Salima, Malawi … Our car races along behind the yellow Cool Runnings Chevrolet 1975 pick up truck as it
bounces over the broken tarmac road from Senga Bay to the district hospital west of the Salima Trading Center in central Malawi. Samatha Ludick from the Cool Runnings resort and the Clinic at the Gate is at it again. The patient in the back of the truck is 80-year-old Hawa Dhaibu, aged mother of Cool Runnings employee Madjidu Mawuadi. Two days ago she fell, but said nothing to anyone about getting medical care. Now, even from this distance behind the pick up, the curve of her foot seems to clearly indicate she probably has a broken hip. “What will happen next,” I asked? “She will never walk again,” Suzi responded, from the seat beside me, with a tone that reflects years of experience. “Usually at this age many will just give up and die,” she concludes. Watching her son sitting beside his mother holding her hand I can’t help but wonder if Magic fully understands what all of this may mean to her, him and the family. After the bumpy drive up a cut off to the hospital that must be giving her excruciating pain we reach the Salima District Hospital. It is the main hospital for the entire Salima District (or state), and would be equal to having her in a single major hospital in a state capital in the U.S. But this is not America, and there is no
similarity between this hospital and those in America. We had been here in previous years and impressed with the heroic effort by the medical staff to keep a clean, efficient facility in spite of the major shortage of medical supplies and equipment. Entering the hospital one looks down long hallways and along polished floors that hold no intrusive smells of third world medicine. A slight warm breeze wafts across the hallway from clean, levered windows. Hushed conversations drift out under closed doors and the hallway contains a number of clean, though old, hospital gurneys. “How old,” I ask? “Before my time. World War II or before,” Suzi concludes. I add it up. That means these gurneys are close to 60 years old. Imagine anything 60 years old still in use in an American health care facility. I look at the ceiling. Metal, slated, rusty roof panels look down on me. When I look again a nurse is coming toward me, face covered in a blue mask, slowly pulling a gurney. Behind her follows a group of 12 or 15 young women wearing somber expressions. As they pass the sheet on the gurney outlines a tiny body covered completely from head to foot. A death has occurred. Down the hall they go, through the double doors, and down the walk toward the morgue. I recall a short time earlier hearing crying from behind one of the hallway doors. Minutes tick by. We arrived around 9:40. 10:45, then 11. Cell phone calls in order to reach someone in authority begin, and then the connection
is suddenly lost. Call back and try again. Finally the call is complete and it is explained that a new protocol is in place. Word comes that the patient must be taken back to the woman’s ward where we had taken her in the beginning. Finally at 11:30 we must leave. Samatha waits by the bedside until noon, and then she must leave as well. No x-ray tech has come. No medical officers, and no doctor. It is Saturday and it appears no one will come to attend to her until Monday. In the meantime the little old lady from Mukuti Village will lie in bed on a broken hip and wonder if she is going to die here.
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bounces over the broken tarmac road from Senga Bay to the district hospital west of the Salima Trading Center in central Malawi. Samatha Ludick from the Cool Runnings resort and the Clinic at the Gate is at it again. The patient in the back of the truck is 80-year-old Hawa Dhaibu, aged mother of Cool Runnings employee Madjidu Mawuadi. Two days ago she fell, but said nothing to anyone about getting medical care. Now, even from this distance behind the pick up, the curve of her foot seems to clearly indicate she probably has a broken hip. “What will happen next,” I asked? “She will never walk again,” Suzi responded, from the seat beside me, with a tone that reflects years of experience. “Usually at this age many will just give up and die,” she concludes. Watching her son sitting beside his mother holding her hand I can’t help but wonder if Magic fully understands what all of this may mean to her, him and the family. After the bumpy drive up a cut off to the hospital that must be giving her excruciating pain we reach the Salima District Hospital. It is the main hospital for the entire Salima District (or state), and would be equal to having her in a single major hospital in a state capital in the U.S. But this is not America, and there is no.jpg)
similarity between this hospital and those in America. We had been here in previous years and impressed with the heroic effort by the medical staff to keep a clean, efficient facility in spite of the major shortage of medical supplies and equipment. Entering the hospital one looks down long hallways and along polished floors that hold no intrusive smells of third world medicine. A slight warm breeze wafts across the hallway from clean, levered windows. Hushed conversations drift out under closed doors and the hallway contains a number of clean, though old, hospital gurneys. “How old,” I ask? “Before my time. World War II or before,” Suzi concludes. I add it up. That means these gurneys are close to 60 years old. Imagine anything 60 years old still in use in an American health care facility. I look at the ceiling. Metal, slated, rusty roof panels look down on me. When I look again a nurse is coming toward me, face covered in a blue mask, slowly pulling a gurney. Behind her follows a group of 12 or 15 young women wearing somber expressions. As they pass the sheet on the gurney outlines a tiny body covered completely from head to foot. A death has occurred. Down the hall they go, through the double doors, and down the walk toward the morgue. I recall a short time earlier hearing crying from behind one of the hallway doors. Minutes tick by. We arrived around 9:40. 10:45, then 11. Cell phone calls in order to reach someone in authority begin, and then the connection.jpg)
is suddenly lost. Call back and try again. Finally the call is complete and it is explained that a new protocol is in place. Word comes that the patient must be taken back to the woman’s ward where we had taken her in the beginning. Finally at 11:30 we must leave. Samatha waits by the bedside until noon, and then she must leave as well. No x-ray tech has come. No medical officers, and no doctor. It is Saturday and it appears no one will come to attend to her until Monday. In the meantime the little old lady from Mukuti Village will lie in bed on a broken hip and wonder if she is going to die here.