Bhutan.
Dr. Shetri, the dentist, is a short energetic man. His mastery of the local language seems to be in its infancy, but while constantly cracking jokes, he tries his best to communicate with his own mixture of Nepali, Dzongkha and Sharchhopkha. Surprisingly, he also takes a very active role in the diagnosis and evaluation of the patients.
Obviously, his medical knowledge is not limited to teeth alone.
The DMO is an eye specialist and, when not called away by administrative duties, joins our little team off and on.
Dr. Bikul, a young Indian general doctor, seems
preoccupied with his cases and keeps disappearing to his outpatient chamber.
I am told that there is also a medical specialist, Dr.
Pradhan, and a gynaecologist from Cameroon, Dr. Robert, both of whom are on leave at present.
The matron of the hospital, a short, compact woman with a determined attitude, pushes a little yellow cart containing 54
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D O N ’ T C L O S E Y O U R E Y E S
all of the patient charts through the wards. There are other nurses as well, all dressed in white kiras with little caps on their heads. They take off bandages, comment on the patients’ condition and get the necessary charts ready.
One round of the hospital includes five main wards and a few private or semi-private cabins. Ward A and B are for females and children, C and D for males, and there is a separate ward for active TB and leprosy. In total there must be about sixty beds, give or take a few; overflow patients are bedded on mattresses on the floor as needed.
Quietly, I follow the little procession of doctors as they make their way through the wards. Most of the diseases presented here are unknown to me, and I am unsure of the patient’s source of suffering. In addition, none of the patients are addressed in English, and my grasp of the local language is far too sparse to understand anything. Yesterday I learned that lekpu means good or better; mangi or mala are forms of no; phaiga , at your home; and pholang means abdomen, a word I hear frequently used. It seems that a large number of patients suffer from some sort of stomach trouble. On the charts, I read other foreign sounding diagnoses: osteomyelitis, viral encephalitis, chronic malaria, typhoid, abdominal tuberculosis, leprotic ulcers, grade three malnourished… I have entered a world of medicine unknown to me.
In the wards, I have difficulty separating patients from attending family members. More often than not, two or three people sit on one bed. Like their attendants, patients are dressed in everyday clothes. There is no sign of pyjamas or hospital gowns.
The thick hair of both men and women is short, at times spiky, dust and oil turning into a natural hairspray. Everyone wears a certain amount of grease and grime. Many lips and teeth look as if they were bleeding, permanently stained by the juices of betelnuts mixed with lime. Clothes are 55
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B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
smudged and tied carelessly, often well worn to the point where the material is hanging on by merely a few thin threads. By far the most remarkable attribute is the patients’
feet. Disproportionate to their short stature, their feet are huge, with round stubby toes and unkempt nails. The soles are covered by a thick layer of dirt which has grown deep into the chaps and cracks of a lifetime of barefoot walking.
The general lack of cleanliness has rubbed off onto the surroundings. The blue hospital sheets are stained, and often a kira is used instead of a blanket. The yellow and white walls are spotted with mud and mildew, and the windows are faintly tinted by a covering of dust. Despite the screens, thousands of flies populate the hospital, crawling over beds, people and food. Although I had mentally
Dr. Shetri, the dentist, is a short energetic man. His mastery of the local language seems to be in its infancy, but while constantly cracking jokes, he tries his best to communicate with his own mixture of Nepali, Dzongkha and Sharchhopkha. Surprisingly, he also takes a very active role in the diagnosis and evaluation of the patients.
Obviously, his medical knowledge is not limited to teeth alone.
The DMO is an eye specialist and, when not called away by administrative duties, joins our little team off and on.
Dr. Bikul, a young Indian general doctor, seems
preoccupied with his cases and keeps disappearing to his outpatient chamber.
I am told that there is also a medical specialist, Dr.
Pradhan, and a gynaecologist from Cameroon, Dr. Robert, both of whom are on leave at present.
The matron of the hospital, a short, compact woman with a determined attitude, pushes a little yellow cart containing 54
Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 54
Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 54
13/01/2006 14:59:11
13/01/2006 14:59:11
D O N ’ T C L O S E Y O U R E Y E S
all of the patient charts through the wards. There are other nurses as well, all dressed in white kiras with little caps on their heads. They take off bandages, comment on the patients’ condition and get the necessary charts ready.
One round of the hospital includes five main wards and a few private or semi-private cabins. Ward A and B are for females and children, C and D for males, and there is a separate ward for active TB and leprosy. In total there must be about sixty beds, give or take a few; overflow patients are bedded on mattresses on the floor as needed.
Quietly, I follow the little procession of doctors as they make their way through the wards. Most of the diseases presented here are unknown to me, and I am unsure of the patient’s source of suffering. In addition, none of the patients are addressed in English, and my grasp of the local language is far too sparse to understand anything. Yesterday I learned that lekpu means good or better; mangi or mala are forms of no; phaiga , at your home; and pholang means abdomen, a word I hear frequently used. It seems that a large number of patients suffer from some sort of stomach trouble. On the charts, I read other foreign sounding diagnoses: osteomyelitis, viral encephalitis, chronic malaria, typhoid, abdominal tuberculosis, leprotic ulcers, grade three malnourished… I have entered a world of medicine unknown to me.
In the wards, I have difficulty separating patients from attending family members. More often than not, two or three people sit on one bed. Like their attendants, patients are dressed in everyday clothes. There is no sign of pyjamas or hospital gowns.
The thick hair of both men and women is short, at times spiky, dust and oil turning into a natural hairspray. Everyone wears a certain amount of grease and grime. Many lips and teeth look as if they were bleeding, permanently stained by the juices of betelnuts mixed with lime. Clothes are 55
Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 55
Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 55
13/01/2006 14:59:11
13/01/2006 14:59:11
B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
smudged and tied carelessly, often well worn to the point where the material is hanging on by merely a few thin threads. By far the most remarkable attribute is the patients’
feet. Disproportionate to their short stature, their feet are huge, with round stubby toes and unkempt nails. The soles are covered by a thick layer of dirt which has grown deep into the chaps and cracks of a lifetime of barefoot walking.
The general lack of cleanliness has rubbed off onto the surroundings. The blue hospital sheets are stained, and often a kira is used instead of a blanket. The yellow and white walls are spotted with mud and mildew, and the windows are faintly tinted by a covering of dust. Despite the screens, thousands of flies populate the hospital, crawling over beds, people and food. Although I had mentally
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