We went to the clinic this morning. The 'clinic' is the local medical centre. It is served by one nurse who lives with his family on site. There is a retired midwife on a nearby island who helps with deliveries.
The clinic is a small, two-roomed hut. It has a corrugated iron roof and painted green plaster board walls. Only they are so old and moldy that they are more grey than green. There is a large hole at one place in the outside wall and the fly-screen is pulling away from the edges of the windows. If I didn't have malaria already, I'd probably catch it here, thought I, on my first visit.
There is another small hut over across the grass. This is for patients who need a drip. That's where you end up if you eat poison fish. And yes, they always come out again.
Small, dingy, run-down. Not where I expected I'd be taking my children for medical advice.
But that's where we were this morning. And, I have to say, that's where we received helpful, friendly assistance and were given (for an extremely nominal fee) all the medication we need to put the children on the path to good health again.
And that's what I have found every time we have been there. The nurse really knows what he is talking about.
I am really thankful to God that we have a clinic like this so close to us. Open all hours.