(RM) The LuiKotal health-care system

The LuiKotal health system


My last entry, I explained how I had fallen ill, and how I had decided to, at short notice, ignore the majority of my work duties here at Camp. I had begun taking anti-malarials, and I had successfully convinced several of my colleagues to take over some of the work I am usually relied upon to do.

In this entry, I've decided to address our health-care situation here at LuiKotal Camp. Somehow, this may calm people down, while on the other hand, some people might just freak out. I recommend just accepting the situation, because freaking out is futile. No matter whether you think that freaking out may be warranted or not.

Basically, we're totally isolated here. There are no doctors anywhere, nor any medical facilities of any sort. We live in the middle of the jungle, with essentially no modern infrastructure that most people from our respective countries would consider commonplace.

My doctor here is Martin. He's actually working on his PhD in the behavioural ecology of bonobos, and he has his formal education in field biology. He's definitely not a medical doctor, but I've chosen him as my doctor here because I'd rather just one opinion than five. Anyway, I feel more comfortable talking to him about how my body is functioning than I do with the others. And he has a bit of credibility, because his brother back in Switzerland actually is a medical doctor.

The other potential doctors are:
1. Caro, another field biologist, from Austria, with experience observing bonobos in Frankfurt zoo.
2. Grit, another field biologist, from Germany, with experience tracking chimpanzees in Cote d'Ivoire.
3. Gaby, a plant specialist from Kinshasa, who has done numerous stints of field research at LuiKotal.
4. Andrew, a British chimpanzee expert who's lived most of the past six years in the field in Nigeria (he actually is a doctor - he has a PhD on chimpanzees!)
5. Me.

Our diagnostic equipment consists of two books and a thermometer. Both books are called "Where there is no doctor", although the newer edition is in German: "Wo es kein Aerzt gibt".

Actually, there's a so-called "clinic" in Ipope, about 27km from here, near the airstrip, manned by a guy I met while waiting for the plane last week that speaks French and is called Infirmier Esperant. (Though I don't doubt that this is actually his name, the direct translation is somewhat depressing, given his post: "Nurse Hopeful".) Given Ipope's similar lack of any modern infrastructure such as electricity or refrigeration (diagnostic tests for specific illnesses generall need to be refrigerated, have short shelf lives, and require precise laboratory instruments to get reliable results), I think the clinic's diagnostic equipment is basically the same as ours. Infirmier Esperant may just not need to consult the books quite as much. But given that the clinic is where sick people from the region flock to, I'm definitely much safer from sickness here at Camp.

Based on the diagnoses we get from our diagnostic equipment here (the books and the thermometer), we have a variety of remedies. The most important one is patience, which is often combined with others in turn.

We have an assortment of medecines, from fever reducers to painkillers to antibiotics to malaria treatments. Basically, between the lot of us foreigners, we've got a decent assortment of pills that each individual deemed important enough to bring to such a place. To combat a given ailment, a medicine is chosen and taken, combined with a strong dose of patience and some vigilant observations of the results. In general, a given illness improves over time, thanks to the medecine and the rest that whoever's been needing it has been taking. If one treatment doesn't do the trick, another is eventually attempted, along with another healthy dose of patience.

Given this reality, anyone reading this can assume at any time that those of us at LuiKotal camp are either 1. perfectly healthy, or 2. somewhat ill and trying to get better. In either case, worrying will get you nowhere. Yeah, I might write at some point that I'm sick, but you worrying will do absolutely nothing. We're on our own here, and we eventually get better. There is no need to give any more details on our health here; you can be spared the bitter details. (I recall reacting with hilarity my first week here, when one of the veterans, Tim, was explaining life at Camp and told me, nonchalantly, that "you'll just have to accept that, at some point while you're here, you'll get worms". Among other things.)

The next step of the health-care system, however, does exist: evacuation.

I explain this in an attempt to calm anyone who has read about our paltry camp infrastructure thus far and worries that we have no other options. In fact, each of us foreigners has travel insurance. Mine is through an American company, so I get to call some consulting doctor in the 804-area code if I ever determine that I'm too ill to get better through patience and experimentation. If the consulting doctor determines that evacuation to a reputable hospital would be the best option, that's what then gets organised. Yeah, I'd have to get to the Ipope airstrip 27km from here, and hope that the chartered plane actually arrived and took me to wherever the American insurance company determined was a better place, but eventually that would happen. Similar contingencies, I assume, are in place for each of my expatriate colleagues here. (Our phone access is via the same satellite connection we use twice per week to upload and download the email messages - we can't receive calls, we can just make them when we connect to the satellite.)

The other layer of comfort is via my embassy. I registered with them when I arrived in Kinshasa, so they know my whereabouts and have contact information for my mother and sister in the US. As a foreigner, if ever I show up in a hospital, morgue, or jail in this country, the authorities will notify my diplomatic representatives, who will in turn notify my mom and sister. That service hopefully won't be needed, but it's there nevertheless. (I remember being glad to be in regular contact with the Canadian diplomatic representatives when I lived in Palestine in 2000, ultimately getting evacuated in the bulletproof Mercedes with the little flags on the front and back.)

In the meantime, however, we do our best here at Camp. I organised a week off from working last week while I recovered from malaria, in a manner similar to what I'd consider to be sick leave. I think I'm pretty much over the malaria, and will hopefully be back to full form soon enough. So as long as I'm still here at Camp, please don't worry about my health - I'm either fine or getting better.

Got it mom?

;)