Maureen

Maureen is one of those students you get to know pretty quickly. Super happy and friendly, always saying hello and making me welcome right from the start. I remember early on, I bumped into her on a Sunday night and she insisted I share her mondazi with her- despite it being only one of two they get per week. 

A few weeks into term one she came and asked me about a rash she had developed. I gave her a few different creams to try, unfortunately they yielded no result and I remember giving her a leave out form to go to the clinic for treatment. With so many students and so much going on her case was soon in the back of my mind. 

However, at the beginning of term two she didn't report back with the other students. In fact she didn't come back for  over a month. 

Walking out the library one morning I felt like I was in a nightmare. I could see a student crossing the yard who looked like Maureen but then I thought it simply couldn't possibly be. 

Her legs were swollen like balloons, her face twice the size. Her skin was all flaky and falling off. She was walking so so incredible slow, each step obviously causing a great amount of pain. I felt scared to talk to her. 

I had to know what was going on though so I immediately went over and greeted her, I sat her on a nearby bench and asked for the full story.

She said her condition had gotten worse and worse until she couldn't move. She had been to the clinic and the district hospital but she said after doing tests they could find nothing and actually told her she would just have to go home and die. 

Hearing a positive and friendly 18 yr old talking about death like this was something that really shook me. 

I heard more about how her family was 'cursed' by grandmother and four of her siblings had previously died, the only suggestion that was offered to Maureen was that she seek out some witchcraft to attempt to cure her.

Yet despite the situation Maureen was so positive. She told me she believed God loved her and she was getting better. 

The next few days told a different story about her health though. I visited her room regularly and found her trying to disguise her tears and tell me the pain wasn't so bad. I felt so helpless and wished I knew what was wrong. I took photos of her and sent them to two doctor friends in Australia and Wales for advice, but not being here it was difficult for them to know the best way forward. 

At the local clinic...

I took her to the clinic a few times for symptom treatment and painkiller injections. But none of it made any real difference. The 'clinic' is of dubious quality. The 'doctor' said maybe she was allergic to protein and should not eat any beans anymore and also that she had malaria (a common diagnosis for just about any kind of sickness). He poured some green liquid into a second hand bottle and told her to drink it 2x a day. When he went out the room I checked the container of the green liquid and saw it was simply an anti- histamine, recommended for 'running noses'. With due respect to the clinician (I guess you can only work with what knowledge and resources you have) I decided to research other options- I had seen a medical centre in new shopping mall in town and so I looked them up and organised a time for Maureen to leave school and come for treatment. 

The medical centre was clean, well equipped and clinical. The doctor was clearly intelligent and spoke good English. He asked many questions, did a blood test and spoke on the phone to colleagues in other areas of Kenya. Finally he explained that it was a severe form of dermatitis that affects the flexor surfaces and had been untreated for so long hence the severe reaction. He was very optimistic about her situation, administered an injection and prescribed further drugs to take home.

Last week Maureen came bouncing into the library giggling and asked me to watch as she jumped in the air 'look how well I am now madam!'.

I have since taken her back again for further treatment and although it is not a condition that can be completely cured, she is now back to normal and not experiencing any nasty symptoms anymore.

Certainly not an experience I want to repeat but so glad it has had the outcome it had! 

So much maize...

Maize is the staple food in Kenya. 

It is eaten as a porridge for breakfast, cooked together with beans for lunch, ground into a flour to make ugali for supper, or eaten roasted straight off the fire. Although nowhere near as tasty as sweet corn, when it is freshly roasted it isn't a bad snack- despite having practically zero nutritional value besides a bit of energy. 

Everyone who has land grows maize.  Not having much of a farming background I have found it so awesome watching fields get ploughed, neighbours and friends working in teams and helping each other to plant seed and then witnessing the crops grow out the ground, almost visibly changing on a daily basis until they are towering above me as I walk past (or on occasion- through!).

At this time of year- just coming into harvest- there are fields of maize absolutely everywhere. 

Initially I wondered about theft- if people are hungry why don't they just nick it from unprotected fields? What could the owners do to stop it? 

As it turns out, people do just nick it. It's a common problem that unless you were happy to keep watch over your field  24:7 doesn't really have a solution. The school principal banned students from bringing maize to school to roast and supplement their meals as he said he didn't want to encourage theft and there is no way of knowing if it is stolen or not. 

