Ethiopian dreaming of a new dreamtime

This year I have been privileged to work with the Indigenous community of the Top End. It has prompted many long and frustrating discussions of the issues this community faces and ideas for tackling them.  Often it is cyclic and unfortunately futile. Many others far more eloquent, learned and experienced than me have tried.

How can you think about health when you don’t have access to basic education? Why would you talk about education without secure employment opportunities?  If a job is important, why does no one older that you have one? How could you possibly want a job in a white fella’s world after all they put you through? So there are land rights and centrelink payments to sustain tradition but how do cultural song and dance look in a haze of smoke and grog and violence? The same smoke and grog and violence contributing to such detrimental health outcomes.

This is an oversimplification but at some point the cycle must be broken and what is exceedingly obvious up here is a lack of personal responsibility and how that engenders a lack of empowerment. How do you have a dreamtime without dreaming?

I was fortunate to travel to Ethiopia with Entwine, a young Jewish humanitarian organisation focused on the renewal of at risk Jewish communities and international development projects. What struck me most about Ethiopia was the profound poverty, with no middle or upper class to provide any contrast. Then there were the muted colours of the surroundscape, significantly different from the palate of the Lion King and my parents’ childhoods. But, despite the poverty and the subdued colours, the people had the ability to dream ever so vividly.

There was the sixteen-year-old boy who dreamed of being an engineer because he loved to draw and create. I had lunch in the most interesting building on a hill in Lalibela that was crafted by two young Ethiopian architects who once upon a time were sixteen-year-old boys who too loved to draw and create. The building was owned and run by an eccentric Scottish lady of Mrs Doubtfire ilk who escaped the Glaswegian clamor, exchanging it for a tiny piece of her own peace.

 There were the women of microfinance projects and those who are scholarship recipients who look forward to a vastly different tomorrow to the ones they initially imagined. Many are the first in their families to have those educational opportunities. Many face resistance from the fathers and husbands in their lives. The empowering of these women has enabled their families and communities to flourish, inspiring younger generations of women. O how fantastic this would be for the women of the Territory.

My tour guide Terry dreamed of running his own hotel. The foundations have been laid but the process long, unimaginable poverty renders it slow. However his eyes lit up when he described the balconies where visitors would enjoy their beers and the warm hospitality he would afford. He shared endless Ethiopian fables for most part I didn’t understand but savoured the passion in which he shared.

You see dreams of young children with tuberculosis crooked spines who longed to stand tall and the dreams of their very dedicated doctor who moved mountains to ensure their newly straightened postures match their unassailable spirit.

I watched dreams of young Ethiopian girls in the airport boarding their first flight. How endearing it was to show them how to take their first step on an escalator. The pure exhilaration of that first step and enjoying it repeatedly as you go up and down accompanying each one on their first escalator journey. The little dreams in life.

There was the young French couple on my flight that became a family as they brought home their six-month old baby Ethiopian girl. She no doubt will dream a very different future now. I wish her a future like the girl on our trip who too was adopted and after growing up with siblings with various disabilities has dedicated her life to improving the lives of people like her siblings.

And there are the visitors who come to dream. I met a remarkable group of young professionals each hoping that each step they take is transformative and somehow heals the damage of the previous. 

And there is me, a transplanted soul, unsure of what exactly to do next, also wondering what will happen to this community of lost dreamers.

of hummus and homelands

I have just started a new rotation working in geriatric medicine, caring predominantly for the elderly with dementia.

Yesterday I was asked to review a seventy five year old gentleman with newly diagnosed cognitive impairment. I walked in the room, introduced myself and sat down on his bed by his side to take his history.

I asked the man where he was born. “East Jerusalem,” was his accented response. And so he spoke of his personal story. “The Jews, the bastards kicked me out of my home.” I let the comment stagnate in the air and then continued the consultation.

We came to the point where we discussed how things were going at home. I asked him, “What do you like to cook?” He told me about all the different recipes he likes to try, not dissimilar to my grandfather, who in later life has taken up cooking as a hobby. I imagine the loose interpretations of recipes they both use in their parallel kitchens as they satisfy their taste buds and last vestige of independence.

“What about hummus?” I inquire.

“Hommous- I make the best hommous!” he responds then detailing his personal style.

“And with za’atar?”

“Of course with za’atar.”

“Ful?”

“Delicious- but a different recipe…”

And the conversation was then transported to the feet of the hills of Jerusalem, reminiscing about hummus and homeland.

The consult eventually was completed and I was pleased that with some support and services he would be able to return home. As I left I wished him, “Shalom alechem,” to which he responded, “Aleheim Sa'alam.” He then paused and with a puzzled expression asked, “Are you Jewish?”

“Yes,” I replied.

He then smiled, shrugged, shook my hand and gave me a warm albeit hesitant hug.

