Friday, November 02, 2007

A sick story

On the road out of town, the ram tied up in the back of our truck keeps banging his head against the window every time we go over a bump. He’s completely unkempt, a ram with dirty legs and cringeworthy genitalia, not exactly a ram to be proud of at the moment, but his owner had to leave him behind a few months ago, and I guess no one but you is going to wash your sheep. On the first ferry, I watch a man drink down a can of condensed milk that he’s poked holes in. All I can think is, damn, buddy, but he seems to enjoy it and then reclines into his car seat and falls asleep, or goes into a coma. We drive. We stop; pick up a boy, a chicken, a watermelon. It’s beginning to look like a logic puzzle or a joke. Have I mentioned that I’m sick? That’s why I’m making this trip, because of three days of fever and headache and the did I take my larium or not? voice running through my head. I’ve been offered treatment at site- I could inhale smoke from burning leaves, or get some random injection from the health center. Instead I take my expired Tylenol and this free ride to go see our trusted nurse in the city. Sometimes I think I want to try traditional medicine, but then I see an infant’s burns get plastered in tar and rabbit fur and I change my mind. Tourists on ferry number two are trying to take pictures of our embarrassing ram. My ass is really starting to ache, which I decide is from bike riding. The chicken and I both sleep. I wake up to find that Mr. B, a stranger until today, is sort of holding my hand. It’s kind of creepy, kind of sweet. Nothing gets said about it, I just take my hand back and stare out the window for the rest of the ride. I say goodbye to the arc on wheels, and make it to the med unit after dark. Blood test shows not malaria, not viral. Some bacterial infection is causing this. But what? No trouble urinating? No stomach pain? Rashes? Anything going on anywhere? Oh no. The next day I’m laying on my stomach while three lucky people are examining and discussing the hot swollen pustule occurring in my butt. I’m not sure pustule is the right word, I got it from the Color Atlas of Dermatology, which, by the way, is the single most foul book on earth, and yet impossible not to gape at in its entirety. “Can you feel anything moving in there?” the doctor asks. I can’t be sure. Luckily for them, it has “localized” since my arrival and the doctor thinks if we put some ointment over the area, it might poke its head out for air. These are his words as he leaves the room. From that room, I write this dispatch, lying on my stomach, waiting.

1 Comments:

Blogger Jay said...

wow, I think that is the best post I've ever read. Jesus though, I am kind of horrified, kind of excited for you; this sounds like its shaping up to be a quality experience, something unique and wordly to share with us. I'll stay tuned.

7:54 PM  

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