Good Intentions: The Bite

My granny used to say that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. I took in an obviously sickly cat last week and was bitten for my efforts. (What was I thinking?) The congenitally languid Omanis have been shockingly efficient in providing rabies prophylaxis, investigating and testing the perpetrator. I was given the first dose of vaccine in the spiffy new clinic in Ibri, but to get rabies immune globulin, I was driven to an outpost in the desert where the hospital was as desolate as the bush hospitals in Sierra Leone. Picture the low mud brick buildings, a lone acacia tree coated with dust by the door and a few goats rumaging for something edible among the rocks. It seemed an odd place to have a stash of RIG on hand, but it was explained to me that the reservoir for rabies in Oman is a type of desert fox that has been known to attack camels, goats, feral cats and anything else that moves. Shortly after I left the hospital, the public health DVM called to get the details of the incident. By the time he arrived at my house, the cat had died (and was subsequently taken for testing.) Ahmed assured me in his near-perfect English that all would end well. My hysteria had begun to lose its edge when he started to talk about his recent interaction with a rabid camel. (I think I'll use the zoom lense to photograph free-range camels from the car.) This experience has been amazing on several counts. Everything was accomplished quickly and efficiently by friendly, helpful people: the doctor, the nurse, the epidemiologist and the veterinarian were all sympathetic and non-judgemental. Surprisingly, all of the participants in my adventure were Omanis. (Most of the professionals here are Indian, Egyptian or Iraqi.) Probably the most astonishing thing to an American is that money was not mentioned once.