So in this picture is the oh so famous Peter and his little son Aim, the beautiful beautiful child Aim. A three year old in all ways, it is impossible to get annoyed with him because his smile is just so damn cute.

Although Aim has many talents, I think his particular talent is telling secrets. Whenever he has something he wants to tell you, he starts creeping up to your chair, and then instead of leaning over to whisper in your ear, he sticks out his ear as if it was you who were about to tell him something. Then, cheek to cheek, he begins to whisper his secret straight ahead, to no one in particular. 

I'm trying to convince Aim that he needs to be a model, so we spent a large part of the breakfast practicing holding butter and peanut butter cans. He has down the brand exposure and the "I love jiffy" but we just have to work on his ability to keep his food in his mouth.

Finally having figured out how to post pictures, here is a long overdue shot of the hospital I am working at, St. Andrews. Charming in many ways, one of it's particular draws is the way that chickens and patients share the same waiting space. The other day, Peter had left his office open while going to grab something from the pharmacy and he came back to see a chicken perched on his table. The chicken feathers began

 quivering, and afraid of an attack, Dakota and Pe

ter left to go get a security guard to deal with the feathery problem. They came back to a compounded problem: instead of just a chicken, there was now a chicken and an egg. After this, of course, it was Peter who vacated his office for the afternoon, leaving the chicken and the egg to preside over his charts.

In the continuing introduction to the hospital, here is the operating "Theater." We are slowly trying to de-britainize the hospital and introduce American terminology, but so far we have only managed to change chips to french fries. Here is where all of the procedures take place from the treatment of burns to cellulitis. What is pretty interesting is that the anesthetic used here is called katamine, also known as "Special K" in the US. Originally used as a horse tranquilizer, this drug allows the patient to mentally disassociate, which is really another way of saying that this anesthetic gives the patient a hell of a trip and some pretty intense hallucinations. Awake during the procedure, though the patient feels little to no direct pain, they are still able to react. Because of this, many patients still kick and scream during the whole procedure, giving the impression that they have broken through and are feeling every little cut. Very disconcerting to witness, it is pretty hard to believe that the patient truly feels nothing when they cry with such conviction, but no matter how intense the procedure is, when the patient awakes from the drug, they will remember nothing at all. 

Hard to believe at first, I was given proof of Katamine's amnesia affects when we had a burn case come in, a little girl who had fallen into a fire and sustained burns all over her right arm and leg. White people in Malawi are known as "Azungus," and out here in the village, they are still quite a novelty. Children especially are in awe at the sight of an Azungu, some having never seen adult white people before. Given the scarcity and the abnormality, you can imagine how terrifying three Azungus can be in the procedure room. Now imagine the intimidation factor when you add an incredibly potent hallucinogenic. During the procedure of this little girl, she was both yelling in pain and in fear of the white people around her. During the procedure, she alternated between asking for an "Obama," (a Malawian cake,) and yelling in fear about the "Azungus" that were in the room. I was pretty sure that the little girl would cower when she saw me again, but when I saw her yesterday, she was completely friendly and happy. Thankfully, her burns are healing quite nicely, and she has absolutely no memory of the operating theater at all.

On another note, a strange coincidence found its way into the hospital today, something that seemed straight out of a Malawian CSI show. Late yesterday, two men came in complaining of excruciating abdominal cramps. Both were watchmen at one of the local tobacco farms, and both traced the origin of their symptoms back to the lunch of encima that they had shared.  Arriving at the hospital, the first man had incessant diarrhea and vomiting while the second had no outward symptoms, only an intense stomach cramping. When we left for the night with both men were in relatively stable condition, though still in intense pain.

            Upon arriving at the clinic this morning, we were greeted by a slew of policemen. Apparently, one of the men, the man who was unable to either vomit or go to the bathroom, had died the night before. Fairly stable for most of the night, at about 1 am he began foaming at the mouth. Though they called the doctor on call, the man died only minutes later, before the doctor had time to make it to the hospital.

            It was only at this point, when the medical facts were on the table that the whole story finally came out. As it turns out, one of the men, the man who had survived, owed a boss on the tobacco plantation about 3,000 quatcha, ($18.) The boss had been attempting to collect his debts for the past few months, but the guard had been refusing to pay up. It was actually this same boss who had prepared the meal for his two guards that day. After news of the man's death circled back to the village, the boss was overheard lamenting what he had done, saying he should have never prepared the encima. Though not quite a complete confession, the guilty conscience can be a fairly reliable thing. In this case, if the boss is the one in fact responsible for the poisoning, then the tragedy remains that this boss, meaning to kill the indebted man, ended up killing an innocent man sharing the lunch. So the guilty man lives, the innocent man dies, and it was all for only $18.

To end on a happy note, here is a picture of the kids at St. Andrews-- quite acrobatic.