Today I took my boss to visit the gentleman to verify my findings.  “Where are you from originally?” my boss began. “East Jerusalem. Until the Jews, the bastards, they kicked me out of my home…”

Glossary:

Za’atar: Middle Eastern spice mix

Ful: fava bean mix

“Shalom alechem” is a farewell statement to which the response is traditionally, “Alechem shalom.”

Please note: the symbolism of this story I could not possibly ignore and not share. I under no circumstances am insinuating that the Palestinian patient with memory problems and the Jewish doctor are the central motifs. For me the symbolism lies in the cyclic nature of the story and would hold true had the roles been reversed. Shabbat shalom.

the home sickness

At the hospital, we describe disease to our patients as sickness. If they have chronic kidney disease requiring dialysis we say they have the kidney sickness. If their blood counts are low and cannot clot properly it is said that their blood is sick. However often our patients tell us that they have the home sickness.

Social dislocation is the primary barrier to access to health in the Territory. Patients are required to move hundreds of kilometres to receive treatment often requiring them to be away from the home communities and families in the very long term. For a culture that doesn’t have the context to understand illness this way and one that emphasises connection to land, family and community, such distances are not just physical and are increasingly insurmountable. Treatment choices are therefore not so simple. They become choices of the living or the ‘finishing up’.  So moving to Darwin may 'save' your life but not rescue the quality of it. Depression, hazardous substance use and poor adherence to treatments become mainstay issues. The home sickness ensues.

There is no simple remedy for this. There are a lack of solutions for the greater issues. We try our best to listen but our languages and contexts do not reconcile. The home sickness ensues.

For the first time in four months I too have felt the home sickness. It is unnervingly raw.

Two friends spent a week with me sharing my top-end lifestyle. I have made some wonderful friends up here but it was refreshing to have old friendships around, if only for a bit, laughing at old jokes, crying at new ones and enjoying long walks and chats that transcend time and memories apart.

Another dear friend became a dad for the first time. The pure excitement and love is palpable even from afar. He will be a fantastic dad, one who will hold his daughter close no matter what she faces. There is actually no need to wish this for him when you know it will simply be a reality.

And finally my grandmother was diagnosed with metastatic colon cancer this week. There is no way to describe the difficulty you feel when you hear the unspoken sadness and pain in your close family’s voices many miles away. But Bobba herself has been accepting of this with an uncanny sense of calm and resilience. I believe deep down she has known for some time, like many cancer patients who just know. It is strange though when that patient is your Bobba and you, on the other side of the country, are holding other elderly patients’ hands thinking they are your grandmother.

Culture. Family. Friendship. Community. Distance. The home sickness ensues.  

housemate hunting

So the time had come. I had settled into my two-bedroom apartment that has a balcony looking onto the ocean, right opposite probably the best public pool in the world. After having the best housemate possible last year and been living by myself for nearly two months, I was incredibly nervous about finding someone to share my home with. After much internal deliberation, I put an ad up around StD’s and one on gumnut tree, as many who eventually called me called it.

I wasn’t sure how I should conduct the auditions to be my housemate. Would the contenders have a mystery box challenge? Or would they sing to me with my back towards them and if I like them,  I’d buzz and turn around(minus the Delta cringe factor)? I settled on a ‘come check out the place and let’s have a cider on the balcony’…

I was overwhelmed by the amount of couples who enquired about the room. This sat uncomfortably with me. Not only would they change the dynamic considerably, they also take up more space. Sex noises also could have been an issue. I tested this out by playing some National Geographic YouTubes on the laptop in the available room and then sat on my bed in my room and listened. They may as well be fucking in Collingwood…

There was the man who was a bouncer at some clubs in the city. Too Nocturnal.

There was the chef at the casino. He was not interested in sharing food.

There was the nurse closer to my mom’s age who refused to sit down and chat and was only interested in testing the aircon in the room. Antisocial much?

There was a lovely guy from Italy with his funky Eritrean girlfriend. They exuded excellent cohabitant energy. Unfortunately, they got a gig working in a hotel which put them up as well.

And then there was another fun couple. He was a German backpacker who had been gallivanting around Australia in the van he currently called home. She was a local Territorian who worked in crocodile jumping. They had checked out the room and liked it. We sat on the balcony and she goes, “There is something we need to show you.” I was thinking “OMG, what on earth could she possibly want to show me?”  I thought she must have a third nipple.  She opened her bag and out popped a joey. A JOEY. A JOEY, AS IN A BABY KANGAROO. A JOEY CALLED MOGLI. She has this thing where whenever she sees a dead kangaroo on the highway, she checks the pouches to see if the baby is still alive. Then she nurses them for a while and then lets them go once they are ready. Mogli was bloody cute. He did a few hops on the balcony, scratched his belly and then, when he had had enough, he jumped back into the bag/pouch. It wasn't going to work out, there was a clause on the lease saying no pet kangaroos.

