but stretch out on a bench near the door and submit to the urge to close my eyes.
In heat like this my dreams are always bizarre. The emperor of a mighty country, suddenly inspired into a random act of generosity, orders all hungry tramps in the land to be issued a jar of his finest caviar. But one of the tramps is unhappy and says, ‘Just give me a damn sandwich!’ The tramp says this about the same time I wake up and turn over. While I drift off to sleep again I comprehend the dream may well have been about our two ambulances donated by the United States government. They came with the latest, high-tech equipment, with pulse oximetry, twelve-lead ECG machines and pneumatic ventilators. Like caviar to a tramp are these ambulances to The Philippines’ largest public hospital. Only yesterday we took a patient in from another facility hooked up to our automatic ventilator and found there were no ventilators in the intensive care unit of the hospital. How odd it was to see our state-of-the-art device replaced by a simple bag-valve-mask – a bag manually squeezed every four seconds or so by the patient’s beloved without interruption, sometimes for months. No wonder the bag-valve-mask is known here as as a ‘relative ventilator’. And because the chain of health care is only as strong as its weakest link, there was considerable discussion among the EMTs about why they bothered connecting the ventilator in the first place. More interesting to me was to volunteer in a country where ambulances are better equipped than the hospitals they deliver to. It’s May 1998 and I’m only here for six weeks – half my time ambulance-riding, half island-hopping – far too short a period to help create awareness of a paramedical service among twenty million people in the most densely populated city in the world.
Manolo nudges me with a Philippine breakfast plate of champorado – a combination of sticky chocolate rice served with salty fish, a fish which I detest and usually discreetly dispose of so as not to offend my hosts.
‘We have very important meeting in the evening, Joe,’ grunts Manolo, using the rather annoying nickname I share with every other Western male who bears the slightest resemblance to an American GI. Manolo’s face doesn’t give anything away, even when I know he’s being funny. I’m certain it’s his own type of humour, that he’s one of those straight-faced funny men.
I raise my eyebrows and take the bowl.
‘Chinese Fire Brigade again?’ I ask.
‘You’ll see, Joe,’ he answers.
The two EMTs, Juan and Fermin, are awake. Fermin is brushing his teeth in a sink by the door while Juan runs a comb through his hair over and over again, staring ahead with a drowsy gaze. Neither of them bothers getting into their uniform shirts. They only do this if a job comes in or while escorting me across town to the headquarters of the Chinese Fire Brigade where I lecture in first aid. Three nights ago they also turned out nicely for a dinner with the fire chief whose selection of deep-fried insects and marinated grubs revolved on the centre of the table like a carousel of horrors. With this grisly platter still in mind, I hope this evening’s meeting will be nowhere near Chinatown.
Manolo snaps at Fermin to turn off the tap.
‘All quiet! News bulletin!’ he barks.
Roadworks have begun on a new flyover and taxes will go up for a year to pay for it. Joseph Estrada, one of the country’s most popular film stars, is running for the next election and looks likely to win it. The temperature is 36 degrees Celsius with 98 per cent humidity. Heavy showers are predicted for later in the afternoon. And Silvana
With nothing better to do we mop the ambulance for the tenth time in a week. Considerably more mopping goes on here than any treatment of patients. Mopping detergent with detergent, as Juan always says. Oxygen we check too, and not because it is used for patients short of breath, but for the chance that a slow leak may have dropped the levels. This is the life of a public ambulance service medic in Manila – mopping, cleaning, sleeping …
And waiting for news bulletins.
Our meeting after work, as it turns out, is merely a visit by the rest of the station staff, three of them in all, who, out of pure sympathy for the boredom suffered by their colleagues on shift, have come to bring us a hot dinner. Sunny – a young EMT behind The Philippines Emergency Medical Technician’s Association (PEMTA), which presently boasts a total of seven members – lugs in a small television set and box of cables. He connects them up and tests a microphone with a crackly ‘one, two, two!’ Moments later we are sitting round drinking San Miguel beer, singing karaoke.
‘You have choice,’ says Sunny when it is my turn with the microphone. “New York, New York” or “Barbie World”.
Great! Cringing, I tell Sunny these are not the most interesting songs but see few alternatives in the open catalogue. Reluctantly, I ask him to start the Sinatra.
To my great relief, after just one ‘New York’ into the song, Manolo interrupts.
‘All quiet!’ he yells. ‘News bulletin!’
DR AQUARIUS AND THE GYPSIES
Macedonia
Saints are always good for a holiday. A couple of weeks ago it was Saint George and, now, in the middle of a Balkan summer, it’s Saint Nicholas who really ought to be celebrated at Christmas. But who cares if they want to honour him twice? It’s an excuse for a party and the fact that I’m working all weekend is no obstacle. Not in Macedonia, not among the doctors and nurses and drivers of Skopje 194.
Along the potholed road into the city, looking out from the peeled tinting of the side window, I catch glimpses of grubby youths half-heartedly kicking footballs in overgrown parks under the bleak housing blocks where they live. None of them waves at the ambulance as kids always do back home, hoping for a blast from our siren. On benches, watching them play, stumpy old men sit with motionless wives, saying nothing. At a corner where we pause for a red light a little boy sells eggs from a tray. A gypsy girl does a half-hearted tap dance in front of cars and someone throws her a coin. Homeless dogs scratch themselves in the heat. At a nearby kiosk with torn beach umbrellas outside, a row of bicycles lean against a sun-cracked wall. Behind that, the spire of a mosque rises between apartment blocks where laundry flaps from narrow windows. Here the best suburbs can look like decrepit public housing estates. Like my parents’ photographs from their European travels in the 1970s, everything seems faded and bathed in a vinegary orange light, as if one is moving through an era long passed.
Skopje is littered with the evidence of better times. This city was a base for Alexander the Great, the birthplace of Mother Teresa, the place made beautiful in the Byzantine era and under the Ottomans. It was still beautiful on the day before the earthquake of 1963 when 90 per cent of the city was flattened. Rebuilt by Yugoslavs with a concrete obsession, Skopje became something else and then, when communist rule ended between 1990 and 1992 (and Yugoslavia broke up with Macedonia claiming independence in 1991), the money for public works dried up. Once grand fountains ceased their squirting but still remain as concrete eyesores in every empty plaza. City gardens are knee-high in grass and weeds, pavements are fractured or caved in completely and a whimsical Socialist-era fun park on the edge of town has not changed in forty years. As for the Macedonian dress sense, everyone appears to be clothed in drab and mismatched garments they have quite conceivably selected from suburban charity shops while blindfolded.
Three months earlier in Sydney, my paramedic partner and I were called to a woman originally from Macedonia now living in a small flat crammed with imposing floral lounges, a woman
