Blog post #1

Blog Post #1

Zambia GH

James Hickling

6/18/17

One experience I have had that has particularly stood out to me in Zambia so far is shadowing in the malnutrition ward of the pediatrics wing at University of Zambia school of medicine teaching hospital. My shadowing partner and I, Tiffany, arrived at the wing around 9 a.m., and were introduced by the head of teaching, Dr. Songwe, to the Doctor in charge of the wing, Dr. Chandwe. Upon entering the wing, I was immediately struck by how open it was, with fifty or more beds with sick children all in the same large room. Dr. Songwe had explained that this building had used to be the kitchen for the hospital, but had since been renovated and converted into the malnutrition ward. Dr. Chandwe was immediately very accommodating to us, explaining what he was doing with each patient, describing the disease and the factors, biological and sociological, that lead to a child ending up with the condition. I was deeply struck by how sad it was to see malnourished babies so young, with their bones showing and their stomachs swelling from edema. Babies with sickle cell anemia, cystic fibrosis, meningitis, Hepatitis, and HIV. One child, his limbs frozen in an outward position and the front of his skull shrunken because of cystic fibrosis, was particularly heart broken. He had been born with HIV, his own mother not knowing her HIV status until she brought her child into the hospital and he was tested leading to her own testing. This child had been brought into the world without much of a chance at all, born into poverty with the crippling immune disease, exposed to infection and meningitis that had hindered brain development and lead to his cystic fibrosis. His mother sat by his bedside, stone-faced and helpless.

This experience made me realize the sad state of Zambian public health, that even the most advanced hospital in the country endures what would be considered abhorrent conditions in the U.S. Observing Dr. Chandwe gave me faith that the system has good doctors, working hard to improve the health of the country and having success in doing so. This experience also reaffirmed my interest in shadowing at the hospital, and I am eager to see what other wards of pediatrics are like.

This isn't blog post 1: Life Lessons from DJ Life

Life Lessons from DJ Life

I remember my first time - swim-moving my way through a throng of people who looked a bit like me but not entirely. When I got to the bus station, it was a chaos I didn't yet understand. Megaphones and flip-flops and bus after bus after bus, all demarcated only by the cheesy little phrases pasted on bumpers and windows. To the left was the "jealous people never win" bus, to the front, the "God's timing is best" bus, to the left, the "nothing is impossible" bus. I couldn't help but chuckle at the influx of unsolicited, cliché advice. It was exactly what I'd come to expect here: something just unusual enough to remind me I'm on the other side of the world.

But however trite, the phrases, or at least the fact that they were posted at all, were profound. They were a subtle reminder that Zambia had a lot to teach me - often in the most unexpected places. This week, for example, it's taught me a thing or two about patience.

At first, it bugged me how habitual my life is here. Before I began taking the minibus to work, Karl and I would hitch a ride from a relative of our host family. She was a joy to be around, dedicated to helping us navigate what would become our new home. She often reminded me of my old home too, though, because, as we found out during our 45-minute car rides, she was a big fan of country music. DJ Life, the radio DJ who catered to her sonic desires every morning at 8:30, was a staple of those rides to work, playing the familiar twings and twangs they only make in Texas and Tennessee. After a couple days of this, I realized the disappointing truth: DJ Life plays the same 5 country songs every day. He isn’t a DJ, I thought. He’s a button-pusher with a good memory.

Soon, my realization got me thinking about my time in Zambia so far. About how, when I ate my first meal with my host family, the restaurant played the same Christian rock song on replay for at least 30 minutes. About how each day I have the same routine: I sit at the same desk, reading from the same screen all day, before riding home to take pictures on the same plot of land and then watch one of a set of the same TLC shows, and top it all off with the same nshima dinner where I ask someone to teach me the same Nyanja phrase I’d learned the day before. The situation was clear: I’m now more predictable than I’ve ever been.

The odd thing, though, is that I’ve grown to enjoy it. It’s simple. It’s calm. It’s peaceful. At a place like Cornell, predictability is stagnation and stagnation is complacency and complacency means you’ll be left behind by the time you start looking for a job. And I can’t be unfair: there is excitement here, but it’s the kind you have to wait for. If nothing else, I’ve learned that enjoying the quiet moments and looking forward to the crazy ones is far more satisfying than compulsively fumbling to find a crazy one every day.

In-country blog post 1: What happens in Zambia

What Happens in Zambia…

Yesterday, Mr. Wam took us to the boarding school where Elisabeth, his daughter, studies. The school was a long, rocky drive from Lusaka, hundreds of kilometers south in a town called Shimabala. The area was beautiful, with rolling hills and roads of red dust that made the green of the treetops look all the more intense. A few pictures and Mitsubishi-suspension jolts later, we’d arrived at the school.

