Confused — I didn't know if she meant something to congeal the blood or a general antibiotic to stop the bacteria — I questioned the midwife on her tactics. She shot me a glance that suggested I stop talking NOW. I don't have any medical training per se, but I know a lot of science about the body, viruses and bacteria. I learned a great deal in college about the brain, the body and their medical reactions. And my mother has been a nurse my entire life, so I have learned a lot via assimilation. Yet I had no idea what Aimee gave to those children.
We then headed to a nearby campement, or outlying village, to remind them of the polio vaccination campaign on Wednesday. The entire campement had seen better days; the buildings and villagers appeared very old and dirty — the result of too much abuse and not enough maintenance. Gaping holes disfigured most of the straw roofs, protecting none of its occupants from the harsh elements of the African savannah. Chalky dirt spoiled everyone's beautiful ebony skin. Many of the children showed classic symptoms of malnutrition: distended bellies from parasites, large heads with huge eyes and impossibly skinny legs somehow supporting their misshapen bodies. Several had taut pale skin and bright red hair, classic symptoms of a severe form of malnutrition called Korshiorkor.
I couldn't believe the level of poverty these villagers faced on a daily basis. I learned in training that most of the malnourishment and illnesses are easily preventable by practicing simple forms of public health that we Americans learn in primary school — easy applications like hand washing, bathing, proper storage and consumption of food and water. It seemed this village knew nothing of even the most basic sanitary practices. I never wanted to get used to seeing distended bellies or unnaturally red hair.
My naming ceremony was Tuesday, market day, and it turned out to be one big party. First thing that morning, the entire village gathered in the chief's meeting vestibule. Three neighboring volunteers biked in for the festivities, most likely exceeding the number of white people ever seen in the village at one time. The chief welcomed the village, my counterparts, the volunteers and me. The chief's translator repeated the words for everyone to hear, followed by the men's translator, then the women's, all in Konkomba. Aimee translated the welcome into French, and Samarou (my long-lost counterpart who had returned sometime during the previous night) repeated it for my benefit. Everything I said in response was translated in the opposite order. All this translating, a gesture of respect for the chief and me, served only to give me a headache. It made for a very long ceremony.
After lots of discussion and several minutes of contemplation, the chief finally reached a decision and gave me a name — Katchampi, meaning woman of Katchamba. Such a common name on the surface, but apparently reserved for only the special women of the village. An elderly woman was the only other Katchampi in the village, so named as the spirits had instructed. I was named so because my role in Katchamba was to help not only the village, but also the township of Katchamba, with my vast knowledge and expertise. Energy and expectation exuded from the villagers; I immediately grew self-conscious about the amount of knowledge and expertise I might actually have.
