The drive from Arusha to Moshi is relatively short and super easy. After arriving at the bus station in Moshi, I took a boda to the hostel. The headache I’d felt in Arusha was getting more intense by the minute, so with my background in chronic headaches, I thought it best to lie down and chill. The next morning, however, I felt even worse. I called some friends and jokingly mentioned that it had better not be malaria. I’d been scammed before when trying to arrange a trip to the Usambara Mountains, so I wasn’t planning on missing it again. But the comment to my friends stuck in my head. Even though I was quite sure I didn’t have malaria, I decided to get checked at the hospital. I knew the test was quick and easy. Getting to that test, however, turned out to be the real challenge.
The hospital was busy, and most signage was in Kiswahili. I was first sent to the ER, probably because the people I asked for help had no idea what I was saying. From the ER, I was sent to a more general admissions desk, where I had to register and pay. No sooner said than done. From the start, I made it very clear what my symptoms were and why I was there. Still, a full intake had to be done, and a doctor came to ask all the questions I had already answered twice. He decided I indeed had to see another doctor. So, back to the registration desk, pay for the consult, and wait again. By now at least an hour and a half had passed, and I was slowly starting to feel like a ghost. The next doctor came and decided not only to do a malaria test but also full blood work. Why? We will never know. I knew the drill by now. Back to the same registration point, pay again, wait again. But I was getting really ill, and my patience was wearing thin. I asked how long it would take, but the person behind the desk countered with the question, “Sorry, but who actually is the patient?” Blown away, the only thing I could do was point at myself and walk away. Even the locals felt sorry for me and brought me some water.
Finally, a lab technician called me into his lab. Blood was drawn, and the malaria test was performed. Normally the test is easy and provides a quick result (basically like a Covid test, but with blood). But not today. The results were inconclusive. Or rather, when we checked the lines together, he thought I didn’t have malaria, and I thought I did. Together, we decided to do another test. By then, my body was aching from fever, and my brain was fried from the whole experience. The second test was clear: I had malaria.
The lab technician could see I was struggling, and he promised to get the doctor to acknowledge the results as soon as possible. I was sent to another room, where the doctor confirmed I had malaria. He prescribed medication and sent me to the hospital pharmacy. With all my muscles aching and sweat running down my back, I found my way there. Alas, the medication was unavailable. The woman told me to find a pharmacy in town. Normally I’d be up for such an adventure. Not today. I told her it wasn’t possible. She sent me to another hospital pharmacy. You guessed it, out of stock. They pointed me to a third hospital pharmacy. By then, I had no idea where to go and wandered aimlessly around the hospital, searching but not really
Somehow, I ended up back at the second pharmacy. One of the guys there took pity on me. He walked me upstairs, through some corridors, and into another area. There we found the third pharmacy. He checked the supply and happily told me they had my meds. I went to the counter, paid, and finally left for the hostel. If you ask me how I found my way back there, I have no idea. But I made it. I left the hostel and went back to Arusha, where my friends vigorously took care of me. After a week of being bedridden, I forced myself up for a chat. Their happiest comment? “Yeah, at some point we checked what we had to do if you’d die in our house.” I’m glad I didn’t.
At the time of writing, I’ve had a few more East African hospital experiences. However, never on my own again. As hyper-independent as I am, malaria taught me (again) that sometimes it’s okay to ask for help from the people around you.
O and those results from the full blood work? I was told to come back after three days to pick them up. Obviously, I never did.