Brazzaville: That Time I Tried Trading a Busking Hour for a Pill

here's the skinny. you land here, bussed in with enough dreams to fill a asphyxiation tent, and suddenly it's not about finding a doctor. it's about finding a doctor who's decent and also doesn't charge you more for speaking english than a carny at the county fair. i checked. brazzaville's rent averages $350/month for a shoebox that might or might not have a working toilet. sounds great, right? except the 'toilet' is less 'throne' and more 'holesome pothole in the floor.' (cough up $350/month in my sleep, would for a working bidet)

data? let's spit this out. the national stats say 'good news! 80% of doctors speak english! but wait-fine print: only 0.5% work here. the rest are in pointe-noire, which is 12 hours from here, in a sweat-drenched bus that smells like armpit and regret. proximity matters. also, half the clinics folded after 2020. blame covid, blame corruption, blame the guy who thought 'medical records' meant 'post-it notes duct-taped to the wall.'

i asked my neighbor, a married-to-a-river local who listens to bruce springsteen on a smuggled tape recorder. he said, 'if you need a doc, go to gombe la place. but if you're white, they won't help you unless you've got a suitcase of rolexes.' then he muttered, 'or bribes.' (cue my internal organs screaming in protest)

went to Ndulu on tuesday. man there had a symphony of equations on his whiteboard and a fridge full of herbal tea. his kid dreams of football, he said. dreams: brazzaville's version of stability. i left with a prescription for 'patience'-or was it for 'maize porridge'? confused. pharmacist just winked, tossed me some hangovers, whispered, "next time, try the underground clinic." underground clinic? sound like my buddy's loft after karaoke night.

cost of living: $200/month for brutal wifi, $7 bottle of imported rum, $300/month for a fixer-upper in the nicest part of the rancor district. medical malpractice? not tracked. you just learn to nod when they say 'rest, rest, rest' while you're still choking on their version of 'medicine.'

should i leave? every sunday, the sun sits up here like it's rolling out of a landfill. the may rainy season starts next week, so save your umbrella for the bus ride to pointe-noire. but if you're a diy busker? oh, we'll figure out how to trade beats for ibuprofen. just don't trust this city unless you've got a gas mask.

external links:
- [reddit for brazzaville medical horror stories
- tripadvisor clinic reviews (vetted with a lucky 7-star system)
- local subreddit: 'how do i not get overcharged here?'
- overheard this week: 'never tell a free clinic you speak english.'
]

pro tip: always wear your skullcap indoors. every. single. day. the heat here doesn't just mope-it attacks* like a drunk bouncer at a shit bar. and if you think i'm exaggerating? wait till you're starving at 3am and realize the only open shop sells 'vegetables' that stare back.

end result: i still here. but now i carry a bongo drum and a thermometer. same thing, really.

"if you can dance through this hell, you're allowed to live here," my buddy said. debt to the secret society of medics who use mp3 players instead of stethoscopes? pending. but hey-at least the bugs are creative with my band-aids.

p.s. my dentist says i'm grinding my teeth. he doesn't speak english. we compromised: he gives me a free filling every time i bluff my way through his french. brute force dentistry wins.

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