MarySmith’sPlace -Back in the saddle, bribery and injections Afghanistan adventures#42

Lal-sar-Jangal, Hazaristan – early winter 1989

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Next day, Slowcoach had obviously decided to accept her fate and make the best of a bad job.  She kept moving, if somewhat reluctantly, until we reached the home of Qurban’s patient, Nasir – after four hours.

After we had eaten, Nasir produced some apples. They were so very small and bruised I, at first, assumed they were for the horses. But they were for us. Other than Khudadad’s gift of a melon, they were the first fruit, I’d seen since arriving in Lal. In the summer months, melons are available, brought from Bamiyan, but bananas, oranges, tomatoes are never seen. When Bashir had shown me his English ABC book I’d pointed to the picture of an orange, asking him the Dari word for it. He shook his head, ‘It has no word in Dari,’ he replied. I said there must be, but he insisted there was not. When asked, Qurban explained Bashir had never seen an orange in his life, and assumed there was only an English name for it.

Lal’s climate was certainly not suitable for growing much in the way of fruit. It is only warm three months in the year, the soil is poor, and few farmers have enough land to grow sufficient wheat for their needs, so even vegetables are rarely grown – a few potatoes and turnips. It was hardly surprising so many children in Lal suffered from a variety of health problems caused by poor nutrition. Feeling guilty about even thinking of giving Slowcoach my precious apple, I bit into it as though it was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted.

Nasir brought his wife and children into the room to meet me. With the exception of the smallest baby – only a few weeks old – all the children had running noses and skin infections, head-lice and, possibly, scabies.

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 The healthiest child in the family.

I held the baby, the healthiest person by far in the family while Nasir, with Qurban translating rapidly, gave a prepared speech of welcome. This included a great many flowery sentiments about friendship, followed by references to his poor house, his poor family – ending with an outright appeal for money, for a job. He handed over a written application, setting out his case and asking for financial assistance.

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The dinner and the apples had clearly been an investment. Leprosy patients were able to apply to the social care budget for help if their economic situation, and any disability caused by the disease, warranted it. Nasir, however, owned land and was fit enough to work. Mumbling something about discussing the matter with the committee, I pushed the letter into my bag. I wished he had just asked me outright for a loan when we had met at the clinic, without the charade of the lunch party and overtures of friendship.

The following year, Nasir was given a substantial loan with which to buy supplies, in Kabul, to enable him to open a small shop in his village. He returned from Kabul wearing a very smart new suit, very little stock for his shop and the rest of the money had disappeared. A few months after this he put in yet another loan application – despite not having repaid any of the first one – this time it was refused.

Next morning, we left early to return to the clinic and, wonder of wonders, Slowcoach was quite amenable to a getting up a bit of speed, a sort of half jog. Just when I thought I was improving my riding skills, Qurban dashed my hopes by informing me the only reason the horse was prepared to go faster was because she was going home. By the time we reached the clinic I’d decided I never wanted to sit on a horse again – dreams painfully shattered by reality. I was horrified when reminded of Haboly’s invitation for the following weekend, another four hours of torture each way and, worst of all, I learned for the first time, that the journey to Waras would take two days on horseback – each way.

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In the meantime I carried on with the work I’d to do, including taking stock of medicines and equipment, a task often interrupted by the women who wanted to talk to me. Although I met dozens of women every day no friendships were formed between us as they were in Jaghoray.  Having always subscribed to the feminist principle that all women are sisters, I was appalled to discover I harboured extremely un-sisterly feelings regarding the women of Lal. Every conversation centred entirely round their determination to get medicines or money from me.  I felt guilty about my reaction to their constant whining and complaining, their shameless demands, and their dirty smell.

It wasn’t their fault I’d tell myself. I looked at every excuse I could think of – the relentless, grinding poverty, the annual pregnancies, the death of almost half of all infants before the age of five, the lack of education – but still I could not prevent the feelings of frustration, even disgust, as a woman clutched at my clothing, whining for a pejkari, an injection, for her sickly baby. I’d spend time trying to explain her child needed foods such as potatoes, green vegetables (though where she’d find them I didn’t know), yoghurt, eggs. The endlessly patient Rahimy helped to translate, but the woman would close her ears, continuing to demand an injection. Then, realising this mother desperately wanted her child to live I’d force myself to try again.

