My Toilet is a Hole in the Ground

Latrines: rumor has it that some are quite high-tech; mine is not. When mum and dad opened the door to find a quaint little hole in the floor, they turned to me with wide, fearful eyes. It was obvious they didn't know whether to politely compliment it or wander off to pick out a bush instead. Having a rather humble, unassuming latrine, it expected neither (and I'd secretly expected less).

I've never fretted over something more than I did over that damned latrine before my parent's visited. How could I feel so self-conscious about a giant, empty concrete space? It's clean; I don't keep roaches; and it's not an entirely unpleasant experience - what could possibly go wrong?

A giant crack appeared in the doorway: Great, I thought, my latrine is going to swallow my mum whole. Each of my familiar roommates suddenly became a menace - What if the spiders tried to make friends with my dad? Or a lizard kamakazi'd him in the middle of the night? What if it was haunted by all the bugs I'd killed over the last year and they suddenly returned for their revenge? Clearly I wasn't thinking straight. I was afraid of the gross factor;I'd completely forgotten about the shock factor.

Until dad took not one, but six photos of it, I'd rather gotten used to the idea of my latrine. Perhaps it was the fact that he needed several angles, or the repeated exclamation: 'Paulette is not going to believe this,' but I suddenly remembered that most people I know don't use latrines. Like ever. I remembered my own first encounters - an irrational fear of the dark, followed by an irrational fear of what might fly into the light; my apparent shyness when it came to using something without a flushing mechanism to make it all go away; a frantic search for anything with wings, more than two legs, and pinchers anywhere near me or my backside. Having over a year to get used to my circumstances, I'd completely forgotten how this must look through someone else's eyes; in six different angles; with no flash.

So, for all you world travellers (and hopeful Ghana visitors ... hint, hint), here's a little list in latrine usage. Enjoy!

1.) If your latrine is more than five feet from your house - you may eventually have a problem.

2.) Be prepared for mosquitos to take full advantage of your vulnerabilities.

3.) Though a nuisance, flies aren't smart enough to take advantage of your vulnerabilities; with this in mind, be prepared for them to charge - without reason - at your bare ass anyway.

4.) There are some species of lizards that like to base jump. Onto your head. Consider them mostly harmless. (Extra points for understanding the reference!!!)

5.) If you do not have at least two back-up rolls of toilet paper (in the house and your travel backpack), you are an idiot and you asked for it. On most occassions ... I am an idiot.

6.) Someone else will eventually use your latrine. And they will miss.

7.) If you're travelling and you don't have to pay for it, I wouldn't recommend using it. Consider yourself warned.

8.) That boiled egg you just ate with pepe? You'd better hope your short distance sprints are up-to-par 'cause your latrine is lookin' pretty far away ...

9.) That is, indeed, a small child's eye ball in the crack of your door ... they can't see in, right??? IT'S TOO DARK IN HERE, RIGHT??!!!

10.) A toilet bowl is convenient, but squating is exercise. Choose wisely, grasshopper.

11.) Charcoal. Charcoal, charcoal, charcoal. There's only one place you can toss it and I suggest doing so.

12.) If your door, like mine, can only give credit for its upright status to an intricate web of strings tied around the frame, you may want to check the knots regularly. 'Cause that would just be awkward ...

13.) A mosquito net will only make midnight trips to the latrine even more inconvenient;  perfect your ninja roll.

14.) You are never above aiming: there's no room for arrogance when all you've got is a four inch radius.

15.) Remember: though surprising high-tech for anyone who regularly frequents the bush, visitors will most likely stare, take pictures, and talk crap about your poor, innocent bystander of a latrine. Remind your latrine regularly that it is, indeed, useful; perhaps give it a name to reassure it of its worth; and frequently pretend that you're living in a medieval castle. You're latrine will appreciate you for clinging to its novelty (however terrifying that novelty was in the beginning). It is always good to have a positive relationship with your latrine.

