House Calls

Last night my friend, Sarah* (a nurse), asked if I wanted to walk with her to drop off some ironing at the local mahkwahgee (uh…ironing guy).  I agreed and we headed out around 7.  We dropped off the stuff and greeted the women sitting on a stoop next door.  They smiled warmly and began to chat.  Sarah asked if one of her friends were there so she could check on her.  After a few tries through various Arabic phrases and gestures, we discovered the friend was not at home but traveling.  We bid them goodbye and made our way back toward the house.

We stopped at the neighborhood dukan (small store) and said hello to our friend.  She's the proprietor and is there all hours of the day and night.  If I understand correctly, the woman has 17 children.  That is NOT a type-o.  17.  Zowee.  I might stay at the quiet dukan myself.  One of her teenage daughters was also present so we stopped and visited inquiring about their family (as is customary here).

By now a small squadron of children had gathered around us.  One as tiny as two came running up to us and yelling, "'ello!  'ello!  'ello!" and sticking out his hand.  I shook it and said "hello" back.  Some of the kids were content just watching us and listening to our attempts at Arabic.  Others were requesting "helawa" or "bon boni."  (These are both words for "candy", with the first being Arabic and the other French.)  We told them that we did not have any and soon they lost interest.

We rounded the corner and greeted a group of ladies ranging in ages from 12 to 80 (guessing).  I hadn't seen some of them before so we had just a brief interchange.  I looked around and noticed that Sarah was missing.  The ladies pointed toward one of the doors and said she had gone inside.  I knocked and tiptoed around the corner.

Sarah wanted to check on a lady who was expecting a baby and had been given strict orders for bed rest.  The woman motioned for us to sit so we sat opposite each other on additional beds.  She began to tell Sarah how she was feeling.  One of her daughters came in and offered us tea.  We thanked her and told her that we appreciated it but wouldn't need any today.  She ignored us and brought it anyway.  Sarah reiterated to the mother that she must rest so the baby could be healthy.  Her other daughters now entered the room and shook their heads no.  Basically, if mama can't get up, then who's going to cook?!  An age old question in ANY culture.

We had one last stop near our home.  One of the grandmas of the village had been having back pain.  Sarah had taken the woman a bag of frozen peas to apply to her back.  (Sarah thought this might be better received than telling the lady to use an icepack.  They have many superstitions about ice.)  The lady had been using it, but to no avail.  She pulled out her bag of medications and handed them to Sarah.  Sarah reviewed them and told her that she was on the right track.  

As we prepared to leave, the grandma started to walk toward her dulab (closet).  She said, "Before you go, I will give you perfume."  (Oh, no!  NOT the perfume!  This stuff is like no other perfume.  It not only goes on your skin, but in your pores, deep in your cells and won't go away.)  We smiled and told her there wasn't any need.  We were happy to see her.  She ignored us and pulled out the bottle.  She began spraying us both on the hair, the hands, the neck, the front, over the back and in the face.  She laughed and said, "NOW you can go."

We laughed with her and took our new smelly selves toward the house.  I walked in and John said, "Oh, you must have been out visiting!"  Yes, yes indeed.

House calls.  They take time and effort, but are so valuable to catching glimpses into people's lives.  My friend, Sarah, is amazing.  She calls them by name and continues to follow up.  We pray for them each day. Shwyya bil shwyya (little by little).  Thankful…

*Not her real name