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I don’t remember where this was taken but it reminded me of when there was no worries about  lockdown hair!

MarySmith’sPlace – Afghanistan adventures#40

Lad-sar-Jangal Winter 1989

Qurban’s wife, Masooma, had taken their two daughters to Pakistan to visit her parents, who had not yet seen their grandchildren. She was expected to return with Jon when he came to collect me. In the evenings I sometimes joined Qurban in his room where we talked late into the night catching up on news.

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Qurban had spent much of his life in Karachi and was eager for news of friends there, and to reminisce about his days at the leprosy training centre and hospital. Although I had known Qurban quite well during his student days he had never talked much about his early childhood in Afghanistan. During one of our late night sessions he told the story of the horrors of those days when, at the age of about seven he contracted leprosy.

He had known of the disease as his paternal uncle had leprosy. In those days, people were terrified of leprosy, believing it to be incurable. As no-one understood its cause all kinds of misconceptions and myths surrounded the illness: it was a curse of God, a punishment for sin.  Qurban’s uncle must have done something dreadful to be punished in this way, a bad person, to be avoided. He had been ostracised by the community, forced to build his house far away from the village. He wasn’t allowed to pray in the mosque.

One day as Qurban was returning from the village school he and some friends had stopped to play in the river. A friend pointed to a light coloured skin patch on Qurban’s leg, asking what had caused it. Qurban hadn’t noticed the patch before. When his friend poked it with a sharp stick he felt no pain. In that instant he understood. His uncle had several similar patches with no feeling on his body. Qurban went home but said nothing to his family – hoping the patch might disappear as mysteriously as it had come.

Eventually he showed the patch to his father. ‘It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry. I didn’t know grown up men could cry. His tears frightened me more than anything.’   His father warned him to say nothing to anyone. They began a round of visits to doctors, healers, mullahs, wise women – anyone who might have the means of making the patch disappear. Nothing – not the ointments, pills nor injections, made the slightest difference.   Prayers, visits to nearby shrines and tawiz (a few lines of the Quran stitched into a cloth bag and worn as an amulet) were all equally ineffective.

Despite the misery and fear he felt while his parents searched desperately for a cure, Qurban was still a child, with a child’s resilience and enjoyment of life, delighting in leading his friends in mischief. One day he boasted that he could stick pins in his leg and feel no pain.  For a few minutes he had basked in the admiration of his friends at this strange and wonderful feat. Next day his world collapsed.

‘At first I didn’t understand what had happened. No-one at school would talk to me but I knew they were whispering things about me. After school, for the first time in my life, no-one would walk home with me. But a crowd of boys was following me. I wanted to run, but I kept walking normally. Suddenly a stone hit my back, then another and another and the boys were shouting “Leper, leper!”  Then I ran.’

Qurban’s school days were over, his childhood had ended.

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Band-i-Amir – one of the most beautiful places in Afghanistan

One day Qurban’s father took him to the shrine at Band-i-Amir. This chain of five lakes, or dams, is said to have been created by Ali, son-in-law of Muhammad (PBUH). The waters are reputed to have healing powers. Qurban was excited about travelling so far, convinced that this time, surely, he would be cured.

Wondering whether he was to drink the magic water or wash the patch in it, he heard a splash. Turning, he saw threshing arms and legs churning the water. A young girl, a rope tied about her waist, had been thrown into the lake. He watched, horrified, as she was finally hauled, gasping and spluttering back onto the bank. She lay vomiting onto the shore while the people surrounding her murmured prayers.

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Taking to the curative waters. This photo was taken in 2006 when I returned to Afghanistan

Convinced he would die Qurban became hysterical, begging his father not to throw him in the water. His father agreed that they should go first to pray at the shrine before Qurban underwent the “treatment”.  The child’s sobs attracted the attention of a stranger who paused and peered at the patch on his leg. ‘That is leprosy,’ he announced. ‘You will never cure it like that – better go to Pakistan. They have medicine for this. My wife’s cousin was cured there.’

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The shrine at Band-i-Amir I think that might be my son standing in the foreground!

