Skip to main content

Student assessments

It is the end of the morning meeting. Our current pair of medical students from the University of KZN are leaving today and we need to write their assessments. Nomfundo grabs the report sheets from them and peruses the areas we must grade them on.

“I am a very harsh marker,” she declares. “I never give more than 60%.” The students protest loudly.

“But we were there. We worked. You saw us.”

“Yes,” she grins, “but if I grade you well you will be complacent and not work in the future.” The students grumble.

“You are as bad as the Indians in Durban.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. They explain that the medical school in Durban has a largely Indian teaching staff, a heritage of the apartheid era when it was a non-white medical school and there were few black doctors.

“And they are racist when they mark. Like our last assessment. I saw a Zulu patient and got 60% and the Indian student saw the same patient and got 90% and he couldn’t even speak Zulu!”

“And the examiner was Indian?”

“Yes!” One of the CommServ doctors joins our discussion. He studied at UKZN.

“It is true,” he confirms. “Ach – it is terrible.”

“But there must be more black specialists now?” I ask.

“You would think so, but there are not many.”

Later I am speaking with one of the medical consultants at our referral hospital in Ngwelazane who happens to be Zulu. “I do not know where all the black doctors go,” she says. “They are all at medical school and then they disappear. There are very few in specialist training. I think they all go into private practice straight out of their community service. No one wants to train to be a specialist when you can make money as a GP.”

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Abscess

The phone rings. I am lying on the sofa in the dark squinting at the laptop screen: someone has lent me series 1 of Spooks. I struggle up and bump across the room to the phone. “Hello?” “Moran!?” “Yebo.” “How are you?” “I am fine.” “I am fine too.” And then those four dreaded words. “Please hold for maternity.” The line goes dead for a second and then a midwife comes on the line. “Moran?” “Yes.” “How are you?” “I am fine. “I am fine too. I have a 22 year old primip. She is in labour but I cannot do a PV. She has a Bartholin’s abscess.” I ask a few intelligent questions and then, pausing only check what exactly a Bartholin’s abscess is (an abscess of the Bartholin’s gland apparently) I head for maternity. On arriving I am taken to the woman concerned and, yes, sure enough there is a large abscess in the position that I imagine a Bartholin’s gland might sit if I knew exactly what it was. “I cannot do a PV to check the cervix because it is too painful.” The abscess blocks the way. “Right.

10 years on

The door flies open. Lele peers in. "You must come out here and see. They are doing a play!" I finish up my case file annotation and come to the doorway. The waiting area is in chaos. A gang of school children are manhandling a couple of marimba's to the space in front of the consulting rooms, a team of nurses and counsellors are creating a stage area. Patients look on mutely. Some with interest, others - presumably feeling proportionately less well - without. "What is going on?" I ask. "It is 10 years since the clinic started. 10 years since MSF first started the HIV treatment programme and proved that it could be done in Africa. So the staff are celebrating. They are doing a show or something." The sister in charge of the clinic has moved to the front of the crowd of patients. She calls for silence and then gives a short introduction. Lele translates for me. "She is saying that this is a very important day. 10 years ago people were dying. And 10

Ceza Hospital

I am woken with a jolt. The 4-wheel drive has left the tarmac and we are on dirt road. I look ahead into the hills – the road wends its way high up into the distance. “How far?” I ask Amos, our driver. “About 40km.” I settle back and watch as the settlements become less and less pseudo-bungalows and more and more mud rondavels. The road to Ceza It was about a month ago that our medical manager first mentioned that we had been asked to help out at Ceza Hospital – a remote rural hospital about 2 hours away. Its medical staff (only 8 at the best of times) had been steadily departing and only one remained. He was leaving at the end of May and they were desperate. Desperate enough to accept help from us. As I said – a month ago – but it was only last Thursday that I found myself agreeing to go. Two of the others had been that week. I phoned them to ask what it was like. “There are no words to describe it,” said Nomfundo, “speak to Dr Kekana.” Dr Kekana comes on the line and after humming an