I now have an answer as to why I have been unable to eat since my husband went to West Africa: a peptic ulcer.

I awoke Monday with chest pains. Nonetheless, I got ready and (being the Pionerka that I am) went into the office at 8:30. By 10:00, I was doubled over in pain and thought it was a panic attack. My boss instructed one of my Ethiopian counterparts to take me to St. Gabriel’s hospital, less than 2 kilometers from the office and a block from my house. We entered the hospital and explained to the people behind the registration desk that I was having chest pains; they regarded these symptoms with the same urgency they would give an ingrown toenail.

I paid my 60 birr registration fee and was instructed to go and wait in the “waiting area” which consists of a narrow hallway leading to the cafeteria with several worn leather seats and which smells of fried fish and bleach. I sat down and turned my attention to one of the overhead TVs, inexplicably tuned to CNN rather than ETV. After 15 minutes Tamrat (my Ethiopian coworker) told me to go to the nurses’ station where they took my blood pressure and weight and again treated my chest pains nonchalantly. I was given a card with the number 22 on it and instructed to return to the waiting area/hallway.

For two hours I waited among 50 coughing, sneezing Ethiopians to see the doctor. Finally, when it was my turn, the doctor asked me about my symptoms and listened to my chest. When Tamrat left to ask the office about payment, the doctor decided to ask me a series of personal, probing questions Ethiopians can’t help but ask when confronted with a captive ferangi (white person): Are you a worker or a volunteer? How long have you been married? Do you have children? Why have you been married seven years and do not have children? Where is your husband? What is he doing there?

I felt like standing up on his desk and screaming: THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. FOR YOUR INFORMATION AND FOR THE INFORMATION OF EVERYONE IN THE COUNTRY, I DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN BECAUSE I CANNOT STAND THEM. I WOULD RATHER LOSE A LIMB THAN LACTATE. I AM ONLY ENDURING THIS ON THE OFF CHANCE YOU ARE GOING TO PRESCRIBE ME SOME VALIUM.

After what seemed like an eternity, Tamrat returned and explained to the doctor in Amharic that my employer would pay because I didn’t have any cash. The doctor took out a photocopied sheet of paper and wrote, “lab”, “EKG” and “observation”. I told him there was no way in HELL I was going to stay overnight, that I would rather die of a heart attack. He scratched out the last word and sent me on my way.

The first thing they wanted to do was the “labs”. I walked into the laboratory which smelled like urine and the technician grabbed two vials. I stood up and walked out. There is not a chance in hell that I would let a public hospital in East Africa stick me with a needle.

The next day, I slept in and went to work about 11:00 thinking that the symptoms would pass. By 3:00 I was about to die: pains were coming every five minutes. I rallied my strength and drove myself to a private clinic near my office. The Israeli doctors gave me an exam, diagnosis, prescription and completed insurance forms and sent me on my way in less than an hour.

A few days after beginning treatment and I am still hardly able to eat and experience excessive pain when I do. An American co-worker had the dickheaded comment, “well, if you wanted to lose weight this would be the way to do it”. It has been the week for dickheaded comments.

So if you, by chance, find yourself in Addis Ababa with a health problem DO NOT go to St. Gabriel’s hospital, especially if you have a potentially life-threatening and time sensitive health problem. Ethiopians are the slowest people in the world and never treat anything as urgent. Consider yourself warned.