Qurban had wanted to go immediately.  Not realising that Pakistan was another country, he couldn’t understand why his father, although excited by the news, did not seem particularly anxious to set off on another journey to buy the medicine. ‘He struggled for months to raise enough money for the trip,’ he explained. ‘And he had to make arrangements for someone to care for my mother and the land. All this time I hated my father because I thought he had decided not to go.’ Qurban paused, blinking back sudden tears, before continuing: ‘I was seven years old, quite a big boy, but all the way to Pakistan, I complained about being too tired to walk. My father carried me on his shoulders most of the way.’

Even when they reached Quetta their troubles were far from over. Many Hazaras had already settled in the city and they soon made contact with people from their own area – but no one had heard of a cure for leprosy. Soon they were caught up once more in a round of visits to doctors, whose prescriptions were useless and expensive. His savings soon vanished and Qurban’s father had to find work. Not far from Quetta he found a job as a coal miner; back breaking work digging for coal in a series of open cast mines and tunnels running deep into the side of the mountain.

One day their luck changed. They met a doctor who not only recognised Qurban had leprosy, but knew of the hospital in Karachi where it could be treated.  He wrote a letter of referral to a doctor there. Within days, Qurban and his father had made the journey to Karachi and Qurban had been admitted for treatment in the large Manghopir hospital on the outskirts of the huge city. His father left him almost immediately to return to Lal.

Qurban grinned, ‘The rest you know – school, training, marriage and back to Afghanistan.’   I realised, however, there was a great deal about Qurban I really didn’t know at all. Although completely cured of leprosy, the memory of those stones thrown by his school friends so long ago had marked him deeply. Those little boys, grown up now, had welcomed Qurban back into the community – showing him acceptance and respect. But Qurban’ feelings of insecurity and lack of confidence made him question what the community really thought of him.

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Qurban in dark glasses even with his family.

Convinced everyone who looked at him saw immediately, in his loss of eyebrows, the stigma of leprosy, he had affected the habit of wearing dark glasses at all times, even indoors. He suffered periods of moody introspection, which could last for days, during which he would talk to no one, followed by a sudden cheerful gregariousness. His sudden mood swings left everyone confused. Qurban admitted he could do nothing to fight off the black clouds of depression which descended on him without warning.

MarySmith’sPlace – Afghanistanadventures#39 – Learning who’s who at the Lal clinic

Lal October 1989

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After the excitement of arriving in Lal I experienced a sense of desolation when Khudadad left next day. Although we’d been travelling companions for barely two weeks, not only had I come to depend on him for so much – from ensuring I was well fed to finding a bed for the night – but I’d truly enjoyed his company. As the truck pulled away I stood forlornly clutching the huge melon he had given me as a farewell gift, waving until he was out of sight.

Stocktaking and updating the record cards of leprosy patients seemed such mundane chores compared to the excitement of travelling, never quite knowing what might happen or where we would end up. Having to begin all over again getting to know a new group of people none of whom, apart from Qurban, I had ever met before was daunting.

The clinic was a depressing place with dark, poky little rooms whose tiny windows allowed in hardly any light – a common design feature in houses throughout the area, to insulate them from the bitter chill in winter, when temperatures drop to -40C. Qurban had done his best to improve the appearance of my room, which was the size of a cupboard, by lining the crumbling walls with orange cloth. When I was in bed, a colony of mice staged athletics events behind the cloth, occasionally venturing out to scamper across the pillow. Qurban was negotiating over the price of a piece of land on which to build a new clinic, something I hoped he could accomplish quickly.

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Entrance to the clinic

I began to sort out who was who amongst the staff. Ibrahim was in charge of the dressings and injection room where he did the soaking, trimming and dressing of leprosy patients’ ulcers, as well as attending to other wounds and injuries. As two of his nephews had both been my English students in Karachi where they were trainee leprosy technicians, I happily accepted Ibrahim’s invitation to visit his home in Waras sometime, as I had promised the boys I would try to deliver their letters personally to their families.

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Qurban, his brother Bashir and a patient (name has escaped me)

I’d already been invited by Qurban to visit his family’s village and Haboly, the general medical assistant, was insistent that I must also visit his. Invitations quickly followed from Aziz and Rahimy and my social calendar was soon completely filled for all foreseeable weekends.

