thanksgiving a shit

my friend cindy has been flying the bush in east africa for a number of years. she was also a fellow pilot of the caribbean, so we have a lot in common. last week cindy signed up for a second round of duty with air serv in sudan, and i wanted to help see her off.

the night before she left, we made some baja fish tacos and drank ice-cold beers to celebrate the new adventure. her dad had just visited from the states, and had brought over corn tortillas and tapatío hot sauce. it was an early christmas for us, as you can't find any authentic, south-of-the-border taco bell style meals here.

it's like a ballet in the kitchen. poetry in motion. tortillas quickly bathing in hot oil and salt, cabbage being chopped into thin strips, fresh fish fillets breaded and deep fried to a golden brown, homemade guacamole from the avocados growing in the front yard, and pico de gallo just sitting there looking all deep-red and beautiful and eager to be eaten.

guinness lubricates my gullet as cindy and i talk of her upcoming adventure, as well as glorifying the past with our war stories.

after about 6 tacos, 4 barley pops, and countless lies, it's after midnight. she still has to pack for her trip the next day, but offers to give me a ride home instead of making me wait for a driver. we pile into her tiny car.

it's dark with no moon. the roads are nearly deserted in more ways than one: there's no funding for streetlights in uganda.

rounding the curve near the top of the hill, we both see a flash of spokes poking out from the median into the road. cindy swerves in time to narrowly avoid running over a crashed bicycle, as we both spin our heads around into the blackness.

"was there a guy out there?"

"i don't know, i couldn't see."

we have been taught to never stop in africa for accidents of any kind. the mob mentality quickly takes hold here, and you can be caught up and blamed for something even as a good samaritan. especially as a white person, since you are seen as wealthy. people take advantage of that. cindy and i both knew this, but couldn't leave someone lying in the road.

"let's go back and check."

she flips a quick u-turn at the next opportunity, and we retrace our route. with only dim headlights to guide us, it's hard to know exactly where to look. but i remember a unique cement post silohuetted from a scattering of passing motorcycles.

sure enough, a man is lying in the median, his body contorted around the bushes, his head on the curb. cindy turns on the hazards and we both jump out into the median to help him. the back half of his bicycle is hanging out into the other side of the road; it has a big, metallic, five-gallon milk container attached behind the seat with fraying rope. the man is conscious but is bleeding from scrapes on his face and obviously has a major concussion.

just then, a matatu comes screaming around the corner, one headlight out. i make out the decal across the top of the windshield: god is good. it's driver doesn't see the bike in time, and runs over the back tire. barely missing the man's leg but sending searing electric jolts through the metal that make him cry out in pain. i gingerly hold his top leg up and slide the bicycle out from under him, standing it up against the concrete post in the median to be out of the way. kneeling down, i ask the man what happened, and where he is hurting. he tries to mumble something, but it is in luganda, the local tongue. he doesn't seem able to speak english.

out of it but stable, breathing and awake. no huge pools of blood.

soon the vulture flocks of boda bodas begin to arrive. like media journalists upon a tragedy, the men get off their motorcycle taxis and crowd around, doing nothing useful. at least their parked bikes provide an earlier and larger warning sign to approaching traffic. i ask one of them to call an ambulance.

"i have no airtime."

"well use my phone then."

"i don't know the number."

"well call the police then."

"i don't know the number."

"can you go to the hospital on your motorcycle and tell them to come?"

"no, but i can take you. 5000 shillings."

"i'm trying to help this man. do you know where the police station is?"

"yes."

"can you drive up there and tell them we need help?"

"no."

"why not?"

"i can take you for 5000."

cindy and i look at each other. no one wants to go anywhere on their own, because they all think that they will be held responsible. cindy's car is far too small for this man to fit in. we need a minivan or a truck.

i call one of our company drivers, who should know what to do. he describes to me where the hospital is. i ask him if he can come take the man to get care.

he tells me he is playing pool at a bar a half mile away and can't leave.

i call another driver. he too is at the red rooster, also playing pool. a third: the same.

cindy and i brainstorm. we decide the best course of action is to go to the hospital ourselves. by now enough bodas have stopped on both sides to create a buffer around the crash site and slow traffic to a safe speed. i ask these guys if they will stay with him while we go and get help. they agree. i tell them not to let him move, especially not his head. i emphasize this point.