I'm sure there are more - many more - things I could say when it comes to my latrine and foreign latrine experiences. As a friend told me once, "always choose the bathroom you know over the one you don't." Ghana brings a whole new meaning to the phrase.

xx

image: http://www.sswm.info/category/implementation-tools/water-use/hardware/toilet-systems/pit-latrine

Mum Visits Ghana

I've been racking my brain for weeks attempting to write a blog about mum and dad's visit. Obviously I've been failing miserably, though I refuse to take any blame ... (combine an uncommonly unruly brain with four weeks of material to sift through and you've got yourself a pretty inconvenient personal situation). Having said that, last night (after brainstorming, imploring, and finally childishly ignoring my creative mind and it's ridiculous coup), I decided to do something I rarely do: I'm going freestyle. Apologies will come later.

PART I: The Much Anticipated Arrival

It was the eve of Peace Corps Fiftieth Anniversary - big stuff, for those of you who don't know - and volunteers from all over Ghana had gathered to 'prepare' (also known as Happy Hour). I was counting the minutes, trying not to fall on my face in a fabulous pair new heels, when suddenly it was time: mum would be landing in 30 minutes. I gathered the troops; Beth, Nikki, Catherine and I (taking one last swig) hopped in a cab and made our way to the airport. I think I may have bounced in my seat the entire way.

    

We soon found ourselves standing behind the appropriate barrier when, "SH*T!" I said (and much too loudly), "I forgot the sign!" How on earth, I reasoned, would mum know who I was without a witty sign? I mean, I'm a gnome! You can hardly see as it is! What would I ... [insert interruption by a large peice of paper in the face, here]: "THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MUM." It had been printed hastily at the airport internet cafe; it was perfect. (Thanks Beth!)

Next came the waiting ... I'd forgoteen about customs ... and as I madly shoved my clever sign in the face of every o'broni exiting the doors (man, woman, child - I cared not), I started to get restless. While I foolishly allowed Nikki to document the many faces of my impatience, Beth plotted with three random strangers to bum-rush their visitors as well as my mum. It seemed to take forever. And, though I vowed NOT to cry like a small child, the moment she came around the corner I squeeled, threw myself under that stupid rope barrier, and tackled her in a fit of tears. It was beautiful; even Beth cried:

We were immediately herded out of the way by airport staff (clearly we were expressing way too much emotional goo), while our impatient taxi driver rolled mum's luggage out the door. She'd barely had time to breath (shoved into the back of a taxi with three of us girls), but damn it - she was in Ghana.

PART II: Swearing-in and Mif Kits

Ignoring completely what must have been a killer case of jet-lag, mum (who'd stayed out for a few drinks and a bit of socializing) woke up with the birds to get ready for the Ambassador's house. The high-pitched shriek we heard from the bathroom told us her first experience in bucket bathing was a success, albeit a chilly one, and soon we were off to catch a free ride the the party. The ceremony was great and being able to share it with mum was even better. I surprised her by singing the National Anthem and, by the end of the ceremony, we were all a little caught up in the fiftieth birthday of the Peace Corps.

Even though I spent a majority of the reception gorging myself on what civilized folk call 'orderves' (we volunteers simply refer to them as "THOSE!!! OVER THERE!!!" before inevitably trampling innocent bystanders), lunch at Pizza Inn (it was 'two-for-tuesdays') immediately followed. Yes: I stuffed more food into my face. I'd be lying if I said I remembered where we waddled to next, but I believe it involved copious amounts of mirth and just the right amount of alcohol. With mid-service medical starting the next day, we were upgraded to a pretty posh hotel (thanks, Richard!) and proceeded to spend the next few days enjoying  the many luxuries of Accra (including, but not limited to: Captain America, shopping at the mall, real wine, the Embassy Marines' BBQ, and a night out on the town - until 5am - with the same Marines). By the time we left Accra, mum knew the city better than I do.

PART III: Ghana and Public Transportation

     Next was our day trip to the Volta. In one day, we were able to check 'acquired heat exhaustion while waiting,' '... we probably almost died back there,' 'was that the engine?' and 'I guess we're hitchiking,' off of her travel to-do list. It was an eventful day (and a crash course in Ghana travel). Though we'd given ourselves ample time, we rushed to catch ... THE NIGHT BUS. 

