Investigative Report: Moroccan

Occasionally, I like to dispense with the petty stories from my life and provide you, my readers, with an in-depth, investigative report into a certain aspect of Moroccan society. Today I choose the subject of Moroccan public hospitals.

This afternoon, I was struggling to think of a way to penetrate the Moroccan public hospital system deep enough to gain the kind of profound insights that I always like to deliver to my readers. I was struggling. I was struggling to cut open some newly bought dishware, and I decided that the best way to check out a hospital would be to cut myself open. So I did just that. I cut the index finger of my left hand straight through to the bone.

Thinking quickly, I immediately decided that it would be best to have a Moroccan friend accompany me on my investigative visit. So I contacted a coworker who has previously helped my roommate and me find couches, tables, and the like. He cheerfully agreed to provide interpretation on my journalistic quest. And so we set out for the nearest public health station, a little first aid station on the side of the city hall run by the Red Crescent. Fortunately, my ploy worked: the cut was too deep for him to patch it up. Soon, we were in a taxi headed directly to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, we passed the two security check points with no problem. I said "Salaamu 'Alaykum" at both in an effort to seem more native and ingratiate myself with the object of my investigative report.

While checking in, I was able to retain a high level of anonymity thanks to, of all things, my long name. My identification card lists my first and middle name on the same line, but the last line is dropped down to a second line. Those unfamiliar with long names and their formatting often confuse my middle name for my last name. I snuck into the hospital, thus, without actually giving my last name. I hoped this semi-anonymity would help preserve some authenticity in my reporting.

I was in luck.

The doctor on call took one look at my finger, commented on it in French and took me straight into an operating room. A window was open and a man in working clothing was squirming in pain on the operating table, surrounded by three nurses and one surgeon who were delicately working on his lower leg, which bore a much deeper wound than my finger. The doctor beckoned me to a chipped wooden chair in the corner. So I sat down, all the while watching the man in pain. His sandals had fallen off and were on the floor not far from where I was sitting.

The doctor pulled out a local anesthetic, some stitches, a needle, and some gauze, and proceeded to clean my wound. The nurses turned towards me and stared. Eventually I attracted even the surgeon's attention. We shared a few words in Arabic, and then he proceeded to try out his English on me.

"You're American?"
"Yes."
"You're here on vacation?"
"No. I work at the American Language Center."
"Oh. Do you know David?"
"No, I don't think so."
"When I studied there, he was the director."
"When was that?"
"Oh, 10, 15 years ago."
"No, I don't know him. But there is a David directing another center here in Morocco."

Periodically I would try to respond in Arabic, but he persisted in English. The nurses giggled.
"I speak English. You speak Arabic. Good for both of us."
"Yes."
"I will teach you Arabic. You give me your address and phone number and we talk."

About this time, I wished that I had my camera with me to fully document the scene, but I consoled myself with the observation that it seemed more authentic without it. The surgeon finished sewing up his patient and my doctor finished the two stitches that tied my finger back together almost simultaneously.

We walked into the waiting room, and the doctor asked for 200 Dirhams (about $25). My friend translated, even though I understood. I gave the 200 Dhs and he walked down the hall. No receipt. The surgeon came and spoke with me again. He wanted to write my name down. In the rush, I don't think I gave him my contact information. But he has my name and work address. So perhaps he will find me someday and we can continue the Arabic lesson I started in the emergency room.

A little later, he came back with a scrap piece of paper. In the universally recognizable, illegible handwriting of a doctor, he prescribed an antibiotic and a tetanus shot for me (or so my friend told me). We then walked out of the hospital and across the street to the pharmacy where I bought both. And then we made our way back to where my investigative foray into Moroccan medicine had started. The same man who had sent me to the hospital administered my tetanus shot, telling me repeatedly in three different languages:
"No meat. No eggs. No fish."

I have yet to bring my investigative research to bear on those three claims. But my finger does seem to be on the way to recovery. The anesthetic has faded a bit, and my hands are different colors, but I am using the finger to write this blog post, reporting to you from Morocco on the state of Moroccan emergency services.