Not a happy camper in Kenya

Time

Monday, October 18, 11:15am

Place

Aga Khan University Hospital, Nairobi, Kenya

Madeleine is lying in a bed in front of me, two tubes stuck inside of her, awake, but eyes closed because the slightest light sharpens the excruciating pain of her migraine head ache. She’s been ill since yesterday, but this morning she woke up with this paralyzing head ache, so we decided to check it out and brought her to the hospital. Actually, tried to get the medical people at the hotel to look at her, but as soon as they came in the room they said that this appeared to be more serious than anything they could handle. They brought us to the hospital in the hotel car, apologizing all the way because Madeleine was sick.

Saturday evening, after an enjoyable dinner next to the pool, Madeleine started getting the chills, then a fever. Sunday morning, she woke up with a head ache, nothing too bad, so we left it at that. She did not go anywhere, stayed at the hotel and rested, while I went to my conference. Saturday evening, Madeleine was feeling all right, and figured by the following morning she’d be back to normal and could join me at the conference, and we could continue our plans for the week, which basically entailed visiting Nairobi and enjoying not being in Conakry. We chalked up her two days of nausea, chills, fever, and head aches as a minor bout with the flu. Although everyone was basically saying the same thing: Chills + Fever + Head ache = Malaria, we brushed it off as 'nah, couldn't be, we have a bed net'. Denial with a capital D. And so our wall of denial came crumbling down on Monday morning, and here we are in a hospital, in Nairobi, in Kenya, in Africa. The last place on earth that I would want to be, today.

By the time we got to the hospital, Madeleine was really in bad shape. The Nairobi roads, while not as bad as the Conakry roads, do have their fair share of potholes. The suspension-less vehicle we were riding in (I don’t think vehicles have suspensions in Africa, at least I've never ridden in one) plus the many potholes made it a rough ride and I can just imagine what it must have felt like for someone who feels nauseated, is feverish, and has a migraine.

Once arrived at the hospital, I wheeled Madeleine in and got immediate attention from the attendants. They directed us to a holding room where I helped Madeleine into the small bed. An attendant then told me that I needed to go to reception and register Madeleine...and not to worry someone would have a look at her even though she was not yet registered. I took the hint, and went to the reception area where I had to take a number and wait my turn. Surprisingly, the wait was not that long, I filled in the paper work, paid (of course we take VISA - che-ching) and by the time I got back, a doctor had already seen Madeleine and even had had the time to take two vials of blood samples and to stick two tubes into her as well as one of those thingies they put on your finger that’s connected to a long impressive cable that leads to this monitor that tells you that the person with the thingie has a pulse. Impressive modern medical technology.

Madeleine, despite her tubes and her monitor telling us she had a pulse, was obviously in a lot of pain. I quickly spoke with the doctor, and was a bit taken aback by his first question...so, you were in Guinea before coming here?. Didn’t quite like the sound of that. I answered yes, and what of it? He said that Madeleine may have Malaria, and the Guinean malaria is a different kind of malaria that they don’t see very often in East Africa. Again, didn’t like the sound of that. Asked the doctor if anything could be done to make her more comfortable. He gave me a prescription, showed me the way to the pharmacy, and assured me that with this medication was a good pain-killer. Quickly went to the pharmacy, got served right away, paid (che-ching #2) and back to Madeleine, who by that time would have taken anything to reduce the pain. Obviously good stuff, administered intravenously through one of those impressive tubes; they took barely 10 minutes before kicking in.

The attending nurse, a sweet not so young thing, came in and gave me the two vials of blood, and told me to deliver them to the blood testing place. Quickly found the place, handed the blood over, and, needless to say, was immediately asked how I wanted to pay for these tests. The magic VISA card once again came out (che-ching #3) and at that point, I didn’t even try to figure out how much I was paying. However, I did wonder what those people sitting in that little CIBC VISA office in Toronto were thinking when all these charges were coming up on their computer.

Returned to Madeleine, who by this time was sedated and appeared to be feeling almost no pain. She complained that she was too hot and wanted to take her housecoat off. I explained to her the challenges of doing that because of all the medical paraphernalia that she was attached to, but, I don't know why I even bothered telling her that since I've already leaned that one does not argue with a 55 year old woman who’s having a hot flash. Tubes or no tubes, the housecoat needed to come off. I called for help, and the sweet not so young nurse helped Madeleine with her house coat. By this time, they seemed to have bonded as 50+ year old sisters. She gave Madeleine some more drugs, this time some anti-nausea concoction. Madeleine turns to her side, closes her eyes, and sleeps. By this time, I’m jealous, I want some too. I take out a pad of paper, and I start writing this blog, while Madeleine unconsciously floats blissfully off to somewhere wonderful...probably not in Africa.