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Ibrahim on the camel on the right. Camels were rarely seen so far north

Rahimy had been a mujahid but retired from their service, cheerfully returning his Kalashnikov, to work in the clinic as a field assistant where he was paid a regular salary and was less likely to be shot at. Wounded in a skirmish, the injury had left him with a permanent disability in one hand. He was such a quiet, gentle person, demonstrating a genuine concern for the patients, it was difficult to visualise him in his former role of gun toting freedom fighter. Rahimy was to come with us to Pakistan to attend a laboratory technician course over the winter. The second field assistant, Juma, would then, the following summer, begin his training in Karachi as a leprosy technician.

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Patient on right and some of his family

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Me being maternal with a baby securely parcelled up so it didn’t wriggle

Every morning patients gathered early outside the gates of the compound. Many travelled for hours by foot, or by donkey – by horse, if they were better off. Some took two days or more to make the journey from remote villages and, most days, around fifty patients arrived to consult Qurban and Haboly. They arrived well prepared for a long wait, bringing with them kettles and dry tea and nan, along with fodder for the horses and donkeys. Children found new playmates with whom to pass the time, chasing each other amongst the groups of adults and around the tethered animals. The scene resembled a country fair and in fact, in the days following the clinic’s initial opening, one enterprising man had opened a temporary chaikhana to cater for the crowds.


In addition to these “general” patients Qurban had a case load of around two hundred leprosy patients scattered across his extensive control area. He had an almost equal number of registered tuberculosis cases. It was too much for one leprosy technician to cope with so Qurban was keen for Juma to start his training as soon as possible to lighten the load.

Tuberculosis patients caused the greatest concern because of the rate of absenteeism, and lack of personnel to follow up missing patients. The effectiveness of the tuberculosis drugs in some ways works against controlling the disease in Afghanistan – and other developing countries – because soon after a patient begins his treatment he feels well. Believing he is cured, he discontinues the medication. If he is being prescribed drugs by a private doctor the cost for the full course of treatment is prohibitively expensive and, understandably, the impoverished patient has other uses for his money. The biggest danger, when a patient stops taking his medicine before all the bacteria has been destroyed, is the remaining bacteria mutate into a new strain, resistant to those particular drugs.

When news spread a foreign doctor had arrived the numbers of patients, especially women, increased. Despite Qurban’s cajoling I refused to play at being a doctor. ‘In my country a person would be sent to jail if caught pretending to be a doctor. It’s too easy to make a wrong diagnosis or prescribe the wrong drugs. I’m happy to check female leprosy patients and talk to mothers about nutrition and family planning but I’m not going to pretend I can do anything more than that.’

Qurban laughed, ‘You are not in your country now. The people here are desperate for medical care. Anyway, everyone in this clinic is a doctor, even the cook!’ I’d heard the cook being called Dr Aziz but had assumed it was simply a term of respect. I hadn’t considered the possibility that he might actually prescribe medicines for people and was only slightly reassured to discover he confined his prescribing to aspirin and vitamins.

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‘Dr’ Aziz, the cook

We finally agreed I would do the stock taking, write my reports and carry out leprosy examinations on female patients. I’d be available to talk to women about nutrition for their children and for themselves in pregnancy, to explain how contraceptive pills should be taken or to teach a woman how to work out her fertile days. The dwindling number of female patients soon made it clear the women were not interested in hearing a foreigner talk about mashed potatoes and greens for their children, and had no magic drugs to make their babies strong and healthy.


MarySmith’sPlace -AfghanistanAdventures#30

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I puffed my way into the compound where the clinic In-charge, Hassan and his wife, Zohra met me. Hassan whisked the menfolk off to the guest room and I joined Zohra and her three children for a welcoming breakfast in the family room. It was utter bliss to sit on a soft mattress with clean plump cushions to lean on.

Hassan popped his head in to tell me Sayed was leaving and I went outside to say goodbye, thanking him profusely for delivering me safely. He grinned amiably through his black beard, waved in farewell, and hurried down the mountainside, no doubt anxious to make up for lost time.

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There was already a queue of women and children waiting to consult Zohra, and she left to attend to her patients while I took a much needed bath in the luxury of a bathroom, warmed by a wood burning stove which also heated the water. And, oh joy, the latrine outside had a proper door with a bolt! Later, relishing the luxury of lounging against soft cushions, instead of being battered and bruised in a jolting Komaz, I wondered briefly where Khudadad was. I hadn’t seen him since we got here.

