Today I had the option to buy a clean bill of health for $50 or obtain a health certificate based on actual examination. Having nothing better to do, I figured I'd go to a Liberian clinic.
1pm. The receptionist is singing to herself and texting vigorously. The sign on the wall says Give only tay-tay water to your baby from birth until six months. That means, "Breastfeed your kids, kids." Newcomers to the waiting room instinctively greet the group; I immediately feel awful for not having done so. The crowd is transfixed by a 20-inch TV on the counter: there's an African soap on. The storyline involves a shipwreck and, somehow, an extramarital affair. The men and women across from me are heatedly analyzing the series though I'm pretty sure they're strangers to each other. The receptionist is still singing. A patient leaves the building briefly and returns with a beer and a bottle opener. The man across from me is asleep; he's in a green, short-sleeved suit. The woman beside me whips out her boob. The pharmacy door is wide open, leaving the drugs completely unguarded. No one attempts to steal them. The sign on the wall says Go to the big belly clinic four times before delivery. My name is called. The doctor has to ask me questions twice because I don't know what he's saying. He puts a thermometer into my armpit and weighs me in kilograms. I have no idea what's going on. He sends me to the lab for some series of tests. The lab tech stabs me in the finger without warning and without gloves (bless her heart). She gives me a cup. I climb the stairs and dodge a leaky roof to find the Female Bathroom. There is no lock. There are no curtains, either, so it's just me and the traffic. I look around. Surely there's a paper bag or an opaque box in which to clandestinely transport my business through the bloody waiting room? Nope. There's no toilet paper but there is soap. The only working faucet is in the bathtub. Steeped in Western modesty, I wrap a trusty Kleenex around the cup and carry it proudly through the crowd. I needn't bother; no one is interested. They've all got lives. The tests say I'm clean. I pay $11. I pass a woman selling scoops of hot lunch from a plastic box. I leave. It's 3pm. I see now why the guy brought a beer to the doctor.
1pm. The receptionist is singing to herself and texting vigorously. The sign on the wall says Give only tay-tay water to your baby from birth until six months. That means, "Breastfeed your kids, kids." Newcomers to the waiting room instinctively greet the group; I immediately feel awful for not having done so. The crowd is transfixed by a 20-inch TV on the counter: there's an African soap on. The storyline involves a shipwreck and, somehow, an extramarital affair. The men and women across from me are heatedly analyzing the series though I'm pretty sure they're strangers to each other. The receptionist is still singing. A patient leaves the building briefly and returns with a beer and a bottle opener. The man across from me is asleep; he's in a green, short-sleeved suit. The woman beside me whips out her boob. The pharmacy door is wide open, leaving the drugs completely unguarded. No one attempts to steal them. The sign on the wall says Go to the big belly clinic four times before delivery. My name is called. The doctor has to ask me questions twice because I don't know what he's saying. He puts a thermometer into my armpit and weighs me in kilograms. I have no idea what's going on. He sends me to the lab for some series of tests. The lab tech stabs me in the finger without warning and without gloves (bless her heart). She gives me a cup. I climb the stairs and dodge a leaky roof to find the Female Bathroom. There is no lock. There are no curtains, either, so it's just me and the traffic. I look around. Surely there's a paper bag or an opaque box in which to clandestinely transport my business through the bloody waiting room? Nope. There's no toilet paper but there is soap. The only working faucet is in the bathtub. Steeped in Western modesty, I wrap a trusty Kleenex around the cup and carry it proudly through the crowd. I needn't bother; no one is interested. They've all got lives. The tests say I'm clean. I pay $11. I pass a woman selling scoops of hot lunch from a plastic box. I leave. It's 3pm. I see now why the guy brought a beer to the doctor.
3 comments:
oh my god girl. dying haha
:D Better than (and about as expensive as) a movie.
Your Blog was very interesting to me. i’ll thnx you a lot for posting this interesting information.
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