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In retrospect, these five last days since our departure from Conakry have not been easy. To say that we were both looking forward to this trip to Kenya would be an understatement. Not so much because we were going to Kenya, but because we were getting out of Conakry. Friends of ours back in Conakry who work for the European Union have told us that their contracts stipulate that they must leave Conakry every 4 months. This falls under the ‘wellness’ and ‘mental health’ clauses of their contracts. Since our arrival in Guinea, we have come to grips with the term ‘hardship’ posting. Conakry is a hard place to be. No wonder we were so looking forward to this much needed and deserved break.

And then there was the hassle of getting out of Conakry. Conakry airport has the infamous reputation of being not only one of the most chaotic airports in Africa, but also one of the most exasperating to transit through. Our departure wasn’t too bad compared to some of the stories we’ve heard. Beside the minor run in with two custom leeches who wanted us to share our money with them (something about an exit tax?), things went rather smoothly. When they started their usual ‘how much money do you have on you’ and ‘you can’t take that amount of money out of the country’ routine (meaning you’re going to have to leave some of it with us), I half-jokingly told them, while waving my Canadian passport in front of them, that we were Canadians, and that Canadians did not have very much money, and that if it was going to cost me money to leave the country, then I would just not leave....anyways something like that. What ever I said, it worked; they waved us through knowing that we would not likely help them with their early retirement career plans. Perhaps it was the tone of my voice. Annoying parasites.

After a long wait in the boarding area of the airport, our flight was announced (blow horn...that’s the kind of place this is), and we quickly exited the airport to stand for what seemed like an eternity on the tarmac in the choking, (I’m not sure but I think jet fuel fumes are not good for you, am I right?) blistering heat. This is when Madeleine asked me, Did you remember to pack our vaccination cards, because I sure didn’t. My heart, as well as every other organ of my body, sank. We had forgotten our vaccination cards, the one and only piece of ID, next to one’s passport, that is absolutely essential for entry into most African countries. I was perturbed, I was angry at myself, I was upset at the world, I wanted to get out of this place, I was just not a happy camper.

The flight from Conakry to Abidjan was short but far from sweet. Thought of the few options that were open to us as far as getting into Kenya, Mali, and then, back into Guinea without proof of vaccination. Knew for a fact that without that card, they would not let us into Mali, nor Guinea. What could we do? Fidgeted around in my bag trying to make the cards re-appear. So much for magic. Took out a few 20$USD and 50$USD and strategically placed them in my shirt pockets where they would be easily accessible when bribery at customs was our only entrance strategy. I hated the thought of playing that game that is rampant pretty well all over Africa, but hey, I was desperate. If only we could get through Abidjan, and then into Kenya, then at least that would give us a week in Kenya to figure something out for the next leg of our journey.

By the time we reached Abidjan, I had worked myself into a nervous wreck, truly a basket case of frayed nerves. Madeleine, on the other hand, seemed to be above it all...what will happen, will happen, she annoyingly kept repeating. Her zen-like attitude calmed me and irritated me at the same time. I have a history of disliking borders, and border officers irk me even more. Must be a ‘power’ thing. I tend to fall to pieces when I see one. Whether its at the Polish-Hungarian border, or the Blaine Pacific crossing, its all the same, my stomach gets tied into a big knot, always has, always will. At times, I have reason to be fearful...some of these guys are really scary. Like the time we got into Hanoi. When I saw this brigade (I saw ten, supposedly there were three) small VietCong border guards with what appeared to be giant Soviet Kkaleshneckov PK’s rifles, I felt somewhat uneasy, as in, I completely and utterly fell to pieces. Nadine and Patrick still talk about that sorry episode in The Trials and Tribulations of Traveling with Dad. Anyways, I digress, lets get back to Abidjan.

Got through Abidjan customs sans vaccination cards and sans problemo thanks to this nice young ‘transit’ facilitator who whisked us past everything and anything resembling customs officers. And it only cost me 5 bucks. We had a five hour wait in Abidjan, and I took advantage of our unexpected quality waiting at the airport time to engage in the most intense and visceral self flagellating, self verbal abuse tirade directed at myself that I have ever engaged in. How could I have been so stupid and forgetful, and maybe this is a sign that I shouldn’t travel anymore, and on and on and on...