"just keep him exactly where he is, and don't move him!"

"yes please."

we speed away into the night, and find the hospital just a few blocks away. explain the situation to the night guard, and ask him to summon an ambulance. he can't.

we don't have one.

after lots of back and forth banter, he volunteers to "call a driver to pick him."

for 20,000 shillings, his friend will come and take the man. we see no other option at this point.

after 15 minutes, the man shows up in his car, and we instruct him to follow us to the victim. driving back, the bodas are mostly gone. just a few linger on the other side of the road, across traffic from the accident. in the dark grass i see the blue coat of the victim, who is now lying on the ground 50 feet from where he was. they just picked him up and carried him.

when we pull up they savagely grab him by the coat and jeans and squish him into back seat of the "ambulance" in a fetal position; the man crying out all the while. he needs to get to the hospital, and i can see that this will never happen any other way, so i spare them the possible-broken-neck lecture.

cindy and i pile his bike into the back of her car. otherwise, it too would disappear into the night. i hold the bike tire from the front seat to keep it from falling out the open hatchback. one of the boda drivers approaches my window as we are about to leave.

"you can pay me?"

"actually, we're taking this man to the hospital."

we bring the man to a triage nurse on duty. under fluorescent lights, he peps up quickly. you can smell the alcohol on him. i go outside and unload the bike. after a quick inspection, it seems to have sustained minimal damage, so i infer it was a glancing blow, just enough to knock him off balance but not bend metal.

the nurse assures us he will be ok and cindy and i leave. at home i can't sleep, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins like liquid lightning.

i lay in bed, thinking about the nature of men, the politics of healthcare, and what the fuck is wrong with the world. the universal, utter lack of regard for your fellow man.

in the u.s., we like to think that we would act differently than the people in uganda did. but if you think about it, much of the american attitudes are the same despite recent healthcare reform. for it is not big-hearted doctors and nurses that are in control of helping people, but rather health insurance executives and lawyers. in our sue-happy culture, these shit-landing flies rub their hands together in glee at potential profits and measure everything in a heartless sterilized unintelligible lexicon of financial risk management in fine print.

if you are unemployed or too poor to afford health insurance, too bad. you may as well be lying in traffic, surrounded by thoughtless pricks trying to profit at your misfortune. you may get care, but it's going to cost all you have.

it never made any sense to me that the nation that spends more on healthcare than any other ranks 37th in the world in terms of quality. and despite the recent reforms, many are still rabidly against taking care of the poor. all we think about is how much it is going to cost us, and fail to see the humanity of the man laying in the road. often times this is because he is from a different country. our petty nationalism misses the entire point of the parable of the good samaritan.

yes, there are parasites with a government healthcare option type of system. yes, there are abuses. but healthcare should be about people, not about profits. and right now the major leeches are the ones wearing executive suits and sitting in the corner offices of law firms and health insurance companies. they aren't getting rich because they care.


******

as you sit down at the table this thanksgiving, i encourage you to remember the origins of the holiday: pilgrims, who were illegal immigrants in this land. they had spent everything they had just to get here, with a dream of making a better life for themselves and their children. only the selfless generosity of the native americans kept them alive through that first winter.

as you pass the green beans and mashed potatoes around the table, remember who toils in the fields thanklessly picking your fruits and vegetables. it is the migrant worker.

as you help yourself to the carved turkey, remember the mostly-latin workforce of meatpackers. out of sight, without safety rules or minimum pay standards, processing the nearly 200 million turkeys for america's thanksgiving-day dinner tables.

it seems tragically ironic that we spend this holiday of reverence ignorant of where our food comes from. as the giblet gravy glides down our gullets, have we considered that our entire crazy system would come to a screeching halt overnight without migrant workers?

nearly everything on a typical thanksgiving table is likely brought to you by the blood, sweat, and tears of illegal immigrants. these are human beings who have sick children too. let that mingle with the bittersweet cranberry taste on your tongue. healthcare should be treated as a basic universal human right. for what society can be healthy if its citizens are not?

doesn't the first thanksgiving bring to mind not only being grateful for what we have, but also the idea of giving away what we have excess of? for we are all where we are because of nothing more than the dumb fucking luck to be born into the circumstances that we were. many are not so favored by the stars.


having the faith to share from your blessings is what makes possible the miracle of the fishes and loaves feeding thousands.