almost religious zeal. Like queuing in an orderly fashion and selling arms,
talking about the weather is what we in Britain do best. So, here goes.
It had been hot, very hot until the last few weeks. Slowly and without a lot
of warning, thick bubbling clouds began to appear on the edges of the
horizon. Huge columns of dark vapour hung in the air, menacing. On Monday it
was exceptionally hot, the heat building to a crescendo during lunchtime
until finally, at around four o'clock, mother nature flicked a switch and
unleashed a storm like I have never seen (and this from a bloke who has
spent many a summer in Ireland!). The rain fell by the gallon as fork
lightening and rumbling thunder rolled across the sky. The soil here has all
the absorbency of Lego and the water worked its way into natural divots
before wearing very large grooves in the ground.
Afterwards the village was complete mess. Most of the huts had been
constructed this year and had not been given the full rainy season acid
test. It was clear from the buckled roofs and walls that many had
spectacularly failed. The next few days were spent making hasty repairs.
Most of these repairs themselves needed repairs after a similarly vicious
squall on Thursday.
Anyway life at the clinic continued. We are currently preparing for my
'final' farewell tour; it has been a bit of a long goodbye. Six different
locations to visit and say 'cheery o' to so I'm starting to feel like one of
those ageing rock stars stuck on their nineteenth farewell tour.
The days spent in the clinic are ticking over nicely. We are waiting for the
road to dry up so we can transport timber and other logistical supplies to
try and patch up the clinic before heavy rain becomes and frequent rather
and infrequent visitor.
In many ways the clinical stuff is what keeps me going at times of
stagnation like this. We have had one child this week that was seen by me in
an outreach site. He was clearly gravely ill and it was the sort of case
that could have been diagnosed by the brownies. The child had meningitis,
pneumonia, malaria and tetanus. I hit him with every drug I had at my
disposal that I thought might do some good and told the mother to take him
to the base site. She didn't. I assumed the child had died on the way.
I returned to the base site with no news on where the child was. It was dark
and late at night when the clinics guard came to get me from my tent. The
rain was pouring down; all that my head torch could make out were the
thousands of dazzling, raindrops falling in front of me. 'Come, come' he
said. The rain moved up a few gears to the one labelled 'torrential'
We trudged through the mud along the path up to the clinic. And there,
crouched and soaked in the corner of the hut was the child and mother. There
had been a security problem along the road from the outreach clinic so she
had had to detour hugely.
The child was still alive, but there wasn't much in it. I called for back up
(the base doctor) and set about trying to sort out the patient. Again a
plethora of antibiotics and tetanus treatment was soon being sought. As I
hunted round the pitch-black medical store looking for boxes the doctor was
in the process of trying to resuscitate the child whose heart had just
stopped beating. The rain on the tin roof was so loud, despite being only a
few feet away I couldn't hear him calling for me.
Thankfully, miraculously, after a big slug of adrenaline the child returned
to healthy sinus rhythm but remained deeply unconscious. To say the
situation was bleak would be the understatement of the year, dire I think is
a more apt description. Four diseases all of which had the capability to
kill him, and he continued to fight them all throughout the days and nights
that followed. Ever day I left the clinic convinced the next time I'd see
him would be to break terrible news.
Yesterday he walked and giggled as we blew bubbles over his head. I wish
every case ended this way, but I guess if they did, then kids like this
wouldn't seem so special.
