Gogo
10 hour flight, 12 hour layover, 11 hour flight, 8 hour layover, 1 hour flight, 1 hour drive, 10 hours sleep.
During one of those long legs of the trip (they are all a gigantic blur of “He’s Just Not That Into You” and cheese paste with bread), we all decided to leave the airport and explore London. Danielle and I discovered that, if you run (literally, we ran), you can see the entire city of London—Big Ben, Westminster Abby, Buckingham Palace, both parks, and Parliament—at least three times in an hour.
We did not, however, get to explore Buckingham Square. Just as we entered the courtyard, we became instantly aware of our surroundings in the midst of the anti-genocide protesters flooding the square. As Danielle and I looked at each other wide-eyed, we were both thinking the same thing—Rule 18 of the official BTB intern packet—“do NOT, under any circumstance, get involved in political demonstrations”. Phew, BTB intern packet saves the day, Take One. We quickly left, and were both thankful to stretch our legs after 10 hours of suggested airplane exercises.
We made it to Swaziland on a propeller plane that pulled right up to the front door of the tiny, welcoming airport. In a sure miracle, all of our bags arrived safely at the airport. They must be shaping up in preparation for the World Cup. Customs seemed to have a problem with our Lab-in-a-Backpack. My conversation with the woman at the check-in counter in Johannesburg went as follows:
South African Airways: “What is in the giant black box?”
Me: “Supplies for a medical mission trip.”
SA Airways: “What kind of supplies?”
Me: “Medical supplies.”
SA Airways: “What kind of medical supplies?”
Me: “Donations for the Baylor clinic in Swaziland.”
SA Airways: “What kind of donations?”
Me: “Free ones?”
SA Airways: “Mam. What is in the box?”
* At this point, I had used all of my “avoid actually telling her what is in the box” tricks, and decided to use my last resort—stringing together a bunch of long, confusing words in a sentence that makes sense only to a select few who know the projects well.
Me: “Oh, what’s in the box? Um… It’s an inexpensive, efficient design of ultraviolet Bilirubin phototherapy lights for the treatment of neonatal jaundice in developing countries, and a medical diagnostic lab-in-a-backpack that includes an oil emersion microscope, a hemotrcrit zipocrit centrifuge, a pulse oximeter, and a sphygmomanometer—basically, diagnostic and treatment tools designed in a global health technology-focused bioengineering class.” All in one breath.
SA Airways: *blank stare, and squinting eyes* “Oh… okay… You will be boarding at gate A38.”
No extra charge for a second bag. No $55 / kg charge for the 10 kg of extra weight. Boom, roasted.
After a wonderful night of sleep, we were greeted by the sound of sizzling sausage (hotdogs) and the smell of baked beans in the kitchen. Any food beats no food. We began our day at the clinic with a tour of the beautiful BIPAI COE facility. Baylor should be astonished by their accomplishment—I know I was. We spent the rest of the morning helping enter data about patients as they visited the adherence room, and then learning about screening at the clinic. They are able to use DNA PCR—known at the clinic as DBS (Dried Blood Spot)—to diagnose HIV in newborn babies, but must send samples to a lab in South Africa, and are not able to receive results for, on a very lucky day, six weeks. By that time the mother has been breastfeeding for six weeks, and may have transmitted the disease to the baby. So, they have no way of confirming that the child does not have HIV until 18 months, according to Dr. Marton.
With their own CD4 machine and their highly trained staff, the BIPAI clinic is doing an incredible job of treating patients, not just HIV. Many “HIV Reactive” patients must also be treated for tuberculosis, malnutrition, malaria, or even cancer. The clinic does much more than just hand out drugs—they are certified to treat TB, they council families, they monitor adherence, they treat for free, and they consider the patients’ circumstances. As a Haitian proverb declares, “Giving people medicine for TB and not giving them food is like washing your hands and drying them in the dirt.”
In Swaziland, grandmothers are called “gogos”. Today, I met an incredible woman. I will call her Gogo. She was at this clinic with the last of her five grandchildren, all born within the past year, and all in her care—two sets of twins, plus one more. Just when a woman thinks her work is done, she becomes a grandmother. As Gogo threw the baby on her back and began to tie her in with a blanket, we laughed as she joked about teaching me how to tie a baby to my own back. I said “Not quite yet, I’m only twenty, just a baby myself.” She asked me if, in the United States, grandmothers take responsibility for their children’s children when they get a girl pregnant at age 18, as her son had. I said not often—we have many resources in the United States. We laughed, but it wasn’t quite funny. I guess all suffering isn’t quite equal.
The afternoon was quiet, and Yiwen and I were glad for a break. I played the high-five game with a 5 year old boy for about an hour—you know, the game where sometimes you let him give you a high five, and sometimes you pull your hand away and say “Too slow!”. The game seems to entertain children of all ages and types—from the hematology/oncology clinic at the Texas Children’s Hospital in Houston, Texas to the BIPAI Clinic in Swaziland, Africa, the high-five game is a win. Lucky for me—it’s the only game I’ve got.
After several explanations about President Obama, the economic crisis, and the working-class American, we finished our day at the clinic. Hotdogs for breakfast, birthday cake for lunch, Nerds for dinner—we needed to buy some food. Africa, anyone?