From time to time Zohra would emerge from the clinic to feed the babies. We had met before, albeit briefly in Karachi, before the couple came to open the clinic in Sheikh Ali so were not entirely strangers.

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As well as her own six month old plump, jolly Shaheed, there was Sadiq, a two month old emaciated bundle of skin and bones, whom she had admitted for intensive feeding. He was one of twins and his mother, herself weakened by several successive pregnancies had insufficient breast milk. The youngest of her three older children was only eighteen months, and Zohra, understanding the exhausted mother’s workload in the house, and in the fields, knew she had no chance to take the rest she so desperately needed to recover her strength.  Knowing, also, how much extra time would be required to bottle feed both babies, Zohra suggested that she leave Sadiq, the smaller of the two. She would feed him until he was strong enough to be less at risk, before sending him home to take his chances with his brother. Sadiq’s grandmother agreed to stay with Zohra and help care for her grandson.

The grandmother was horrified at some of the things Zohra suggested, such as leaving the baby unswaddled, so that he could wave his arms and kick to develop his muscles – though poor little Sadiq was too weak to do much kicking. He could squirm, though thoroughly alarming grandma who was unused to a baby’s natural wriggling when not tightly swaddled. Terrified she would drop him, the poor woman, already deeply distressed about her grandchild’s condition, was struggling to cope with a seemingly unending assault on all her dearly held beliefs, handed down by generations of mothers, on child care.

She was shocked when Zohra suggested cutting the baby’s very long, dirty fingernails and even after Zohra explained that it was to prevent Sadiq scratching himself and possibly infecting the scratch she remained sceptical. Everyone knew that it was bad luck, and sure to bring down the evil eye, to cut a baby’s fingernails.  Zohra wanted to bath the baby but said, ‘I think this would be too much for grandma to accept.  No-one bathes babies here and I fear that if he does die, she would blame me.  For now, I just wipe the important bits with cotton wool and warm water. When I make up his bottle she watches like a hawk – not to learn, as I first hoped, but to check I remember to put sugar in.’

Towards evening, Hassan returned. I had already explained I needed to move on as soon as possible, to the clinic in Lal. He told me his jeep had been sent to Pakistan for repairs and would not be available for at least another ten days. ‘Would it be possible to find a truck going that way – even if only to Bamiyan?’ I asked.

Hassan shrugged, ‘It might be difficult to find someone to take you. Better you wait for the jeep and I can take you.’ My concern must have shown as he added, ‘I will try. Don’t worry.’

I understood that Hassan’s reassurance was nothing more than “telling the guest what she wants to hear”. Bamiyan was only a few hours travel, and I didn’t think it could be so difficult to find people travelling to the capital of the region. I refrained from saying any more but I was worried – there was a lot of work to be done in Lal, and time was short.

As we ate our evening meal, I ventured to ask Hassan about Khudadad’s whereabouts. He had not appeared for dinner.

‘Oh, he is in the guest room. He cannot come into this room because of the women.  Someone is looking after him. Don’t worry.’ As the only women in the room were Zohra and me, I could only assume that Hassan did not want Khudadad to see or talk to his wife. I dropped the subject, resolving to meet Khudadad next day.

A bed was prepared for me – clean blankets and soft mattress – on the floor of Zohra’s clinic. And I wouldn’t have to climb into that truck at 4 am.

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MarySmith’sPlace – On the road still Afghanistan Adventures #28

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It was still dark when I heard the urgent whisper, ‘Sister, sister, it is time to go.’  I crawled out of my warm nest, pulling my chaddar on straight. Khudadad had already rolled up his bedding. Under his impatient gaze I fumbled clumsily trying to roll my sleeping bag to a size small enough to squeeze back into its ridiculously tiny nylon bag. Finally he took over and somehow stuffed it in, picked up our bags and headed for the door. ‘Come. Sayed is waiting.’

‘But, I have to go outside first,’ I whispered.

‘Now?’ Khudadad’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch, provoking mutters and grumbles from the sleeping bodies scattered about the room. ‘Sayed will be angry if we are late. We will stop soon.’

I trotted along the deserted street, trying to keep up with Khudadad’s hurried stride, hearing the thrum of the trucks’ engines warming up. One look at Sayed, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, was enough for me to climb into my place and keep my mouth shut about needing to pee. He was obviously not back on home ground yet.

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My travelling companion Khudadad on the right. This was taken on a different journey. 

