Eskimo Kissing in Africa?

I recently had a rather interesting experience.  I was called out to see a girl in labor.  As I entered the hut, I had some trouble picking out the pregnant girl.  Now, I don’t pretend to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I can USUALLY tell who the pregnant, laboring girl is – at least as a general rule.  Sadly, this girl was about 15 years old and only about 8 months pregnant with her first baby.  The baby was clearly tiny.  The girl was from another village – but came to our village because I was here and she was sick with a runny belly (code word for diarrhea).  She was quickly becoming dehydrated.  

I started her on some medicine for the diarrhea, and gave her a Gatorade-like solution to drink.  Over the course of the next few hours, the labor slowed down and stopped.  I was relieved, as I was not sure the baby would survive if born.  They approached me and said that they wanted to take her home.  They were very afraid I would be offended.  No problem, I said.  Just please have the other midwife check her one more time before you leave tonight.  They said they would.

The next afternoon, the midwife came to get me, asking me to come because the girl had delivered the baby.  I was surprised, but grabbed a few things, leaving behind my big delivery bag.  I assumed that the baby had been delivered, and cleaned up, and they just wanted me to see.  As I was walking with the midwife, I began to question her. Was the baby breathing okay?  Is it a boy or girl?  She didn’t seem to know very much.  I said, well, did you wash the baby?  She said, No, we are waiting for you.  

WHAT?  I said, did you cut the cord and deliver the placenta?  No was the reply again.  I was starting to get frustrated.  I turned around and went home to get my delivery bag.  The matron said she had been at the farm and when she got back into town, they called her.  She went, saw the baby delivered, and left it there to come and get me.  I was working to control my breathing.

We arrived at the hut to find the mom sitting on the cow dung/mud floor and the baby lying on a filthy rag beside her.  The cord was still attached to the placenta, which had not been delivered yet.  I cut the cord, wrapped up baby, and gave instructions to get mom cleaned up.  The baby was tiny and cold, but breathing on her own.  I debated about whether or not we should wash it – worried that the bath would lower her body temperature even more.  However, she was filthy and I was worried about tetanus.  Also, it was scorching hot outside and they had heated water.  

I told the midwife, let’s just quickly wash it up and get it wrapped up again.  She agreed with me and we took it outside.  Once outside, she took a look at the baby, pronounced it fully ripe (fully developed) and proceeded to wash and wash and wash the baby.  I was getting frustrated, fearing that the stress on the baby was going to be too much. I kept trying to take the baby to bundle it up.  She refused.  Everyone could tell I was getting frustrated.  

I was talking to myself in English, telling myself to calm down.  They said, Gulunga is getting worried about the baby.  The midwife said – Oh, she always worries about the baby.  She finally handed her over to me and I bundled and bundled and took baby into mom, giving instructions for mom to try to nurse it right away.  I told them I would check back in a while – intending to bring some formula if necessary if the baby was getting stressed from being so small and cold-stressed and trying to nurse.

As I got ready to leave, a short old woman came over to me.  She was a relative of some sort and had been with us the previous day while I sat in the hut waiting for the labor to progress.  She grabbed my chest and began to thank me profusely for the help.  Then she stuck her face up to mine.  I thought she was going to do the French air kiss on each cheek – though, frankly, I was a little surprised that an old woman in the bush would even know how to do that (see the footnote).  

With her hands still clutched to my chest, she reached up and started rubbing her nose on mine!  Hello!  I have to say that I was COMPELTEY unprepared for that.  She kept blessing me and thanking me.  Finally she let go and backed away.  I thought – Did I just get an Eskimo kiss in Africa???  Wow- I didn’t see that coming!  I know we have different thoughts on personal space but really!

I went home smiling and laughed when I told the story to Jim.  Just goes to show that in Africa, you need to be prepared for anything.

I am happy to report that when I returned that night, baby was doing okay and had nursed a little.  Praying that little girl continues to grow big and strong, despite the rough start to her little life.

FOOTNOTE

I just have this to say about the European way of greeting.  I find it sophisticated – but very confusing – though don’t mind participating.  It is just hard for me to figure out – which side do you start on?  Once you get it established, all is good.  But you do have the potential to accidently kiss someone (I should know) if you both start on the same side.  

Once, in Quebec, we were leaving a friend’s house and I kissed the wife goodbye and the husband came to kiss me goodbye in the European way and I started on the wrong side and nearly kissed him on the lips.  Sadly there was not a rock big enough for me to crawl under: “Hey, thanks for having me over, sorry I kissed your husband in front of you!”  Thankfully they were good friends and good sports so all was good.  

Man, they should have a seminar about that!  I am just saying….