Those of us who live in Ghana know that nothing compares to the night bus. And, in order to save time, I subjected my poor, unsuspecting mum to the VVIP. Let me tell you a little bit about the night bus: seats, seemingly spacious and comfortable in the day, become gnarled, over-sized torture-buckets at night; loud Nigerian films, played back-to-back, are without subtitles so you CAN'T EVEN FOLLOW ALONG while they keep you awake (angry face); police check-points can be delayed for hours during the night ('cause the bribe's too small) ... I could go on, but I think you get the point. Needless to say, by the time we pulled into Tamale and found our way to the sub-office, mum was ready for a nap:



     I think I let her sleep most of the day; truth be told it was nice to relax. Tomorrow would bring Bolgatanga and I wanted to be well-rested; our hotel room that night had air-conditioning. BOOYA.

PART IV: Bolgatanga and the Most Expensive Party Ever

Our travel fell on a market day, so we were able to meet the new volunteers at a local hang-out; after some chatting, I decided to prep for mum's party. This involved hand-picking a goat to be slaughtered and buying more vegetables/ingredients than I thought possible to prepare. I named the goat 'Food,' but I suspect he didn't like his new name because he made me smell like him for weeks. I can only assume this was just punishment. Thanks, Food.

When we finally got to the house, my three-legged cat was in a frenzy - I'm pretty sure she thought I'd left her forever (she always does). She bonded with grandmum quickly (which basically means she tangled herself in mum's ankles, which immediately made them best friends forever) and we spent the rest of the night cuddling and unpacking; Gimpy was in heaven. Over the next few days we did our best to wander around town (mum even fetched her own water at the borehole), but everyone was so excited to meet her that it was hard to leave the house. Our party (marked by the early morning departure of a goat named Food) started late, but had everyone dancing past sunset. There was Pito, live drums, and lots of grub: it was a BLAST. They presented mum with her very own smock, forever making her an official FraFra mama and, in the end, it was worth every penny.

PART V: A Monestary and a Sanctuary

We decided to make our way back down more interesting than the night bus up - I'd heard wonderful rumors of the Techiman monestary (a Catholic Monestary built into gigantic climbable rocks), so we decided to give it a go. Mum braved the Metro Mass (seriously, I'm a travel-sadist) and we somehow found this beautiful, secluded, red-brick monestary. We celebrated immediately by taking a four-hour nap; it may have been the best nap of my life.

This place was amazing - quiet, peaceful, and secluded (three rare things in Ghana) - the monks grow their own garden, from which the homemade meals are stocked, and there was a library that SMELLED like a library. (If you know anything about me, you'll know that I drooled all over those poor books.) We arranged a taxi for the monkey sanctuary in the morning, planned an afternoon hike, and enjoyed a quiet dinner (seriously - they take a vow of silence) with four very nice monks.

Our taxi was miraculously early - he spent three minutes honking at a locked gate before we rescued him and negotiated a price; then we drove into the boonies. Seriously, this place could not be more remote if it boasted a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I thought we were going to get mauled by Velociraptors when the car broke down, but our driver (who'd obviously had this problem before) knew what part to shift before the imaginary pack of dinosaurs found us. It turns out all this place had was monkeys (I was overwhemed with relief - raptors know how to open doors) and we were able to enjoy a pleasant walk through the forest in our search for harmless monkeys. We did managed to see both kinds of monkeys (shy and unshy - guess which one is to the right), though visitors can no longer feed them, and I left town with yet another marriage proposal.

Of course, the day was far from over - a shower and a nap later, we took off into the wilderness to clambor over rocks (and clambor we did). We walked, me climbed, we took silly pictures in precarious places, and then we walked some more. It was everything it promised to be. Dinner, with a considerably chattier bunch of monks, proved to be just as entertaining.