At precisely four o’clock we departed, roaring off through the still sleeping bazaar. I snuggled into my little corner of the hard wooden bench hoping I could sleep away the time until Sayed made the breakfast stop. I dozed fitfully, waking when the truck stopped. Khudadad clambered down to see what was happening. My hopes were dashed when he returned, saying, ‘One truck has a puncture. There is nowhere for you to go here.’ I squirmed uncomfortably on my seat. Seeing a line of truck crews relieving themselves didn’t help.

Angry with the delay Sayed, determined to make up lost time, kept on trucking. I became increasingly desperate. It was worse even than being trapped on the bus in Maqoor – at least it had been stationary. This was sheer torture. How I didn’t end up with an attack of cystitis, I’ll never know. I’d just decided to risk Sayed’s wrath by insisting he stop to let me pee when, finally, after almost six excruciatingly painful hours on the road, he announced that we had reached our breakfast stop.

‘Tea!’ gasped Khudadad, heading for the hotel. I stared at him.

‘Well, do you think, first I, em, ….?’  Khudadad was contrite.

‘Oh, I am sorry, sister. I forgot.’ Yeah, because you’d already relieved yourself. He led the way under some trees, along a river bank. Each time I indicated a suitable place he dismissed it and marched on. I was beginning to wonder for how many miles he intended to walk, when he stopped, pointing towards a group of scrubby bushes. ‘I think there should be all right. I’ll wait here.’ I decided, Khudadad was taking the foreigner’s need for privacy a bit too seriously if was going to lead me on a route march each time.

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Together we rushed back to the chaikhana, terrified that Sayed might be ready to move on already, before we even got a sniff at the tea. Khudadad indicated a rickety ladder which led to an empty room above. Strangely, a bed stood in one corner – a metal-framed, hospital bed.   After a few minutes a loaded tray appeared through the trapdoor. Some sticky brown, very sweet halwa was accompanied by nan, and of course, two pots of tea. I was learning how wonderful tea was as on a journey when throats are clogged with dust.

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A marmot

Footsteps sounded on the ladder and a man appeared carrying a bundle which he deposited unceremoniously on the bed. A woman followed, shrouded in a voluminous chaddar. We greeted each other before the man began to talk at some length to Khudadad, occasionally gesturing towards the bundle on the bed.

Khudadad translated, ‘Their baby is sick. Diarrhoea. They want you to give it some medicine.’

‘But I am not a doctor.’

‘They think you are.’

‘Please, Khudadad, tell them I’m not. They must go to a proper doctor. There’s a German hospital near here, isn’t there?’

Khudadad nodded, spoke to the baby’s father, too rapidly for me to follow. He turned back, ‘I told him that you don’t have any equipment or medicines with you, but he said you can write a prescription and he will buy the medicines in the bazaar.’

Before I had a chance to protest at Khudadad’s duplicity, the hotel keeper popped his head through the trap door to offer the loan of a blood pressure set. I wondered if the German sponsored hospital had noticed that a bed and a BP set were missing. In the meantime, the mother was eagerly un-wrapping the bundle on the bed to show me the baby.

‘Khudadad, I can’t give a prescription for medicines when I don’t know the cause of the diarrhoea. It’s dangerous. The only thing I can say is that they give the baby plenty of fluids – they can surely find rehydration salts in the bazaar – but they must go to the clinic.’

Khudadad talked for a very long time and I wondered what embellishments of his own he was adding. The baby’s father did not look impressed. Finally, Khudadad turned back to me, saying, ‘I told him how to mix the ORS but he says ORS is not a proper medicine. He wants injections. He says you are not a good doctor.’

I opened my mouth to repeat that I was not a doctor but a bellow from below indicated Sayed was ready to go. I murmured polite goodbyes to the disappointed couple, now busily re-wrapping the baby, tying it up like a parcel with embroidered ribbons.

Back in the truck I mused on how easy it would have been to make the couple happy by scribbling a prescription for antibiotics. They would have gone away thinking I was a good doctor rather than a useless and unhelpful foreigner. But, I knew my conscience would have troubled me, worrying if I’d inadvertently killed the baby. Of course, the baby might die anyway – or get better if the mother prevented it becoming dehydrated. Oblivious to my dilemma, Khudadad snored next to me.

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