So for now I have settled in by myself. The room is available for all of those who said they would visit. No pets though. Sex noises….? I guess we will have to see.

tropical cyclone adam

A few weeks back now, sorry for the delay folks, a tropical cyclone warning was issued. This may come as a shock to you all but at first I was totally unphased.  I thought it would be like the movie Twister and I would be Helen Hunt.  This slowly wore off as the day went on…

1.     The hospital is only cyclone proof from level 3 down (naturally btw I work on the top floor[7^th]) and as such the hospital tried to discharge as many of the non-critical patients as possible. Best discharge strategy ever.

2.     Because power and water supply may be down for an unknown number days, every dialysis patient in the top-end needed an urgent run of treatment.  Who knew when we might be reconnected and all these patients need this life saving treatment. This made the dialysis units quite a hectic scene all through the night.

3.     The hospital usually asks for some volunteers to man the fort. This time they didn’t. I would have to go home.

4.     The real estate agent gave me a 'being cyclone ready' pamphlet when moving in. I filled my car up with petrol. I bought enough tinned food to survive y3k. I have to admit I found that quite enjoyable as you could buy all those soup flavours and meat chili bean combinations that you need an excuse like a cyclone to purchase. I also brought all my balcony furniture inside and also had some masking tape to seal all the windows but couldn’t be fucked in the end.

5.     I realised no-one in D-town may even know if I was missing or not. I made two emergency phone calls to my resident who, if didn’t think I was crazy enough already, truly thought I was out of control. She told me she wouldn’t leave me behind. She is famous now. Look at this link. http://www.ntnews.com.au/article/2012/03/28/296161_ntnews.html She is the one on the bicycle.

That night I slept with red shoes on just in case I had to click my heels together three times…  

I woke up and I heard on radio the threat was gone. All the cyclone had left me with was a whole lot of canned food whose labels I have since ripped off. Should make meals next actual cyclone more interesting.  

gone fishing

On Saturday I got to experience one of D-town’s favourite pastimes– fishing. I had always thought fishing was in a category of activity I called theoretical fun. These are activities that sound fun but after a while the fun wears out, such as trivia nights, ten-pin bowling, book readings and high school reunions.

After a twelve day stint of work, a group of students collected me at 530 am(!). These boys were the real deal.  They looked the part and talked the talk. We were even listening to a radio show about fishing.  On CD.  During our two hour drive we hit a magpie goose. Don’t worry, I didn’t know what they were either. It was sitting in the middle of the road and didn’t move in time. It fractured our windshield but not our spirit. The rest of the ride I kept replaying the scene in my mind except imagining the bird going right through the windscreen and landing on the back seat with me. Would. Not. Cope.  

I had an excellent day at Shady Camp, shared with fantastic company and surrounded by never-ending mangroves and sky. We spent nine hours on a three metre tinny in unrelenting heat. It provided plenty of thinking time to think about:

1.     Barramundi psychology and sexuality. I heard plenty of fishing theory including a fisherman’s superstition about bananas scaring the fish away and about the ideal spots to cast your lines.  I learned that all barramundi are born genderless and then grow into becoming either male or female. The girls grow bigger and longer than the blokes. I then began to imagine if humans were like that. Would explain a lot.

2.     The anniversary of the Darwin bombings and the paucity of Australian history that featured in my education

3.     Being defriended on facebook by people who initially befriended you

4.     Julia and Kevin and the lack of leadership we have come to accept as the mainstay in all realms of society.

5.     How delicious a magpie goose pie would taste.

6.     My crocodile defence strategy of making sure my arms are in the air when you are passing a potentially threatening crocodile spot. That way your arms are free to smash the croc in the eyes once they have clamped down on your torso.  Similar strategy for sharks me thinks. Except for the walking part.

7.     Our patients, their stories and what their hospital experience must be like.

8.     The hilariousness being retold at a very close friend's hen’s night whilst listening to the wind blow.

I managed by some whim of ethereal luck, to be the first to catch a barramundi. I wanted to name him but couldn’t think of a name there and then. It wasn’t regulation length so we had to return him to the water. Not before the motherfucker spiked my thumb. It seems nature has a sense of humour too.

I also learned to drive a boat. At one point we were spinning the wrong way and the guys were telling me to flick into reverse and “gun it”.  I did so obediently. We ended up wedged on the bank of the river. Oops. They said there had been a problem with the gears. Obviously.

Unfortunately we only caught one regulation fish the whole day. The boys blame the bananas but I certainly didn’t care. On the way home we stopped at a pub that had a pen outside with a crocodile in it. Standard. We named the salty (the local term for saltwater crocodiles) Brutus. We filleted the fish and fed the skeleton to Brutus who seized it mid air and devoured it in seconds. Rest assure, I had my arms in the air the whole time…

Ps for those wondering, the barra was cooked on the barbie and tasted delicious.