It all started with a brief bout with meningitis. Then morphed into undoubtedly a case of dengue fever. No. Definitely an attack of bird flu. Definitely.
Nurse, I’d like to be tested for the plague.
The hospital in Bajawa, a direct opposite from the sterile institutions of the west. The corridors open to the elements. The corners where the white tile floor meets the concrete wall, shadowed with dirt somehow trekked in on the slick soles of flip flops. Laboratory doors open. Testing in progress with out supervision. Beakers filled with clear liquid and test tubes boiling fervently on burners. Doctors and nurses dressed in street clothes and track suits, indistinguishable from the patients. Our fingers pricked with a small disposable point that I ensured was opened within view. The vibrant red drop of blood (undoubtedly laden with microscopic ‘bugs’) smudged onto a slide. One person on top, one person on bottom… each slide shared. Two or three people. Undeniably only in the ‘South’.
One hour later.
Strange. Foreign. The words printed on half a sheet of baby blue paper.
Eritrosit.
Lekosit.
Trombosit.
Microfilaria.
‘Neg’ was scribbled next to the only word I could define… malaria. Perhaps indeed the symptoms of malaria have manifested themselves upon my body. A mere disguise. It has come as no surprise that the test results were negative, as I have the plague (although still maintaining a slight possibility of Bird Flu). Nevertheless, it is admittedly good to rule out all possibilities.
My Western companions, all fit and seemingly healthy. No symptoms of malaria. No symptoms of meningitis, dengue fever, bird flu, or the plague. Merely a precautionary measure before rolling onto their next adventure. All positive. All malaria infected. Suspect indeed.
‘Falling ill’
It sounds so dramatic. ‘Falling ill’. I imagine old Hollywood. Greta Garbo-esque. The classic back-of-the-hand to the forehead, head tilted, with a slight sway backwards. Audible breath out. Imagine if you will in black and white.
I feel ill in the village, Desa Wolowea. A handful of staff and villagers converging for a processing quality control training from Swiss Contact (an international development NGO).
Melki and I leisurely drove up the path on his motorbike. Two hours late but still well ahead of the other participants. I stayed strong through the instruction… sorting through the recognizable words in my head. Promising to translate the rest later.
Stricken.
The bout of meningitis struck. A stiff neck.
Then the dengue fever. Fever and chills.
Attack of bird flu. Cough, sore throat, and nausea.
Called it an early night ducking behind a curtain and crawling into the far corner of the bed, leaving plenty of room for one or two or more people. Tossing and turning and sweating. The bamboo house erupted with commotion just before 5 am. 5 am! I managed an extra hour of sleep before being called to join the party walking down to the river for a morning bath. Dragging I followed. Brushing my teeth and splashing a few handfuls of water on my face. Not daring to submerge under the flowing (from where?) bamboo water spout.
The morning was busy with practical exercises in cashew processing. Cracking the shells and plying the nut from the dark interior. Coffee break. I slipped off back to bed. Melki and the ‘Mammas’ keeping tabs. Melki sitting at the front door to inform all passerby that I was sick. I heard them chatting about my condition… a doctor is needed. Each time I shout out that it’s just the flu! The Mamma’s popping in and out. Eat this. Drink this. Sleep. Suffering through 2 quite painful messages.
Ok. I need to go home… I want to sink into my own bed and sleep. The Mamma’s protest as there will be no one to take care of me. No one to check in.
Precisely.
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