Of bombs and blood

I was out eating dinner when the bombs started exploding. At first, we thought they were fireworks. Then the taxi driver said something about the military, so we assumed it was a military drill. But the noise was crazy loud and the bombs had been exploding non-stop, every second for almost an hour. It couldn’t be a drill. Finally we figured out that it was the army ammunition depot in Gongo la Mboto bursting into flames, out of control. A good 15, 20 km away, we could see the bright orange glows clearly from our apartment. The bombs didn’t stop for at least another half an hour.

It happened before in 2009. Apparently, that was blamed on Al Qaeda. Two years later, this was simply explained as an “ajali” – accident. Closely following twitter, I saw how angry people were about the government refusing to acknowledge further responsibility. I heard that over a hundred people were killed and 700 injured. Thousands upon thousands are homeless, some having lost contact with their family. The national stadium is still filled with many in need of help. The silver lining is that the NGOs have responded well and the people at the stadium are well served.

Due to the mass injuries, the blood bank is running dangerously low. Emails and messages circulated immediately the next morning, asking for donors. Many of my friends and I went to the Muhimbili National Hospital to donate blood to help in any way we can. Although I’ve donated many times in Canada (when they let me! I’m so annoyed sometimes that they don’t let me just because I’ve travelled to places that might have malaria…I’ve never even had malaria before), it hadn’t crossed my mind to donate here in Tanzania.

First I was led to the wrong place and was made to wait. And wait. Fed up, I wandered around in the rain trying to find the right place. (If you ever need to donate blood, the Kiswahili for blood bank is “benki ya damu.”) Finally, I was able to sit down and answer those ridiculous questions: are you married? Have you had sex in the last three months? Have you ever had a blood transfusion? Surprisingly, nothing about you sleeping with someone who had slept with a prostitute was asked. Then… the nurse refused me because I had taken one doxycycline pill (preventative measure for malaria) that morning – especially since I hadn’t taken any for a long time. So I came out and asked the head nurse why I wasn’t allowed to donate; I thought the nurse had mistaken me for having had malaria recently. After some rapid discussion, they told me I can go donate. I still don’t know really if that was proper procedure. My friend who had had malaria for 10 times was told that they needed blood so badly that they will take the risk of malaria contaminated blood.

They pricked my fingertip and squeezed a drop of blood into the blue solution to see my iron levels. I swear if the blood drop floated like that in Canada, they would have refused me, but I just passed with a 12.5, apparently. It’s all good. I hate being rejected because of my iron levels. It happened once in Canada and it was so embarrassing.

In I went to the room with the beds. The (probably in training?) nurse started trying to find my vein on my left arm. I told her that it’s almost mission impossible and she should just try my right arm. She insisted. Commence poking my arm for 20 minutes. She gathers her courage and stabs me with the huge needle. Oops, didn’t get the vein. Like I told you 20 minutes ago! Change of arm. She still couldn’t find the vein. This time they had put lots of pressure on my upper arm with the arm cuff (that you measure blood pressure with); my arm was starting to go numb…

Finally, she had to call the head nurse, who muttered something about mzungu (white people/foreigners); probably how we’re so strange that even our veins are different. Well I’m sorry that I have to cause so much trouble every time. Even in Canada, newer nurses always have to ask their supervisors to stab me.

They left on the upper arm cuff, so my blood basically came bursting out of my arm into the 500 mL bag. It filled up in record time. One time in Canada, it took 23 minutes and I couldn’t even finish the bag. This time, probably 5. They also didn’t have a machine that rocks the bag of blood so it doesn’t clot, so they periodically shake the bag around like it’s some jelly energy drink. Quite an experience.

Finished and happy, all of us went for a good pizza dinner.