a very scary looking man bumped into my mother. She responded with the typical Chadian, “Ai!” and clutched her purse. They exchanged a few tense words and he slipped away. It took my mother maybe 15 seconds to figure out that he had actually opened a zipper in her purse and snitched her phone. She got angry really quickly, as did the other fish ladies, and pushed our grocery bag into my arms. Then she took off into the throng of people, leaving me standing in the middle of the market with a large bag of fish.

This was a very surreal moment for me. There were enough people in the market that I couldn’t really see where she was going, other than a random glimpse of her purple headscarf that bounced through the crowd. It helped that half of the market place saw a fairly plump woman running through the square, so they jumped up to follow and watch the action. I didn’t know if I should follow, or if I should stay there so my mother could find me after she…whatever she was planning on doing. For a second I floated outside of my body and saw myself; a young, white girl with no French or Ngambi knowledge, holding a bag of fish that was slowly dripping onto her shoe. I was in Africa. How the heck did I get here? This feeling wasn’t fear, but more wonder than anything else. I couldn’t help laughing at the situation.

In a few minutes my mother returned, panting and sweating up a storm. She relayed the story to the questioning ladies across the market (all who shook their heads at that bad man) as we finished up our shopping. She told me that she had actually found the thief in a car on the other side of the square. No one else had stopped him because they were scared of him. I guess he is known as a pretty dangerous criminal in the area (I would like to reiterate how scary this guy looked – yikes). However, my mother must have had a pretty stern talking to him because before we left, to my surprise, she whipped out her phone. Then she did one of her wonderful laughs and said, “God was with us today!”

There are so many things I loved about this experience. I loved watching that woman book it across the market place in her Sunday clothes. I loved the group of women that gathered around her to offer their two cents about thieves. I loved watching a grown man (very scary man) be brought to justice by a woman: gender equality in Africa is not really up to my standards. And I loved that my host mother credited this moment to God. The faith of my family, and the church community in general, is incredible. Even from a thief in the market place.