Regrets…

The other day on the path, I came across our friend David, carrying his son his back.

I asked what was wrong, and he explained to me that the boy (maybe 8 or 9?) was very sick. And it was clear he was—his stomach was swollen and he looked terrible. I asked where he was taking him, and he said to get medicine. He was going in the opposite direction of the clinic, however, and I knew full-well he was going to the witchdoctor a village over. He said she was going to cut his stomach. I tried to convince him to take him to the clinic, but he said there were no people there. Which is true, because the clinic workers had some sort of disagreement and are on strike. I urged him to call Michael, the nurse. He said he couldn’t get him. I eventually gave up.

That’s the boy who died. David took him to this witchdoctor, then to a witchdoctor about 14K’s away. I sort of wish I’d wrestled the boy away from him and carried him on my own back to someone—anyone—who could help him. It’s moments like this I hate not being a doctor, not having a clue how to help the kid.

The locals say the boy went to the river and killed a snake. The snake, in turn, got into his stomach and cursed him, which is why he died.

Ugh.