Nine Dollars Well Spent

"She's so far gone she feels just like a fool. My, oh my, you sure know how to arrange things. You set it up so well so carefully. Ain't it funny how your new life didn't change things? You're still the same old girl you used to be."
-The Eagles

I should have known that it might be a rough day when I drew "Courage" as my angel card. I was at my house cooking rice and a student came to tell me that the Mwalimu Mkuu has requested me to come to the school and supervise the water hauling... Great. I am only there for a few minutes when some students come up to me with one bleeding profusely from his head. I recognize him from my standard 6 class. The bleeding boy lips quiver and tears catch in his long black lashes, while he is trying to keep blood out of his face and off his school uniform (They are expensive.) Tanzanians as a general rule don't cry, and he is trying his best. I still don't really understand what happened but apparently he fell while playing. There is blood everywhere, the grass is red instead of green and my stomach turns over as I remember that I am not cut out for this. He tells me his name is Martin and he is not sure how old he is but he thinks around 11 (This is normal in Africa). I briefly picture my little brothers as I rip fabric from my skirt to attempt to stop the bleeding. I send the students to find another teacher and when Mwalimu Simon arrives I run to my house for my PC medical kit which is almost exhausted from Puce's motorcycle accident. I arm my self with gloves, antiseptic, and pads to compress his head. When I return M. Simon tells me I need to use a razor blade to cut his hair around the gash. All the children already have shaved heads but the little hair that is there I am supposed to cut. I put n the gloves and attempt not to vomit as I hold a razor blade to his head. I should say here that this much blood sort of freaks me out and I am not a calm person in emergencies. After his hair cutting I take him to our dispensary and send students to find his parents. Jessica, our nurse, tells me she cannot sew it up but I am welcome to do t myself with a needle if I want. This idea is so barbaric that resist puking again. I panic- "What do we do!?!" I say, "This boy need medical attention!" Finally his mom shows up and says "Bahati mbaya" (Bad luck) and that it is in God's hands now, because she cannot afford to take him to the other closest dispensary to get stitches (15 K away). No offense to God, but it is in Brie's hands. I find myself picturing my sweet parents rushing my brothers to the emergency room to have their chins sewn up (multiple times), and for a second I hate my villagers. I hate our poverty, I hate our belief that we are helpless and everything is only in the hands of God, I hate that we let a child suffer.

I am crying at this point and telling them that I will get this boy to the hospital if i have to carry him on my back and walk every step of the way. Luckily, this is not what i have to do. The next thing I know William (One of my Vijana-men between the ages of 17 and 30- guys) is at my side. He takes me around the corner of the dispensary, where I continue to cry and panic from the stress of it all. He puts his hands on my shoulders and for a second I think he is going to hit me, which would be culturally acceptable except that I am white and not his wife so I think our village would be pissed. Instead he takes me by both shoulders and tells me to pull it together, and don't I know that children die here everyday, me freaking out is only scaring this kid. He too says it is just in God's hands. I tell him no and in a very Scarlett O'Hara-ish moment, throw a huge fit about how we are going to the hospital right now and he is going to take us there. (William can drive a car.) I tell him I will pay whatever price. I am snobby ordering one of my best friends around. But William says, "Brie, why are you doing this? You don't know him, you don't know his parents. Just let it go." I continue my fit that I will absolutely not let it go and if he doesn't drive me this very minute... and I let him have it. Half our village has gathered at this point to watch me order a 28 year old man around, but finally he consents. He make sit very clear to me that he is doing it for me- sweet William, he has not given up hope that I might give birth to his children. I love Obama, but he has given every Tanzanian man the idea that he can father the next one.

I quickly run home, grab some money, my coat, a coat for the boy, more pads to soak up the blood, some bananas for him to eat and some shiny dinosaur stickers from America which he gladly decorates his arm with. The road is rough and I hold Martin's hand and we bounce along. William drives carefully and works to keep both Martin and I calm. We arrive to see the hospital is closed and so I freak out. William somehow handles all f it and soon someone is there to stitch the boy up. The nurse says to William "Your wife is very upset, please take her to the waiting room." For the first time all three of us laugh to be mistaken as a family, for we are a motley crew, and I am pretty sure that Martin would be a little whiter... I want to stay in the room and hold Martin's hand but William tells me he needs to handle it on his own he is a big boy.

One of the biggest rewards is n the waiting room William says, "That is the kindest thing I have ever seen anyone do for anyone else. Why?" And I cannot put it into words in Swahili so I just say "Because I love our people." I cannot add passionately, possessively, with complete recklessness- They have given me everything when they have nothing. He says, "You are the first American I have ever seen, and if they are all like you, your country must have the most beautiful people in the world." I am not the best PCV, I have reached almost none of our development goals, but as for the cultural exchange and representing Americans to people all over the world. I think maybe I have achieved it in my small corner of Tanzania. Martin's stitches are finished and I pay. The total of stitches, antibiotics and gas to get there comes to less than $9, but I am the only one who would have paid for it. The next morning I wash the boys white shirt of his uniform which has become red from all the blood stains. I figure I am the only one in my village who owns bleach, so bleach it and sew back on a pocket.

The next morning Juster comes to my house and tells me that the whole village is talking about it... Great. Now I am going to have to pay for every injury. But she says, 'No, it is because you went so far out of your way. You spent an entire day helping that boy. You made it happen with your money, with your connections, with power, with love. Today the villagers are thanking God for you." I sarcastically says, "That is funny, I have done nothing here really." She says, "You still don't get it do you? Everyday you live here some one's life is changed. You affected that boy's life forever. You think he is every going to forget you? Brie, he will remember you as long as he lives."