The blood bank at work is a system of simple genius. When someone is booked for elective surgery, a family member must come to the hospital to donate blood; without this, the operation will not be scheduled. If blood is given in an emergency, the following day, the family donation must be made in kind. In this way, there is usually a steady balance of bags of blood. A few months ago, the blood fridge malfunctioned, and units were lost overnight. It made the paper. One day I arrive at the training centre, next to the blood bank, and notice a group of people unloading an immense orange esky in the waiting area.
Curious to see how many bags of blood must be being transferred from such a large esky I pause and sneak a peek. A small crowd has gathered, maybe ten or fifteen people. A gnarled looking lady, face like a smiling walnut, leans down and reaches into the vast orange esky. She comes up, triumphantly, withβ¦β¦β¦a fish. A giant, stiff tuna, its big eye still clear and glinting, plucked from the pile of slippery fish below.
So the blood bank, today, is also a fish market. How much were they charging? How big? We go to Capital Park for Sunday yumcha with friends. A mysterious estate, behind a tall fence off the main road towards the airport in an otherwise indistinct dusty, industrial precinct. Three large multistory buildings, behind security fencing, one behind the other, with a noticeably planned urban architectural feel, distinct from the sprawl of organic repurposing of buildings in the city centre.
It feels deserted, although there are cars lined up in the parking spaces, which seem generously numbered for the uncertain function of the place. A few bored looking girls lounge about, faces illuminated by the glow of their phones. We are here for Sunday yum cha, with friends in the know, who have luckily arrived ahead of us.
As we tentatively push open the door to the discretely signed restaurant, we are greeted with what appears to be the entire Chinese population of Honiara.
