Peeling yellow paint hangs from the gritty cement walls and I look down just in time to step over a puddle of muddy liquid on the worn landing. As we pass through the congested doorway and onto the third floor, I bite down hard on my lip so my chin won’t drop. The last thing I want is to look like a stereotypical Westerner with pity pooling in my eyes at the site of circumstances far different from my own.

I look to the right and a man, barely more than a boy, lies on a splintered bench that hangs at an awkward slope from its hinges. He stares at a point in the distance as a bottle, hooked on a nail overhead, dispenses what I assume to be chemo drugs down the length of the dirty wall and into his waiting vein. An old man in black plastic sandals scuffs towards the bright fluorescent lights of the communal bathroom. Instead of an IV pole to rest against, he leans heavily on the middle aged woman beside him. His caregiver holds the bottle high in the air, like a flag, as they continue their slow march through the crowd. Continue reading →