It took a couple of months, but I’m officially in. I hadn’t been feeling well for nearly a week and there were moments during that week where I could barely keep my eyes open; falling asleep at the drop of a hat. I just chalked it up to a poor sleeping habits. When I started feeling achier than usual however, I knew something was off. Two Thursdays back I decided to get a lift to one of the local hospitals to confirm my suspicions.
When I arrived at Holy Spirit hospital it was 8:30am. I was given a number on a small piece of cardboard by the ground’s steward and instructed to wash my hands with a more than slightly used bar of soap lying next to the water cooler, which was located outside two pop-up tents. If the appearance of the soap was any indication, I figured my hands to be dirtier post-washing than they were when I’d first arrived, but rules are rules. I then waited around for approximately 15 minutes until I was told to enter one of the tents. A woman with bright pink painted lips jotted down my information while another gentleman took my vitals. My blood pressure was taken with a standard cuff, but with the aid of a very thin black plastic bag that had been torn in half, presumably to protect the skin around my arm.
So clean you could eat off it!
After that formality I was ushered into the main building to fill out more paperwork, and then I waited…and waited. An hour or so passed before I made my way to the cashier’s office. I settled up my first set of fees with the attendant who was jamming out to Bob Marley’s greatest hits whilst having a little rice n’ something. The cashier then instructed me to head over to the lab across the hall.
I was already feeling pretty bad at this point; weak, shaky and skittish. Every instinctual bone in my body was telling me to stumble out of there and find the first motorbike home, but I’d made it this far and this needed to be done. The woman who was to withdraw my blood was dressed in hospital garb and, somewhat puzzling, given that this was a Catholic hospital, a hijab. I told her I hate needles. She said, ‘don’t worry, it won’t hurt at all.’ She lied. There wasn’t a ton of blood taken, but enough to give me the willies, especially since she took it from a spot just next to where every other medical professional in my life has taken blood. When she withdrew the needle, a little extra blood squirted out. Let’s call it a bonus. She lapped it up with a cotton ball and told me to wait in the adjacent room.
Ouch!
In this waiting area I had two wildly different conversations with two very different individuals. The first was with an older man that explained that he was a retired primary school teacher. He’d recently been told by his doctor that he needed to get checked for sugar. Sadly, he informed me after his test that he did in fact have diabetes. The second conversation was with a younger man that was waiting for what I took to be his wife, or one of them anyway. We were discussing the World Cup and the absurd amount of money pro athletes make. Given my condition, I honestly couldn’t have cared less at that moment, but he had a point. I love sports as much as anyone I know, but goodness, over a hundred million dollars to play a game!? While we’re having this conversation, a little boy exited the lab. His stomach was bloated and visibly protruding through his neatly tucked-in red plaid shirt. He didn’t look well. I watched as he dutifully trailed his mother to the reggae loving cashier. Without warning, the boy vomited all over the hallway floor. It was then that the sports conversation really hit me. The fact that some guys are making a hundred million dollars to bounce a soccer, excuse me, ‘futbol’ off of their collective foreheads while this poor kid’s family likely struggled to even pay for this medical care is mind boggling.
It’s what’s for breakfast…and lunch…and dinner.
Anyway, this tale has gone on long enough, so let me jump ahead to the punchline. I tested positive for both malaria and typhoid. The ol’ one-two punch if you will. The aftermath involved a rather hellish few days and I’m now extra paranoid about mosquitos, not to mention what I’m consuming, as I would very much like to avoid a repeat of the experience. If there is any positive takeaway it’s that moments like this make you appreciate just how lucky we are to be in good health. And let’s be honest, I can now add this to my list of ‘I’ve had that(s)’ that travelers the world over seem so proud of. To come home from Africa not having had a bout with malaria and/or typhoid would’ve been like a trip to Disney without meeting Mickey Mouse.
Be well, my friends.
'Man of Action' 