While many of you already know, because you’re on Facebook or know my mum, there are probably a few of you that aren’t aware of the events of September 25th, a day I’ll never forget. I want to share with you details of that day, but please be warned that what I am about to write in the next few paragraphs isn’t pleasant. It has taken me over a month to pluck up the courage to even write this blog entry. That, and the fact my hand has been out of action for what is now entering the sixth week. So, for those that wish to continue reading, and those that don’t, thank you so very much for all of your support and love that I received over this past month. It has at times brought me to tears and I honestly don’t know how I would have kept going without all of the positive messages.
Friday September 25th began like any other day in Arusha. I walked to St Elizabeth Hospital to drop of some supplies I had brought over with me, said my farewells to all of the wonderful staff, and headed to my local spot for an early lunch. I then took the Dala dala to the local Maasai art and crafts market, about a 1km walk from the city centre, to buy some gifts and souvenirs. It was about midday. I spent about an hour bartering my way through the market, picking up some wonderful gifts, including a scarf, African oil paintings, wooden animals, jewellery, and a few other trinkets that every visitor to Africa seems to acquire. When I left the market I remember having an inner conflict with myself. Do I turn left and head up the road for an ice cream, or do I go right and start making my way back home? I chose to turn right as I had a few things to get done that day and also needed to start packing my bag. A decision I would learn to regret. The road was busy, full of locals walking or travelling via Dala dala or Piki piki. It was 1pm and I was in a fantastic mood, almost skipping along the road, when from out of nowhere two men approached me from behind. Before I knew it I was on the ground, face-first, being kicked, punched and beaten to a pulp. About 30 seconds later I caught out of the corner of my eye, a third man approach from across the road, yelling “get the bag”. At this point I knew I was being mugged, and was more than happy to give them my bag. If it meant the beating would stop they could have my pink backpack containing my wallet, credit cards, money, iPhone, camera, gifts and clothes. After all, these are all replaceable. My life isn’t. As I struggled to get my backpack off my back (due to the constant kicking and punches being thrown at my helpless self), the third man pulled out a machete. The blade was about a foot long and I knew he meant business. With a couple of swift swings in the direction of my back, the straps of my bag were slashed and the two men who at this stage had inflicted bruises to most of my body, ran off with my blood-covered bag. The terror though was far from over, and as it transpired was only the beginning of what was a vicious and completely terrifying attack. The machete-wielding man wanted more, but I had no more to offer. Sadly, these men will not stop at anything and are prepared to kill their victims for the sake of a few material items. On this day, this man was prepared to take my life. I was essentially helpless. Me against a man with a foot-long machete. My only hope was to roll up in a ball and hope like hell he would give up before stabbing me in the chest or abdomen. It seemed to work, as for the next minute or so he swung his blade back in forth in a frenzy before running off into a nearby field. The shock was starting to settle in and at this point I was still unaware of the significant injuries I had sustained to my right hand. I don’t remember a great deal about the next few minutes, but somehow I was plucked up off the road, where I had been lying in a large pool of blood. I started screaming hysterically, as onlookers stood dazed and confused at the events of the last 5 minutes. I looked down at my hands and saw that my right hand had been sliced down to the bone in multiple places, the worst being across my palm and the base of my thumb. My left wrist has also been cut where my watch once was. It too had been stolen. My clothes were torn to shreds and I was covered from head-to-toe in blood. My legs were scratched and my entire body felt like I’d been hit by a bus. Not that I know what that actually feels like but I can imagine.