I have been generously presented with much fresh maize from kind students and neighbours. Initially I was unsure what to do with it as I truly can't eat it in the same quantities that the locals do. However I have found if I take it to the kitchen and roast it I will soon be joined by many willing students keen to help me finish it up. 

The locals really struggle to understand our lack of it at home. 

When discussing with the school staff about the fact I had never eaten ugali before I came here they were shocked. Some declaring they could never visit Australia because they would starve from lack of ugali. 

One was clearly struggling with the concept of no ugali and I could see the bewilderment on his face as tried to come to terms with it... ' but madam, if you don't have ugali... What do you do with all your maize!?' 

Hospital Time

With over 200 people living here and around 100 extra day scholars I get a lot of requests for medical help- from minor first aid to more serious stuff.

One student approached me the other day complaining of pain that sounded to me like a UTI. I decided that this was one case I should probably refer to a higher power and decided to take her to the district hospital (around half an hours drive away).

Myself, Des, the student and her friend for company headed off to the hospital. Despite having never been there before and not speaking much of the language, it is assumed by the student that I know exactly what to do and where to go. There is a plethora of buildings with handwritten signs stuck up with tape above various doors. Luckily Des had been there previously and pointed me in the right direction for registration.

I headed up to join the long queue to give details and pay- a tired looking worker is seated in a small box like office and serving people very slowly through a grated window. A large lady in a smart blue dress waltzes up and grins widely as she elbows in front of me in the line. I thought that perhaps she was part of admin or something but as it turned out she was just a patient like us.

Eventually it is our turn, I hand over 1000 shillings (around $12) and the lady tells me registration cost 330 but I can get my change ‘later’.

We find our way  to a ‘waiting room’- a collection of chairs gathered by a couple of doors labelled ‘consultation 1’ and ‘consultation 2’. We sit waiting for quite some minutes as I try and figure out what the process is. No staff seem to be around for us to inform of our presence and I soon realise that when a patient leaves one of the rooms whoever gets in the door first gets seen next. Our blue lady friend pushes in front again (somehow she had arrived at the waiting area after us) and I wisen up and guide my student through the door next to get seen by the nurse.

The nurse tells us that we need to go to the lab for some tests. But first we must go and pay again.

Back to our reception area and we line up- rather fruitlessly as the receptionist has gone to lunch. After a wait she returns and we tell her what we have been directed to do, she says she’ll deduct 250 from my balance-I can come for change ‘later’. I’m starting to realise why they don’t give the change at the beginning!

At the lab after a wait we are given a bottle for a urine sample and sent out of the hospital to a long drop toilet at the back of the block.

The results come back within half an hour and we get told to go back to the consultation area.

Back outside the consultation rooms a fellow patient tells us the doctor ‘is not around’ so we must wait.

A nurse comes along and tells us we are not in the right area and if returned from tests we need to sit on some different chairs. We move to the right chairs. Doctor returns. It appears it doesn’t matter what chair you sit in, its still first in best served. By now my student is looking exhausted and ready to collapse, I pull her up and we stand right at the door. Someone exits the room and just as we walk in, a tiny little wippet of a kid sneaks between us and into the consultation chair.

The grinning blue lady returns and lurks behind us as if deliberating the best means to get past us and through the open door first. I can feel the competition in the air… there are no muzungu privileges here.

As soon as the kid stands up from his chair I shove my student into the room and shut the door behind us.

The doctor gives us the diagnosis (UTI -woohoo for my diagnostics!) and tells us we need to pay again and then go to the pharmacy section.

Go back to wait and pay again. When it is my turn at the window another lady pushes in front, her face cm from mine peering in the grate and speaking rapid-fire Swahili to the receptionist. She tilts her head slightly stops her Swahili and says Hi' in my face. Considering the end is in sight I manage a courteous reply.

The receptionist has lost her stapler and is faffing about rifling through papers and stuff. I don't care that my pile of receipts has no staple and just take it from her along with my few shillings change.

A final wait at the pharmacy, we are given the necessary drugs and are out of there!

Considering we are in remote Western Kenya I am relatively impressed with the services, in total it was less than three hours and around $10 and now a week later the student is much improved :)