Another Day, Another Hospital

At the Tambacounda hospital, one is greeted by a multitude of posters warning of the dangers of spreading disease by shaking hands. One poster even says "here, we don't shake hands." Though I understand shaking hands is one of the top ways to move a virus around, this seems a little extreme. I guess the hospital administrators think so too: The first thing we did when meeting anyone—doctors, nurses, the hospital director—was shake each and every hand. And after reading all those signs, the first thing I did upon returning to the car was take out the hand sanitizer.

After the hand-shaking, we sat down in the director's office to say hello. The plan was to essentially pay our respects, then split into two teams—three people to stay with the director, three of us carry on to the next stop. Just as we were getting ready to go, though, M. le Directeur offered us refreshments. Of course, we couldn't turn him down, even though we were really not thirsty, and had places to go, people to see. So we sat back down, waited another ten minutes or so for our Cokes and Fantas to arrive, then spent another ten minutes or so drinking them leisurely before we could be on our way. What exactly did this little ritual accomplish?

Next stop: Goudiry health center. While waiting to talk to the midwife, we interviewed a couple of the clients waiting their turn. Well, Abdoulaye, our man in Dakar, interviewed, while Susan and I watched, since the health center clients don't speak French, of course. One of them, in fact, spoke only Peul, so a nurse's aide translated Abdoulaye's Wolof. I can't imagine what these women thought about being grilled by a doctor from Dakar in front of two toubaps (white people). And I don't know what purpose my presence served, but I enjoyed the air conditioning. (Tambacounda forecast for tomorrow: 102 degrees Fahrenheit.)