Soon, Elizabeth came running to our group. She was elated, with an infectious smile that made her stand out from the hundreds of other girls wearing the same baby blue shirt and dress combo. After enjoying a meal with her, our entourage made our way to the area behind a building on the edge of the premises, where other parents and students were sitting and talking.

The area had all the key ingredients of a good family cookout in my childhood neighborhood: the smell of cocoa butter and charcoal, the sound of some obscure gospel song in the distance, the sight of layers of smoke and flimsy plastic chairs. As we approached the group and recited our usual introductions, I felt at home – more so than I’d felt in a few days. Everyone was just so welcoming, greeting me with big smiles as if they really were as happy to see me as they said they were.

Soon, I found my seat beside a group of old men, staring contently at the thicket of Umbrella Thorn trees a few yards from the grill. Once our conversation began, the oldest of the group, a cordial man with hazy grey eyes and a brown hat, asked about my research at SAIPAR. I responded, mentioning the copper industry and the land disputes between chiefs and investors. I was careful as I spoke – it’s always tricky explaining someone’s country to them. I couldn’t help but pause after each reference to try and sense whether I was stating the obvious or assuming too much.

Once I’d finished my spiel, the man asked If I knew about Wounded Knee, the 19^th century massacre where self-proclaimed Americans murdered Native Americans. I told him I did, and he drew an analogy between the event and the situation in nearby villages, reminding me that land disputes aren’t a Zambian, or African phenomenon. “While you’re here, you should try to find the similarities between Zambia and America. Every place is similar in more ways than you’d think,” one of the men noted.

As I look back on this experience, I can pull from it a profound lesson. Sure, America doesn’t have very many customary land vs. formal leasehold title disputes anymore, but the understanding that people often hold different values and beliefs about the word around them is important in any country. You don’t need 73 tribes to have a pluralistic society. We’ve got one right at home.

The man’s advice was important to me because I’ve already realized that it’s easy to travel to the other side of the world and forget that some of what I learn here can be useful in my future. As I continue in my research, and learn about the conflicts that arise here in Zambia and the ways these conflicts are often addressed, I now aim to look for takeaways that can help me understand my own home. After all, as the man said, every place is similar in more ways than you’d think.

In- Country Blog Post 1: A Meaningful Experience

Everyone’s seen the infamous pictures of malnourished African children- with their bloated stomachs, dusty tattered clothing, and despondent facial expressions. As Westerners, we view these poignant images, perhaps feel sorry for a few minutes (maybe longer depending on one’s propensity for empathy), and yet still fail to take any sort of meaningful action and often completely forget about the image the instant something more stimulating catches our attention; I myself have been guilty of such behavior. However, as I type these words, I can’t seem to forget the face of one particular child I had the opportunity of encountering today during my first day in the malnutrition unit of the pediatrics department at UTH. I don’t know her name, I don’t know her exact medical condition, I don’t know anything about her circumstance- yet I can’t forget her face, nor can I shake the image of her particularly withered limp body clinging to her mother’s as she awaited examination from the doctor. 

Then there came a realization: there was nothing unique about this juvenile girl’s emaciated physical condition, as compared to many of the other children in the ward. They all shared the same sunken faces, skeletal physiques, and innocent eyes that reflected a certain suffering I never had the misfortune of knowing as a child. It was this realization as I observed the examination of the young girl, who must have only been shy of two years- the realization of the pervasive nature of such an ailing condition (the medical state of these children being so regular that there is a ward dedicated to them)- which struck me, hard, and will make it nearly impossible to ever forget that young girl’s face.

This newfound consciousness prompted me to reflect on my own childhood, and remember all the suffering I was sheltered from simply because I had the luck of being born in the “developed West”. Never have I known hunger or went to sleep hungry; never have I been afflicted with serious illness where medical professionals lacked the resources to treat me adequately; never have I experienced doubt in the capacities of medical treatments when I have been sick; never have my parents needed to summon the courage to tell me, with tears in their eyes, that they were unable to provide my day to day necessities.

I came to the realization that I do not know true suffering, and I likely never will.  

Yet as I looked around that inadequately supplied malnutrition ward with new eyes, I realized that so many of these children- who have not even lived a fraction of the years I have- do know suffering. How does one live comfortably with that in the back of their mind? I have known the privilege of opening a fully stocked fridge when hungry, adequate medical care when sick, and never doubting the safety and cleanliness of my water supply simply because I had the fortune of being born in a certain place at a certain time. Nevertheless, I recognized that despite many Americans affording these privileges we continue to complain and seek out trivial things to be unhappy about- a habit I have not yet witnessed in Zambian culture. What does that say about our “great” Western society?

As this reflection now comes to an end, I still see that child’s face so clearly in my mind- her face, which I will undoubtedly ever forget. Her face, which will undoubtedly serve as a reminder of the Western privileges we are afforded and often take for granted. Her face, which will also serve as a reminder of the room we have to grow as a Western society and the lessons we can learn from our Zambian sisters and brothers.