I gave blood to Red Cross and all I got was this lousy 2nd degree burn

I stepped over the threshold of the Red Cross blood donation center in Luang Prabang, Laos. It looked more like someone's bedroom than a medical center; random posters haphazardly graced the walls, the beds were littered with multi-colored blankets and pillows in lieu of the stark medical-issue beds I'm used to seeing, and there was a plate of cookies sitting on the table.

No one was inside, but two women were outside watering the plants. I waved one of them over and we started the checklist. It was bare-bones, nothing like the questionnaires in the US, and her demeanor wasn't nearly as official as I'd expected. Within 5 minutes, I was sitting with a needle in my arm, a squeeze ball sandwiched in my palm, and a bunch of Laotians sitting around me making conversation.

When I finished, a man approached me. He was a tireless flirt with the women in the area, and I was hoping to avoid him. But apparently, from me, he just wanted English translation help. He asked how to use a keyboard shortcut to make a superscript letter in Word, and with our language barrier, I just couldn't explain it, even in writing. The power was out for the computer in this office, so he asked me to come upstairs. Or so I thought.

I go outside, and he's on a motorcycle. He wants to drive to another office, a few kilometers away. I back away from the motorcycle like it's a wild animal. "Don't like bikes," I say. "If I come, you drive slow, slow, very safe."

Yes, yes, he nods, haphazadly. I get on, despite my gut reaction. I have reason to hate motorcycles. I was hit by a speeding motorbike 2 years ago and it took 6 weeks to walk without pain. The only time I've been seriously sexually harrassed while hitchhiking involved a motorcycle, on that same trip in Tahiti. And I've already seen 4 motorbike accidents in my first month in Asia; one resulting in a dead body laying at the side of the road.

Motorcycles suck.

But I climb on; what's my choice? We pull up to the new site, where it turns out I'm to help him compose an application in English for the International Red Cross. As he stops, I start to get off the bike, but he suddenly decides to start it up and shift the parking spot. My inner calf brushes up against the exhaust pipe, and i get a half-dollar sized second degree burn that turns into a series of blisters within a day.

So, I gave blood to the Red Cross, and all I got was a lousy second degree burn :)