Well shit. It’s been 5 years. Things have changed. Others haven’t. Pretty
lame observation there, Shakespeare, but that’s the jist of what these “retrace
your footsteps” stories are about right? Things have changed. Others haven’t.
For the ones who have no idea what I’m talking about, feel free to refer to the
original part un (same blog).
Trauma training is part of emergency medicine. And as much as some
narrow-minded detractors love to spew the contrary, we have it pretty easy in
Canada. People who have been gravely injured in a car accident are a dime a
dozen. The ones who have been stabbed or shot are like solar eclipses. You know
they exist, and when you encounter one, it’s a big deal. Consequently, trauma
training in Canada is a bit like learning how to bobsleigh in Jamaica: it can be done, but there are better places
to do it in. This was the reason I went to Johannesburg 5 years ago, and it’s still
the same reason I now find myself in Cape Town. That and the riding…. And the
wine…
The flight I booked with Turkish won me an eight hour layover in
Istanbul… Constantinople… Byzancia! So much history! So much culture! So much…
grime? Fine, my romanticized expectations were perhaps a little misplaced. But
you would expect such a famous and respected old lady to take care of herself
slightly more than the littered streets, cracked sidewalks, and some crumbling
- yet inhabited - buildings I came across. I’m painting a grim portrait, but
that was the unfortunate first impression this legendary city gave me. Turkish
coffee, Turkish delights, the bazaar, and the mosques started winning me over
however. There is no denying the major influence this place has played in our
species’ cultural evolution. It’s inebriating. But just like the last sip of a great
beer left in the heat for too long, the dilapidation of certain areas of
Istanbul left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I have another layover on my way
back and I will do my best to change this.
Cape Town. The South African Vancouver (Probably the other way around… whatever,
work with me). Where the sea meets the mountains but without the rain… there is
a drought actually. Oh and people stab each other more. A lot more. I have seen
as much severe trauma cases in a week that I would normally see in 2-3 months at
the Montreal General Hospital, probably more come to think of it. In that
sense, some things haven’t changed at all. Johannesburg was the same, but the
city was shit: a literal overgrown gold mine. No really, it was a mining town.
That’s what literal means. Anyways.
Cape Town on the other hand is gorgeous. The vineyards are an hour away. More than
half of South Africa’s best restaurants are here. There is a nightlife. The
coastal roads are orgasmic on a motorcycle. This place resonates with me just
like Hemingway’s short sentence writing style is resonating with me just now. Things
have changed then.
The Groote Schuur (pronounced “hrooteh skyur”) hospital is where I work.
Kinda. My papers are still being processed despite having sent them 1 year
prior. Things haven’t changed. It is
a regional trauma center, meaning all the moderate to severe trauma patients of
the region get transferred here (or its mirror image Tygerberg hospital on the
east side of town) for specialized care. It’s big. It’s impersonal. But
considering the incidence of trauma and the limited human and financial resources
available, you have to find a way to deal with each situation as they come. It’s
not perfect. Far from it. There are times when my stoic demeanor hides a
screaming discomfort about the cause of the patient’s injuries or the actual
management of certain patients. It’s not fair. For anyone. Things haven’t
changed. But the growing adult cynicism in me suggests that such is life.
Things have changed.
On a lighter note, I swam with sharks yesterday off the coast of Gansbaii,
2 hours south east of Cape Town. The sunscreen ritual of white tourists from
Canada, Ireland, Australia, and Switzerland was heartwarming. “You missed a
spot!” cried one dermal ghost to the other, granting an inner victory against
the ever-menacing solar evil bereft of compassion for us poor light-challenged
individuals. Meanwhile, the bronze, square-jawed Spaniard smoking a cigarette
in his speedo looked down triumphantly over us mere albinos and snickered. The
glacial temperatures of the southern Atlantic gave us sweet revenge however…
except for the Australian. He didn’t do so well. Didn’t see great whites, but
we did see a 3 meter shark silently swim past us. I was happy to be in a cage. As
a matter of fact, I’m always happy to be in a cage… but that’s another story.
Things haven’t changed.
