The Day of Waiting

Less than a week has gone by since I first arrived here at Gimbie, but
I already have a sense of belonging. I had this feeling from my very
first day here at the hospital. There is no doubt in my mind that this
is the work I meant to do and the life I meant to live. Although
hardships definitely exist and the comforts of life are far from the
likeness of the ones at home, I am very happy here. I have a lot to
look forward to, from accomplishing the tasks and fulfilling the
responsibilities that I came for, to learning more about the Ethiopian
culture, and developing a deeper knowledge of God and the work that He
gave us to do in third world countries. Much awaits me in these couple
of months. I can’t wait to discover it all!

Monday, June 7
Guliso Town, Gas Station
4:00 pm

From the moment I woke up this morning I have been occupied
with…waiting. First, I wait for my Johannes, my translator and
companion, to arrive at the hospital’s entrance like we had arranged
in order to visit the clinics today. I am still a bit hungry and
sleepy from waking up early to meet with him and catch the morning
bus. But no worries – he does arrive, at last, and with all good
intentions, is pretty oblivious of his tardiness.
We walk into town, where I am met by many stares and yells of
“farangi” (foreigner). We jump into a minibus which takes us to Inango
where the first clinic is located. Once I finish “touring” the small,
two-bed clinic and get the staff signatures that I need for the ADRA
reports, we walk to a nearby shop…and wait. In the meantime, the
clinic’s head nurse and lab technician join us and order their
breakfast – tea and white bread.
The rain is really coming down now in buckets. After making small talk
with the men, they resume to talking Aramefa amongst themselves, so I
am left once again to sit, and wait. A bus finally comes by and we
signal it to stop. The doors open and I look inside. All I see is
people – packed in like sardines. But that is totally fine with me,
because I’d rather be a stacked sardine headed somewhere than a cold
and wet sardine waiting endlessly by the side of the road.
We’re off again. But of course, not without stares and jokes and
laughs all around me – AT me, but in a language I cannot understand. I
guess during times like these I am glad I don’t know the language. All
I am obliged to do is smile and then resume to stare out the window.
Our next stop is at Dalati Clinic – an even smaller clinic, in an
even smaller village. The head nurse and lab technician here are very
nice. They aren’t shy to inform me, however, that they are in dire
need. The building needs some repair, as its windows are broken and
the wall paint is peeling off. The clinic is also in need of chairs,
(as it only has one, and it’s broken), beds (also only has one), a
stretcher, and repairs to the sign, fence, and outhouse.
I leave with the promise that I will do my best to meet their
requests and obtain the much-needed funds from the relief agency to
complete these projects. This isn’t the first, nor will it be the last
time that I find myself making such promises.
By now it’s midmorning and my stomach is already beginning to growl.
We hide from the ride under a shelter by the road and wait yet again.
After I doze off half a dozen times, we happen to get picked up by an
NGO pickup truck. Its passenger, a doctor, recognizes Johannes and
tells the driver to stop. I am so happy for the ride! I am able to
have a very interesting conversation with my new doctor friend as
well, as he tells me about his project of alleviating HIV rates in
Ethiopia’s rural villages by supplying the infected persons with
antiviral medications.
Our third and final stop is at Guliso Clinic. Here I see patients in
the waiting room for the first time today. Apparently, since the
country is in rainy season, and the people have already harvested and
sold their crops, they don’t have enough money left over to carry them
through this part of the year. In other words, even if the people are
ill, most will not come to the clinics because they cannot afford the
$2-7 of the visit and medications. Still, some do come since the
clinics have a charity fund for those that really can’t afford the
services.
At Guliso I also see the small water pump that has recently been
installed as part of the ADRA grant. I wash off some of the mud and
dirt that has been accumulating on my feet and sandals, knowing that
this little source of running water is of no doubt very beneficial for
the clinic.
After taking some pictures of the place and saying goodbye to the
head nurse, we head up the dirt road into town to get something to
eat. On the way, I am again met by dozens of little kids yelling
“farangi” and moms, dads, uncles, aunts, and grandparents coming out
of their huts to see the strange white foreigner. Some follow us while
repeating the one or two English words they happen to know. At times
these sorts of experiences are a bit unnerving and I find myself
wishing that I could blend in a little more with my surroundings.
We finally arrive at a little restaurant for lunch and get our fill
of injera and shiro. While we’re eating, I see another farangi
stopping in for lunch. My curiosity gets the best of me and I find
myself almost staring at the white German lady that speaks Aramefa. I
hadn’t seen a white person all day and now I laugh at myself as I
realize that I have become almost just like the Ethiopians – curious
and a bit inquisitive at the peculiar sight of a tall, pale-skinned
and brown-haired lady. [Later on I will have sat down with Ms. Crystal
for tea, and will have listened to her telling me about an interesting
disease of the foot, podoconosiosis, which affects 5% of the
population - more than HIV does. She will have shown me pictures of
terribly disfigured feet and toes and explain that the treatment is
quite simple – “hygiene and shoes.” Apparently the infection comes as
a result of people walking barefoot in dirt contaminated with volcanic
minerals. I’m always wearing shoes from now on!]
Anyway, now it is 5:00 and I have been waiting here at a “gas
station” by the side of the road since lunch. I am told that we most
likely may have to spend the night here in town since there has been
absolutely no vehicle going back in our direction since early morning.
I did obtain some vigorous training on waiting during my six months in
Guyana, but this is definitely beyond the ultra laid-back ways of the
Caribbean. At least there you may be able to do something about the
situation – swim, catch a boat, a taxi in town, or something. But
here…there’s not much one can do. I did suggest to Johannes walking
back to Gimbie but all I got was a smile; “It will take us three
days,” he says. So I smile back. I smile, for that’s all I can do.
Smile. And wait.

{Epilogue: Anca and Johannes were able to arrive back home safely that
evening. One of those infamous “sardine-packed” buses stopped by the
gas station at 7:30 and picked up what seemed like hundreds of
passengers, including Anca and her companion. After two hours of
squished, smelly, loud and boisterous bus riding, Anca felt much
relieved to open the door to her room and crash on her bed. The
waiting was over.}