VI: Mama Sewah and Cape Coast Castle:

This trip would not have been complete without a homestay visit so, naturally, it was our next stop. We matched our arrival with the Koforidua bead market (so I could sufficiently overload mum's senses and empty her purse - SUCCESS) and visited Mama Sewah for dinner. Though we surprised the family, it didn't stop mama from stuffing us with rice - watching, as a Sewah does - to make sure we'd finished every last piece. After two hours of great conversation, we were headed to Cape Coast; when I tell you we spent more time travelling than we did in the places we visted, I'm not exaggerating.

So is life (or, better put, travel in Ghana).
       

Our final destination was the perfect ending to a very satisfying (but hectic) trip. We visited a volunteer's site, enjoyed the ocean breeze and took a trip to the castle. This is the same castle Obama visted - once one of the largest suppliers of the slave trade. I think they can trace most decendents of the West African clave trade to this port and, while beautiful, the truth behind its walls was sobering. In fact, it was horrible (and I mean that in the best way possible). Mum and I were both sobbing by the end, having learned more about the slave trade than books could ever teach. I'm glad to have visited at least one historically relevant site during mum's travels, but once was enough.

THE FINALE: Mum Departs, Dad Arrives

We spent our last night in Accra before mum left for home, our goodbyes marked with the same emotional goo that began our three week adventure. A small family reunion was had as dad arrived just in time to say goodbye and saying goodbye was probably the hardest thing I've done in a long time. It's safe to say mum left Ghana a slightly different person than she was coming in, but that's the nature of Africa. It was possibly one of the best trips I've ever taken and, in short, we had an amazing time; I missed her before she got on the plane. I love you, mum.

 xx

[stay tuned for dad's visit ... of course, I've got to write it first ... so ... there's that ...]

Things to Know, Pt. 1

1. 'I'm coming' is a legitimate every-day phrase spoken to indicate one's pending arrival into any number of situations. It's also used as a polite refusal to come over at all. (... word's out on whether there are additional signals to tell one from the other.)

2. Don't feed the children; it's kind of like letting a bear into your trash = disaster.

3. Dancing is okay anywhere, any time. Also, everyone's invited - even if it's a group of strangers dancing in a circle around a cell phone ringtone on the street corner.

4. Even if you don't go to church ... you go to church. And you will be there as long as it takes.

5. You (the white person) are hilarious no matter what you're doing. "You try, oh. It's cute."

6. Gimpy is the magically, constantly pregnant cat. It's how we roll in the African wilderness.

7. Looking at certain children will always make them cry. You get extra points for making them scream in terror (because playing tag with a giant white person is kind of like being chased by hockey-mask-weilding Jason ... machete optional??) Also, whoever gets the most points wins Peace Corps.

8. Finding a second-hand shirt from your high school in the dead-obroni pile also wins Peace Corps.

9. Pito is a legitimate breakfast substitute. What?? Beer's a grain, right?!!

10. Texting is neither considered efficient or normal means of communication/information exchange. Yelling the same greeting into a phone seven times (before running out of minutes), however, is.

11. Flashing is not something you can get arrested for, it's something you do after running out of credits when you tried greeting that one dude seven times ... Call me back, yo!!

12. "Urinal? Yeah, it's the third bush to the left - careful, though, there's a kitchen window over there with a perfect view of your comically white ass."

13. "No, seriously: how white is your ass!??!"

14. Just stop. You're white. (This roughly translates to 'surely you can't know how to [insert mundane everyday activity here] and is always followed by 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T SPEAK [insert Ghanaian language here]?!!! Apparently one standard doesn't apply to the other ...)

15. "Ohhhh. You didn't mean eleven when you said the meeting started at nine? ... Cause I had stuff to do ..."

16. Ghanaians never sleep. They nap. On the upside, discotechs and bars are open until four in the morning.

17. The main highways of Ghana are one continuous drive-through; top-shopping is what you do when you buy food off someone's head, it is not a British fashion boutique.

18. OCD takes on an entire new meaning in Ghana. No you may not alter the items in your dish, mix concoctions together, or rearrange something you see.

19. Speaking of menus: there's no garauntee that the item you want (listed on the menu out front) is actually available today ... or ever.

20. You're gonna have to repeat yourself ... better yet, just make sure everything you say is repeated back to you verbatim. Ghanaians are agreeable. They will nod their heads in a general agreement-fashion just to make you happy (or get you into the damn taxi).

