Dissimilar to their neighbors, they presently had a facility. At the point when intestinal sickness made its yearly journey across the country, they would have a spot to go for medication. It was possible to stitch up their children if they fell on the sharp rocks. They had somebody they could trust, one of their own who had returned home to help them.
They likewise had me, a youthful American wellbeing specialist who staggered through their melodic Wolof language and didn’t understand anything about treating intestinal sickness. In any case, Daouda grasped my hello, and he contacted shake my hand. ” Maalekum salaam [and on you be peace],” he said, generously.
Aida, the assistant, Pape, the pharmacist, and Mbaye Siny, the receptionist, were among the clinic staff members that Daouda introduced me to. Mbaye’s difficult looking turned leg was the consequence of an ineffectively pointed vaccination needle that harmed his sciatic nerve as a baby, a reality that didn’t get away from me the day Daouda trained me to give infusions and run an I.V.
I had asked that my most memorable patients wouldn’t be youngsters, fat tears on their chubby cheeks. Truth be told, the experience could never have been any farther from what I’d envisioned.
Daouda and I strolled on sand through dry baobob trees to the close by town of Pintiure, where a lady was extremely wiped out, however her family didn’t have the means to have her hospitalized. We found the lady on a dainty froth mat in her cabin encompassed by her sisters, who were reciting and imploring Allah. ( In excess of 90% of the populace is Muslim.)