Being ill whilst traveling is not a nice experience — and yet it is part of the deal, especially when you travel for such a long time and in countries with low hygienic standards. It is not too bad to lie in bed for some days and be reminded of the fact that we live in a fragile body and that health is a mighty bliss. What is a bad thing though, is to stay in bed for more than a week, not being able to eat or walk around and enjoy yourself. Unfortunately, over the last few weeks, I found something that is even worse than being sick myself: to see my love and travel companion in pain, to watch him suffer and not being able to help him. It was a nightmare that lasted many days.

The road that leads to the Southern Medical Centre — the clinic in Livingstone — is dusty, sandy and stony. “I guess this is the only clinic I have seen so far that is not accessible on an asphalted road!” At least Jose is still joking, although he is in pain. His stomach hurts for a few days now, sometimes with or without fever; it is so painful that he can hardly walk, not to talk about eating or travelling further on. As we enter the small house that constitutes the clinic, a tall, black nurse in a white gown welcomes us. “You want to see the doctor? He is at his lunch. He will be back soon.” The nurse takes Jose’s blood pressure, pulse and temperature and marks them on a blank sheet. The instruments she has at hand look antediluvian: the thermometer is broken at its top end and fixed with sticky tape; the blood pressure meter surely dates from World War I. The nurse lets Jose lay down in a private room. It is a bedroom where admitted patients would stay for several days. Besides the huge colorful bed, covered by a blanket with a tiger on it, is a television and one single machine that reminds me of a hospital room. To me it looks rather like a double room in a hotel.

Finally, Dr. Sanjay, a nice, though not very talkative Indian doctor, comes back from lunch and bids us in his study. There is an examination bed and a messy table, overloaded with sheets. After a few questions about our local food experience, he palpates Jose’s belly. His methods are restricted, medical treatment in Zambia is very basic, although Dr. Sanjay does his best to help the people there. “Stomach infection,” he mutters and gives Jose painkillers and antibiotics. “It will be healed in three days.”

Unfortunately, the relief I feel after this consultation only lasts for a few hours. Jose temporarily feels better; we even make new plans to finally see the Victoria Falls from the Zimbabwean side and then travel further into Namibia. However, at night, Jose wakes up because the pain is worse than ever before: breathing is excruciating — it is impossible for him to go back to sleep. He would not decide to go to the doctor, nor does he know what to do, how to react. How should I know? But it is my responsibility as his companion to take care of him and to make decisions in difficult times. That, I learned in these lonely hours, during these long nights. So we go back to the clinic where Dr. Sanjay’s assistant is on duty at night. He gives Jose a painkiller injection and tells us to come back in the morning, when the doctor will be in again. All we can do is wait. Wait until the sun rises again and, with it, the darkness and the sorrows of the night would be banished. Luckily, the painkiller works, and Jose falls asleep again, for sleep is the best medication for a sick person.

In the morning, Dr. Sanjay examines Jose’s tummy, once again only with his hands: he would not do an ultrasound examination or a lab test of his blood, for he does not have these methods at hand. It was not easy for me, coming from the Western culture and having worked in a hospital for several years, to cope with these basic practices. Sometimes, I think it would be easier to know less about medicine and not to be aware of the situation you are in. During these lonely hours in Livingstone, I could feel my helplessness and powerlessness, and my dependence on others. I began to feel sick of fear for Jose. What if it really is something serious? What if he gets fever again? What if he needs an emergency surgery?

The doctor’s new diagnosis is a leak of gastric acid due to the infection. He therefore inserts a cannula into Jose’s arm and injects every eight hours a serum against the over acidic stomach. So, every eight hours, we take a taxi to the clinic. The nurses know us now, they are all very nice, but shy. The tension in my soul is a bit relieved thanks to this new treatment, but it comes back even stronger at night. Jose lies — without realising it for he is so stoned with painkillers — with over 39.5° fever. As we urgently get to the clinic, obviously, Dr. Sanjay’s replacement is there again and has not got any clue about what to do. Instead of anything that would counter the fever, he gives him another painkiller injection. They say nothing, do not tell me that Dr. Sanjay is on his way to take over; I feel desperately helpless, and am terrified. I do not know what else to do than flying on the next plane to South Africa, where medical assistance is much more developed and where we could do all the necessary check-ups. So that this nightmare would finally come to an end.

The next day, my aunt picks us up at Johannesburg’s airport and drives us straight to the hospital. And as we enter the huge building, I can smell it. I can smell the odour of the disinfectant, see the clean rooms and modern machinery, hear the bustle of dozens of nurses and doctors at work. I am back in the future. I know that Jose is safe now.