I spent four nights this last week working in Peace Ward. Peace Ward is really not very peaceful! Since I got here, I have been only working in Faith Ward or Hope Ward where we have the ladies who have had VVF surgeries and the occasional eye patient.
But for some reason, they put me in Peace Ward - I'm ready to go back to Faith/Hope. Peace Ward holds patients who have had orthopedic surgeries (club feet repairs, bone fracture repairs, burn releases) and they are all in casts. It is also a mixture of kids and adults and that is why it's not peaceful.
Kids and pain and our white faces make for a lot of screaming and crying. Kids also means there are a lot of extra people around since they all have a caregiver (mom, dad, aunt, etc.) that stay with them at all times. (A funny side note: the caregivers sleep on mattresses under the beds of their kids...not something you see much of in the States). And then you mix those kids with adults who have also had surgery all in one big room and you have chaos. Not to mention, Pippolo, the clown comes down every evening to entertain the kids by making balloon animals.
Fortunately my patients were all adults except for Esther, a 16 year old. I've been caring for Ella who is 84 years old - that is a miracle in this country. She is well-off and has traveled all over the world. Her children and grandchildren live in the U.S. She had her hip repaired and has been here about 12 days and she has had enough. Her bed is right next to Roosevelt - the 7 year old who is in a cast from his waist to his knees and apparently she doesn't like his manners.
One night, she was complaining to me about him and just kept saying 'That boy is too frisky.' I had a good internal laugh about her terminology. But an hour later, she was offering him a piece of her apple.
Then there is 16 year old Esther. When she was three, the rebels put her arm in a fire. She came here because her arm
had contracted and needed to have the scar tissue released (it's called a burn contracture release). She has her arm in a cast and wires sticking out from the tips of her fingers. I can barely stand to look at it. She endures painful dressing changes every three days. Unbelievably, she is always smiling...and she's pretty pampered by the nurses...the word 'princess' comes to mind (notice the tiara:).
Here's a picture of Esther (on the right) with my roommate Megan. She taught Megan how to carry things on top of her head like a real African woman. It took several nights of practice but Megan's pretty good at it now.
And speaking of a princess, the names of the kids on the ward make me smile. Here are the names of some of the kids currently in the hospital: Princess, Remember, Roosevelt, Baby, Angel, Mustapha (isn't that from The Lion King?) The adults' names seem to be names we are used to or African names but there seems to be some odd naming trend going on with the younger generation.
Waterside Market
On a totally unrelated topic, I went with three friends to Waterside market yesterday. We went in a cab with 7 people in it that was built for five - and amazingly, the cabbie didn't rip us off when we paid the fare. Waterside market is several long streets filled with hundreds and hundreds of people walking around, seemingly doing nothing. There are street vendors selling anything you can imagine, some with their product in wheelbarrows (like chicken) and some on their heads. Others just sit on the sidewalk with their stuff all laid out neatly on blankets. For some reason, there are lots of vendors selling dishes.
Then there are vendors that have a little booth and some even have actual stores you go into (these all seem to be owned by Lebanese people rather than Africans - at least the ones we went in). We spent an hour or so 'shopping' which isn't really the same kind we do in the States.
When we walk down the streets, we stand out and everyone is always watching us. And not only do they watch us, they constantly yell things at us (more specifically, only men do this). This is what we hear as we are walking: hey, whi woma marra me (meaning hey, white woman marry me); musy ship (meaning mercy ships); be ma fren (be my friend); or just plain hey, hey! And they make lots of sucking noises at us which is horribly offensive. Anyways, it's why I don't go shopping often!
I wish I had a picture to show you but it's a little dangerous to take out a camera in a crowd. The amount I paid for my camera is a year's wages for a Liberian and so we try not to do anything else that draws attention to us.
We caught a taxi back home and met a wonderful cabbie named Musu. He was married with three children and a granddaughter. Wow, he was passionate about Liberia and America (as they call the U.S.) and the younger Liberian generation and how they wanted handouts and didn't want to work and what the last three wars have been like. Prior to the war, he had a good job in a bank. Now he drives a taxi seven days a week but he owns the taxi and all he makes is his. We got a flat tire on the way back which will cost him $21.00 US to fix which is a few days wages for him.
I find that getting out and experiencing the Liberian culture in a mass of people is tiring and bizarre. But when I meet individual Liberians (like Musu) and have a chance to talk to them and learn more about their lives, it is an amazing experience and it makes me glad I am here. After a few hours out in Monrovia, it also makes me thankful for the air conditioning and my little cubbie home on the ship.
Tribute to Collin
It has been just under a month since our crew member, Collin, died here. It still makes me sad as I pass the door to his cabin which was right next to mine. On the Mercy Ships website, http://www.mercyships.org/, there is a video tribute to Collin on the first page. It was played during his memorial service here on the ship. It is his family's wish that Collin's work here not be forgotten and I ask that you view the video and let his message penetrate your heart. Continue to pray for his parents, sisters and other family as we continue to do here.
Peace,
Michele
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