Let there be equatorial light

le 27 mars 2013

I used to think of writing (or doing anything inside) by headlamp as spelunking. It was certainly more practical than my first year PCV strategy of candles and kerosene lamp propped on various books and papers—before I had a table—and sitting hunched over to the in the right part of the penumbra.

It’s a funny thing about light.

The Constant Gardener came out weeks before I left for Peace Corps in Cameroon. Without mention anything else I love about the movie (which was great for terrifying many parents of about-to-be PCVs about to move to Africa), the light struck me. The quality of it. I’d noticed years before that Paris has its own quality of light. Some photos, movies capture it (Amélie does). I don’t think you can successfully pretend that something is filmed in Paris.

This light, though, the Kenya-in-the-movie light, was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

And then I moved to Cameroon.

It’s the same light. Gazing across the city at very familiar views this morning (Yaoundé, like Rome or San Francisco, is a city of hills), I remembered it. I have photos of the same view, and in the US they look—faded. Light-stained. But that’s how things actually look.

The forest almost never comes out, either. I think it’s more greens than the human eye can discern (we can see sixteen shades of gray, I recently learned, on CT scans).

Communion

Yaoundé, Cameroun

Centre Hospitalière Universitaire (CHU)

April 2013

Last day at CHU

                              

I flipped open my patient’s blue cardboard folder. Groupe sanguin. Blood type. ---

***


The day before, I'd gone to the blood bank at CHU.

It was the first time I'd ever donated – my more than 6 months straight in Western Europe since 1980 disqualify me by Red Cross standards (mad cow disease/CJD). And even if that ever changes, after living in Africa, there's no way I'll ever be able to donate blood in the States.

The irony. I can donate in Cameroun. I explained to the phlebotomist that I can't donate blood in the US, trying hard to make my explanation make sense, without the questionable undertones of the Red Cross rules rejecting African or "African-ized" blood. It was my last day at CHU. In a month, I had watched people die, and I had maybe, minutely, helped. I had spent a night on call learning about how overstaffed the hospital really is, when compared to the resources they have for patients. Compared on that alone. The nursing censuses are lower. The doctor censuses, even, are lower. There were so many eager med students (their education, not mine), working zealously on med student-thorough, handwritten H&Ps in French or in English, that they sent me to the resident call room for an hour or two of sleep. The GI fellow was in there, and she woke up enough to kick off her shoes, move over, and give me part of the twin bed. I felt hesitant and unnerved; they were treating me like a doctor (and four months later, firmly enmeshed in my intern year, I finally don’t jump to attention at the appellation “med student”).

The transition from dark to dawn is the same in every hospital. There are the early evenings hours. There are the middle ones that stretch forever—nothing good happens, then. Either people are asleep. Or they are very sick. It's the slight undertone to complacency on a quiet night. In the US, we have pagers; if you lie down, you will be awoken. In Cameroon, there are cell phones, of course, but there is almost no reception in the hospital. And no one knows who is there.