Villagers pause ever longer to peer at us with curiosity. Finally, we make a right turn near a
large boulder and enter the village of Aukot. Down the road we pass “down- town,” which consists of several mud brick houses with thatched roofs. Half of a goat carcass hangs waiting for a buyer. Some old men sit outside in chairs and wave to us as we lumber through the vil- lage. A dog lying in the dirt briefly con- siders getting up but decides to beat his tail into the dust instead. We enter an expansive field. The grass has been freshly “slashed,” whacked with a machete. We see about 100 of the deep purple dresses and shirts of schoolchildren sitting in their open- air classrooms. The instructor fights for their attention as we roll in, but the bat- tle is futile. These strange white-coated people are a source of excitement and curiosity. We park in front of a classroom that
is reserved for today’s clinic. One room with low walls will serve as a dispensary, another as the doctor’s room, another as our antenatal clinic. The malaria, vacci- nation, and family planning departments set up under trees outside. A large crowd of mostly women and
A nurse practitioner checks for jaundice in the eyes of a child with malaria.
Aukot. We are more packed than usual. No one complains.
As our van crawls over the dirt road, over potholes created by the recent rainy season, I smile as I think of the people who “off-road” for sport. A cell phone appears and out crackles the lively local music I’ve grown to love. Jokes and con- versations switch from Ateso to English. Within a single sentence, the language switches three or four times. We pass through downtown Soroti and enter a brief swarm of cars, bicycles,
52 TEXAS MEDICINE October 2012
and foot traffic. At intersections, oncom- ing traffic slows, but there is never any real “stopping.”
Driving further into the countryside, we settle into a slow and steady pace. Richard navigates down the road with full concentration. The grass grows high- er. We pass the peanut fields (Gnuts in Soroti) filled with small mounds of dirt, erupting with bright green vines. Wom- en with hoes and long patterned skirts pause as we pass. As we travel further, the sight of a vehicle becomes a rarity.
children has already gathered. I overhear Dr. Eriamu Nathan, a local physician with more than 35 years of experience as a family physician, say, “There are three times as many people here as we will be able to see.” For every outreach, besides the sup- plies for the pregnant mothers, we bring enough supplies to treat about 70 chil- dren: 70 rapid malaria tests, suitcases of medications for 70 children, and 60 of the valuable “white sheets” the doctors pass out to the neediest during triage. White sheets guarantee treatment. “It’s the hardest part of our job,” Dr. Nathan says. “We have to walk through these crowds and decide who will get treatment.”
A small mob erupts as women hand their fevered, crying babies to Dr. Na- than and Emmanuel, a young local nurse practitioner, begging for a white sheet. They must patiently, yet briefly, assess each one for high fever and other impor- tant signs of serious diseases. Richard or-
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