19 Apr, 13 | by BMJ Group
My second day in South Sudan, the start of a nine month posting with MSF in this war torn, dustbowl of a town called Nasir, and I’m standing here in the medical ward, utterly lost. In every sense of the word.
How did previous doctors manage the workload out here? I’ve got no idea. In the past hour I’ve been called from the ward a handful of times. First was to the tuberculosis (TB) village, the group of mud huts behind the hospital, where forty TB patients live for the six month duration of their therapy, to talk with a man who is unhappy with the quantity of food he is being given and to try to persuade him not to leave. Next was to our living compound, where our logistician, Paul, is suffering from his second case of gastro this week (it won’t be long until I join the ranks, he assures me), followed by a visit to the re-feeding centre, where the health worker wanted me to please assist with the feeding of a malnourished, but surprisingly feisty young girl. The patch of high energy milk on the front of my T-shirt proves that I tried. And more recently there was the call to outpatients, where dozens of patients are waiting to be seen, crowding under the awning in a vain attempt to avoid this diabolical heat. Fifty degree afternoons are not unheard of here, I’m told. The local word for February, the month just passed, is simply “Fire.” more…