Escort
She is of the kind whose Spanish is the hardest to understand. I will call it Gummy Spanish, because she speaks through a toothless mouth, a rapid speech that has had 77 years to practice its gossip. She tells me she is nearly blind, but she hops out of the moto with a surprising bounce and marches along the street, holding my arm for balance.
I strain to understand her words for a little while and add a comment when I can, but she is way ahead of me.
Before we enter the small but plush city clinic for her x ray, I try (in vain), to smooth down my fluffy hair. It's been a typical day, my scrubs are splattered with stains and my sandals and ankles are caked with mud. I pull my lip gloss out of my pocket. She looks at me.
"Hey!" she says, "I need some lips, too!"
I share my lip gloss with her.
Her name is Amalia. She is a little thing with wide feet and salt and pepper hair, puffed up behind a head band. She came to us this morning, to our tiny and chronically muddy mobile clinic set up, wondering if we could operate on her mangled pointer finger. Doctor couldn't operate without seeing a better picture of the finger, so I was nominated to escort her into town to this air conditioned place with sparkling clean tile floors. I don't think I've ever been able to describe anything as "sparkling clean" in Perú.
A young doctor with big glasses and a bad haircut shows me into a consult room for a brief conference before the x ray. Amalia waits in the waiting room, watching Peruvian soaps on TV.
I explain our work and mission and ask him to lower the price of the x ray. He in turn asks me many questions. He tells me he will lower the price by 50%, and I tell him that we are very grateful. The x ray and visit will cost about $8, instead of $16.
"Why do you do what you do?" he said.
Good question. I thought for a minute.
"For the love of God," I tell him, "and because I want to learn how to serve others."
The trip is over in less than two hours, a miracle by Peruvian schedules.
"Wasn't that easy?" I ask Amalia on our way back to her neighborhood.
"Everything is easy when there is money," she says, "how hard it is to be poor."
I didn't say anything. I just sat there with her, thinking about it.
I strain to understand her words for a little while and add a comment when I can, but she is way ahead of me.
Before we enter the small but plush city clinic for her x ray, I try (in vain), to smooth down my fluffy hair. It's been a typical day, my scrubs are splattered with stains and my sandals and ankles are caked with mud. I pull my lip gloss out of my pocket. She looks at me.
"Hey!" she says, "I need some lips, too!"
I share my lip gloss with her.
Her name is Amalia. She is a little thing with wide feet and salt and pepper hair, puffed up behind a head band. She came to us this morning, to our tiny and chronically muddy mobile clinic set up, wondering if we could operate on her mangled pointer finger. Doctor couldn't operate without seeing a better picture of the finger, so I was nominated to escort her into town to this air conditioned place with sparkling clean tile floors. I don't think I've ever been able to describe anything as "sparkling clean" in Perú.
A young doctor with big glasses and a bad haircut shows me into a consult room for a brief conference before the x ray. Amalia waits in the waiting room, watching Peruvian soaps on TV.
I explain our work and mission and ask him to lower the price of the x ray. He in turn asks me many questions. He tells me he will lower the price by 50%, and I tell him that we are very grateful. The x ray and visit will cost about $8, instead of $16.
"Why do you do what you do?" he said.
Good question. I thought for a minute.
"For the love of God," I tell him, "and because I want to learn how to serve others."
The trip is over in less than two hours, a miracle by Peruvian schedules.
"Wasn't that easy?" I ask Amalia on our way back to her neighborhood.
"Everything is easy when there is money," she says, "how hard it is to be poor."
I didn't say anything. I just sat there with her, thinking about it.
posted by Ansley at 7:34 PM
2 Comments:
"How hard it is to be poor"... a sobering statement but very true - worldwide. Sometimes it makes me wonder how necessary 99% of my possesions (and priorities) really are in the grand scheme of things.
This one is one of your best, Anzie. I like a picture of this little lady with your lip gloss on please.
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