Free Six Months in Sudan by Dr. James Maskalyk Page A

infected, their skin flakes, their fevers are severe. measled. miserabled.
    today, a baby died about ten minutes after coming into the hospital. she was dirty and covered in grass. the family came from far away, and asked if i knew somewhere nearby where they could bury her. i said i did not. they thanked me and left.
    when i ask people in the hospital where they are from, they answer in days. “three days away,” some say.
    i admitted a girl from two days away. her mother had died in the hospital two months before, and she was her only child. her father was a soldier with other wives. a neighbor found her lying on the ground and hitchhiked to abyei to deliver her to our door, an orphan. she was so severely dehydrated that when i listened to her heart, she tried to suck on my stethoscope. she could drink, but no one gave her any water. today she is better. she gained a kilogram in 24 hours. from 5 to 6. the man who brought her said he can’t stay, doesn’t know her relatives. her problems are ours now.
    there is a little boy here who the staff is so fond of that i think they are delaying discharging him because they would miss him too much. he is always between your legs, and crawling onto your lap. if it comes to me, i am never discharging him either.

I AM SITTING ON A PLASTIC STOOL . Kneeling beside me, a young girl heaps spoonful after spoonful of sugar into my tea. My two new Arabic words, to bring the ringing total to three, are “sugar” and “separate.” I said them when she showed up with the tea, but must have mispronounced them. I am too shy to say them again.
    Tim sits beside me, smoking. It is just dusk, a little late for us to be in the market. We’ve been told to avoid it after dark. Though alcohol is not sold openly here, it exists. I’m not sure if its visible absence is because of expense or a remnant of sharia law. Either way, as the day winds on, one can watch the soldiers’ eyes become glassier.
    My days, so far, all seven of them, have been of the compound-right-tire-straight-cannon-left-hospital variety. I got home late this afternoon. The gazebo was full with a meeting. I tried to lie down on my dusty bed, but the heat was stifling. I ducked into the administration tukul to find Tim, and a few minutes later we were walking on the rutted road towards the market.
    Beside us a group of Dinka men sit talking, resting their long arms on their knees. A donkey ambles past. The air is hot and still and on it, the smell of burning garbage. The girl leaves my side and puts her hot tin can back onto the coals.
    “So, it looks like they are going to send in the emergency team from Geneva,” Tim says.
    “Yeah, I heard,” I say, and stir my tea, swirling the thick layer of sugar.
    There are about twenty patients with measles now. One day there were two, the next day four, then seven. I have been keeping track of them, where they are from, when they started to get sick. Whenever there are more, I tell Bev and she talks to Brian. We were waiting to see if the numbers would cross the threshold to qualify as an epidemic. They do.
    Tim lights a cigarette.
    “Those things are killers. Seriously, dude,” I tell him. “Killers.”
    He holds out his package. I take one.
    “I thought doctors didn’t smoke.”
    “I don’t smoke. If I did, I would have cigarettes of my own.”
    “Oh, right. Sorry.”
    He hands me his lighter.
    “That’s okay. So …” I take a long drag from my cigarette. “How’s life in the admin tukul?”
    “I can’t complain,” he says.
    “Bev seems stressed.”
    “Yeah. Seems that way. She’s off, or on. Mostly on.”
    “Does she sleep?”
    “Can’t say. Not much.”
    I pick up the small glass of tea by its rim and take a sip. Ow. Too hot.
    “When did you get here again?” I ask.
    “A few weeks before you. When was that?”
    “A week ago.”
    “Jesus. Seems longer.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    I lean back on my chair. Generators start to clack madly in all