Almost instantly a man appeared on a motorbike and told me to get on the back so he could get me to the police. While a lovely gesture, the police weren’t my top priority at this point. I knew I needed to get to a hospital and time wasn’t on my side. I rode about 200 metres up the road on the back of his motorbike. Don’t ask how I held on because clearly it wasn’t possible in my current state. As we approached a roundabout he hailed down 4 police officers who were driving in the opposite direction, and swiftly asked me to get off his motorbike as the police could now help me. It was at this point I was getting more and more hysterical as everyone I spoke to just couldn’t understand my need to seek immediate medical attention. Fortunately the first of my guardian angels that day appeared from nowhere. Two men jumped out their car and said they would drive me to the hospital. I didn’t hesitate. These two men, one of whom is named Gideon Mollel, were truly incredible. I remember the drive to the hospital clearly, not because it was fast and furious, but because I recall the feeling of relief at finally being on my way to a hospital where I could get my hand attended to. Arriving at the hospital is a blur. I was the only foreigner in the hospital, and as I learned later I had an armed guard outside my room from the minute I arrived. Five doctors and three nurses arrived in quick succession to the treatment room where I lay, all in complete disbelief upon hearing what had happened to me. My two guardian angels, Gideon and his friend sat outside for the entire time, not wanting to leave until they knew I was safe. It is a strange situation to be in – in a hospital in Tanzania, with eight sets of eyes looking down on you, all speaking Swahili, and not doing a great deal other than telling me to stop crying as all will be ok. All would be ok, but at the time I was in a state of shock, had no way of contacting anybody and was losing blood faster than I had ever experienced. The pain was also starting to become more apparent by the minute. I knew I had to control my emotions, even just for a short time so that I could be sure I what treatment I was receiving. Interestingly none of the medical staff introduced themselves until I told them my name and asked for theirs. By this stage I’d been at the hospital a good 30 minutes and was still bleeding! The most senior doctor present was a cardiologist so it was deemed his responsibility to treat me. He assured me my hand wasn’t too badly damaged and that he would suture me up and all would be ok. He did however want me to stay in hospital overnight, something I was most definitely NOT keen on doing. The bed had no blanket or pillow and I was more terrified than you could ever imagine. He proceeded to get the suture kit out, which remained sterile until a cleaner came in half way through the ordeal and threw a dirty cloth over the trolley. I also had to ask the doctor to put gloves on, and for some local anaesthetic, which he kindly administered after he’d already done about 20 sutures! Needless to say, the whole experience was quite different to how I’d treated hand injuries in the Emergency department of Wellington hospital during my ED placement earlier this year. I asked to be given some IV antibiotics too – the broadest spectrum they had, and at the highest tolerated dose. That too was an oversight, and I hate to think what happens to other volunteers in this situation who don’t have the same medical knowledge me.
After I had been sutured up, and was given some pain relief in the form of IM (intramuscular) pethidine (which did absolutely NOTHING I might add), I was whisked off to another room where I was kept under close observation. One of the doctors very kindly bought me some lunch – chicken and rice and a bottle of Sprite from what I can remember. I only consumed about two mouthfuls as my appetite was non-existent. I desperately wanted to get in touch with my good friend, Aenea, a local Tanzanian who has been so wonderful to me I will never be able to repay him. Fortunately Aenea has a website so I knew if I could get access to the internet, I could find his number and get in contact. Another doctor managed to find the website, called him and I was able to speak to him, told him what had happened and where I was. He was an hour away so arranged to send a friend of his to visit me and make sure all was ok. Prior to arriving he drove to my host family’s house to inform my host mum, collected my host sister and drove to the hospital. Yet another incredible human being that I am so fortunate to have in my life! By this stage my hysteria was subsiding and I was beginning to feel a little more in control of the situation. The only remaining task was to get in touch with my family and partner, Reuben. I was able to skype mum on Aenea’s phone. It was 3am on Saturday morning in NZ, but as predicted mum had her iPad next to her bed and on the third attempt at calling she answered. I broke the news by first assuring her I was ok, then informed her that my passport hadn’t been stolen, and then told her what had just happened. Probably a wise order, otherwise I’m not sure if she would have heard the remainder of what I had to tell her had I just gone straight in with the Ï’ve been attacked by three men and a machete and had all my stuff stolen”line. Mum was then tasked with informing the rest of the family, including Reuben who was in Hawaii at an Underwater Hockey Tournament and not easily accessible.
After ten hours in the hospital, and a second dose of IV antibiotics I was discharged back home with instructions to return at 7am the next morning for dressing changes. I was more than happy with that plan as staying overnight was not going to be an option unless absolutely necessary. We stopped by the police station to file a report and at around midnight I finally arrived back home to the open arms of my entire host family. My host mum bathed me and prepared some food before I retired to bed, but the tears continued to flow throughout the night. Every attempt to close my eyes created nightmares and I lay there completely terrified, even though I knew I was now safe.
The following two days were spent mostly at the police station and the hospital, and on Sunday 27th September I departed Arusha nursing two very sore hands, an aching, bruised and battered body and psychological pain I completely underestimated. I left Tanzania without the usual souvenirs most would have stashed away in their suitcase, but instead with a permanent reminder in the form of some rather impressive scars.
But, I will be back – I just don’t know when.
