I arrived in Dar es Salaam on 9/4, early. I had a room reserved for two nights at Safari Inn in the center of town, a “budget” hotel. The idea was to land, spend two nights and one full day getting my bearings, and then set out for adventure. Everything was going fairly well until the night of the 5th. I had a bus ticket for 6am in the morning for Arusha. I heard that it would take anywhere from 9-12 hours to get to Arusha from Dar. Sounded wonderful. But it was quite a bit cheaper than a flight.
I had eaten every meal for a day and a half around the corner at Jambo Inn. Should have just stayed there, since I also went there for internet and directions. Nevertheless, I was tired of eating the same tired old Indian food that they served there, so I asked the woman at the front desk of Safari where else I might eat. She recommended walking down a nearby street and trying another establishment, the name of which I forget. That night I set out and soon found it.
After sitting, I asked what was good. “We have chicken biryani,” the waiter replied. “I’ll have that then,” I said. I would regret that decision.
By midnight that night my stomach was churning. I stayed up late speaking to Elyse via Kindle and Facebook, allowing me to chart the progress of the sickness. By the time I decided that it was more than a little bout of stomach problems, and broke into my stash of Ciprofloxacin, it was too late. The antibiotic quickly came back up. I packed my bag and made my way downstairs. I called for a taxi, and when it arrived, I told the driver to take me to a hospital. “Which one?” he asked. “The best one,” I said hurriedly.
By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was doubling over in pain. I was admitted to the ER and instructed to pay the admittance fee before seeing the doctor. The doctor soon realized I needed to be admitted to the night ward. Before I could be, though, I had to pay the fee upfront. Once I was laying down, the nurse brought me the list of prescriptions, and explained what each was for: hydration, antibiotic, painkiller, etc. Before she could administer them, however, they had to be bought. By me. Now. Clutching my stomach in pain with one hand, I fished in my bag for the third time that night to find money. I grabbed a handful of Tanzanian bills and tossed them in her direction. I didn’t even care anymore. “Take whatever you need,” I moaned. I just wanted the pain and regurgitation to stop.
Eventually both did, but it took another several hours, 4 bottles of IV solution, two doses of paracetamol, and both an injection and oral dose of Ciprofloxacin. Needless to say I missed my bus. I slept a little in the hospital ward, but it was difficult since it was just one big room with sheets hanging to separate about a dozen beds. A child screamed bloody murder occasionally when her IV had to be inserted or adjusted.
By midday I was feeling better enough to make small talk with the nurses. “Why do they call you all sister?” I asked, thinking maybe the hospital was run by nuns. “Sister? Hmmm. Because the first nurse was Florence Nightingale, and she was a sister, so they call us all sisters,” my primary nurse told me. Sounded reasonable enough. Since it was only my third day in Tanzania, I didn’t yet realize that every woman was referred to as sister. I’m still not sure why she gave me that answer though.
Obviously I was looking a little better, because they began to question after the second IV solution bottle when I could leave. The doctor didn’t think I was ready though. Still, the nurse insisted I eat something, which sounded ludicrous to me. They brought me toast and chai tea, of course after I paid for it, but I only nibbled at the bread and barely sipped the tea.
Just before noon, it was determined that I was well enough to leave. I thanked the “sisters”, gathered my things, and slowly walked out of the ward. I hailed a taxi to take me back to the neighborhood of my hotel. I needed to try and get a new bus ticket without repaying, and make sure I could stay an extra night in the hotel. My hand was bandaged from the IV, and if I looked how I felt, I must have looked horrible. On the plus side, as I ran my errands, my appearance had a bonus effect. The touts, hustlers, and street peddlers gave me a wide berth. In the future, I think I’ll wear bandages whenever I walk through such cities. No one wants to mess with a sick person.
The next morning I got on what turned out to be a 12 hour bus for Arusha. That night I ate my first meal in 48 hours, the last one being the dreaded chicken biryani. Less than three days later I would be climbing Kilimanjaro.
*see Hemingway, Snows of Kilimanjaro
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