Then MadeZen, aka Madeleine, in all of her usual serene wisdom, politely said, Quit it or I’m going to sit by myself. In the end, at this point in time, will worrying about it change anything? Touché. She was right. How did this worrying serve me? It's not useful. As a matter of fact, it was preventing me from thinking clearly about how we were going to get out of this predicament. The anxious hornet’s nest around me quickly dissipated. I replaced the anxiety with the 'what will happen, will happen' attitude. In any case, the worst case scenario would be that I would have to drop a few bills and bribe a few of the custom leeches, and I was ok with that as long as there was no physical pain involved in the process. Madeleine and I celebrated our new quasi born again happy go lucky bohemian outlook with a plate of fries and a couple of Fantas. The only thing missing was a little Enya music and the smell of insence. Does life get any better than this?

Got to Kenya after a 6 hour night flight where we let ourselves be distracted with a couple of in-flight movies and a bit of sleep. An early morning arrival made for an empty airport, and the queues for customs and entrance visas were short. Custom officers appeared unusually friendly and smiling, a welcome-to-kenya smile, dressed in smart and modern looking uniforms. No khaki, and especially no Soviet Kalesnekovs anywhere to be found. Lined up at the Entrance Visa desk, quick and efficient service, and in no time, we’re picking up our luggage. A car waiting for us (the only way to do it), and we were off to our hotel, passing through a game park where we saw our first giraffe. Welcome to Kenya. Now this is the Africa I could get used to.

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Time

1:10pm

Doctor walks in. Madeleine wakes up. I stop writing. Yes, it is Malaria. Because you have a head ache, we would like to keep you tonight to administer the medication intravenously. Turns to me and says, and perhaps it would be a good idea to check you too. Doctor walks out. Madeleine and I look at each other without saying a word, but both thinking, now what? Our self questioning ends quickly when the attendant walks in and tells me I have to go to reception (che-ching) to take care of finances before they can assign a room to Madeleine. I go to reception, which is packed by now, and this time the process takes over two hours, and of course a rather substantial debit from my VISA card (good thing we have insurance).

Go back to where they’re holding Madeleine, and by now they’ve unhooked a few tubes, and Madeleine, having consumed intravenously two litres of fluid as well as an interesting array of pain killing drugs, appears to be feeling pretty good. Swinging from her intravenous stand gives it away. Joking of course. Madeleine's new found soul mate nurse comes in again a bit later and gives her a shot of anti-malaria something. I make this smart-alecky remark like the amount of painkillers they've given my wife could knock out a sperm whale. The soul mate turned nurse Ratchet is not amused and assures me that this is now medication and not another painkiller. I don't think she knew what a sperm whale was. She then takes another sample of blood, and we are left, once again, waiting...

Time

5:20pm

Madeleine has slept most of the afternoon away. I just watched. They finally came in with a wheel chair, succeeded in strapping Madeleine in it, who by that time was a really happy girl with all those painkilling agents inside of her, which I would figure works out to about twice the amount of drugs that were consumed at Woodstock. The only bed available was in the maternity ward...brought back memories. Madeleine was put to bed and within a few minutes, she was out cold. I reluctantly left her side and headed for the hotel.

I’m convinced that I was being literally as well as figuratively taken for a ride by the taxi driver (too tired to negotiate and bargain for a decent fare), but then, I really enjoyed the experience of Nairobi rush hour and I figured that it was like paying admission to front row seats to a 6000 car demolition derby. How to describe Nairobi traffic at rush hour?...6000 testosterone laden and irate 13 year old boys that have been given free rein, all rules barred, free-for-all on a 6 lane bumper ride derby. Quite an experience.

Got back to the hotel, physically as well as emotionally drained. The room looked big, the bed even bigger. This is the first time since this summer that Madeleine and I have been apart. Weird.

And that’s the kind of day it’s been.

Post Epilogue

Returned the following day, hoping to bring back Madeleine. She was vomiting in her pail when I walked in the room. Not a good sign; I guess we won’t be going dancing tonight. Returned to the hotel, alone, and found flowers and a fruit basket in our room. A gift from the staff at the hotel, apologizing again for Madeleine’s illness (haven’t quite figured why everyone is apologizing (hotel staff, hospital staff, taxi drivers). It must be a Kenyan thing.

Post Epilogue 2

Returned to the hospital after the conference Wednesday. Madeleine is much better and will be discharged tomorrow morning.