Dr. S had to go to Mashingo this morning to work out some banking issues. That left Doctor/Sister Clara and I to do ‘trouble and new admit’ rounds on the wards. Then I saw a few outpatients with much assistance from Dr. Clara. I actually admitted 3 patients—an older female with CHF exascerbation, a younger female with ISD (Immune System Disease, the not-so-discrete ‘code word’ for AIDS) and possible meningitis, and a child who needs I and D of an abscess.
There was much discussion today by Dr. Clara and Sr. Agnes about starting a hospice ward within the female ward. The near death ISD (Immune System Disease) patients are too sick and too labor intensive to be cared for at home, but really there is not much we are doing for them medically. With a hospice room, the focus could perhaps be shifted to spiritual care and helping terminal patients and their families come to terms with what is imminent. This afternoon, we didn’t have many patients and Dr. S was back. So, I mostly finished a letter, excerpts which are below.
Yesterday afternoon I went to town to get my hair braided at the saloon. No, that is not a mis-spelling. It is ‘saloon’ not ‘salon’ here in Zimbabwe. There is a ‘saloon’ attached to the ‘salon’ but it is called a nightclub and the subject of joint-venture combo shops (Musafe’s Grocery, Nightclub, and Coffin Sales) is another story all its own. It took about an hour and a half, $4,900 Zim dollars (less than $1US), and a lot of head-jerking- pulls to braid my hair flat to my head in tiny rows. There were a couple of people in the saloon which was the size of a large closet. I tried to make small talk but it was obvious that I wasn’t going to get far since I don’t speak Shona. A couple of onlookers came in to see what was going on, and one girl of eleven stuck around. I could tell she was really trying to figure out how to touch my hair without being rude. All was going well until the woman doing the braiding was nearly finished and discovered the ‘slippery’ quality of my hair. The completed braids had begun to unravel. She tried all kinds of things—yarn, fake hair extensions, rubber bands, and re-braiding but nothing seemed to work. An hour more and about 4 or 5 ‘consultations’ with other women who were standing around watching she finally sent me on my way. The front and sides meticulously parted and braided, the back in a big fat rubber banded ponytail, and me with a headache from it being so tight. You get what you pay for.

This morning I was accosted by Alex, the local unmedicated schizophrenic who unfortunately does not have a paranoid component to his mental illness. Instead, he is very social, very much a drooler and spitter, unkempt, and a personal space invader. He speaks the clearest and most proper British English and is easier to understand than any Zimbabwean I have met thus far. ‘Hello, you are my wife!’ he spits as he greets me today. ‘She is my wife!’ he says to everyone as I walk into the hospital.
The day was relatively slow and left plenty of time for an open-doored office and unwanted intrusions. Alex came in and dumped a bunch of rotten peanuts on my desk despite my objections. He continued to query about the date of our nuptials.
When I went home for lunch, first thing out of Mrs. S’s mouth, “Have you met Alex yet?” Well, yes, I met him the first day and have seen him nearly everyday since. But today was the day he started his fixation about me being his wife. “Funny thing,” she says, “he was here today to ask if I would permit my son to marry him.”
As I type all of this tonight, the bugs are coming out in full force, attracted by the light. It is really grossing me out. Especially now that I have spotted 2 flying roaches. There is a clicking noise of bugs as they fly into and try to get out of the lampshade that is over my bed. I know when I turn the lights out, they make their way out too.