21. Taxis are tricky. Sometimes they're a complete rip-off. Negotiate and settle on a price before you sit down; rinse and repeat.

22. It's amazing how white my neighbor's whites are ... and embarassing that mine definitely aren't. Maybe they were right when they told me to stop because I was white ....

23. Ghanaian films. There's nothing else you need to know. (Besides the fact that you should probably block a seven hour period to watch one - this allows ample time for parts one through seven.)

24. Bugs definitely bite.

25. That guy/girl you just walked down the street with? Yeah, you're going steady now; kind of like in Pleasantville. Now go run off and neck in the woods somewhere ...

26. 'Backing' a baby is much harder to do when your ass doesn't look like that (yes, Gifty, I'm talking to you).

27. Everyone has an opinion; it's especially obvious on a full bus. It's kind of like being in a room full of Italian grandmothers. And you aren't married yet.

28. Oh! You aren't married? No problem. You can have my brother/sister/cousin/son/daughter/friend. Hell, you can have me! I mean, at your age it's amazing you're still fertile! (I'm twenty-four...)

29. Africa is hot (and I don't mean like Paris Hilton).

30. Cheese is necessary for both survival and sanity. Also, strawberries are awesome.

xx

Growing Up Ghana

I think it's safe to say I've grown a lot in Ghana - grown up, grown out, grown loud(er) - because Ghana offers me something new to learn every day (and, mostly, I learn about myself). Though the entire experience has been incredible, I think I've managed to learn the most in the last six months (every Sunday at two o'clock).

When it comes to our support group (I say 'our' because believe in community ownership), I think I've felt - and more than once - that I've learned much more from them than they have from me. Perhaps that's the nature of our relationship: fifty people have a lot more to teach than one. I consider myself lucky everytime I walk into a meeting and I find that they're all still there - ready to learn.

What once seemed a tiny smudge in the distance, our positive living workshop arrived with theatrical flair and triumph - I can call it nothing less than a success. As I sat there, watching twenty-two people become more and more enthusiastic, brighter and brighter each day, - their auras, their comfort level expanding and becoming visible to the naked eye - I realized how grateful I was to have finally offered them something in return for their faith in me. It's not often one has the opportunity to impart true, life-changing knowledge onto a group of people (let alone a group of adults) and, though I only really take credit in the workshop's general organization, it was amazing to be a part of something so integral to their lives.

I, undoubtedly, had the easiest job in the room: I sat, listening with the other group members, occasionally chiming in, while our facilitators, imported from Accra, managed to do everything I'd been trying to do in the last six months in three days. It was amazing. And it gave me the chance to get to know twenty-two people in a way I couldn't have achieved with a group of fifty, even if we'd met every other day. I was finally able to hear their stories; twenty-two people opening fold by fold, like flowers in bloom that I hope will never close again.

I think they were genuinely happy, surprised even, by everything they learned - inspired by both Edem and Gifty to live loudly, proudly, and forever positive. Because, after all, having HIV is just another state of being - a fragile state of being, yes, but a state of being, nonetheless. We growled at injustice, we laughed in the face of ignorance, we cried at tragedy, and we reveled in the fact that life is always still worth living. And I'm so proud of each and every one of them, ready to go into the world and impart their knowledge - educate so that their lives and the lives of other's may improve, educate so that we may beat HIV, so that we may beat the more dangerous diseases of discrimination, hate, and miseducation.

Our meeting this Sunday will be their first challenge: a challenge to infect others with positive energy, to take responsibility as peer leaders (and to realize their potential in the face of what some would consider an end, rather than a beginning). I have so much faith in them; Sunday cannot come soon enough.

"I want you to give your virus a name," Gifty said, "and I want you to speak to it. I want to to welcome it into your body," pausing for Joe's translation, "then I want you to set some ground rules. Trust me: your virus will listen. And then," she says, smiling a secret smile, "I want you to listen. I want you to ask your virus why it came to you and I want you to listen to what it has to say. I promise you," she levels a finger at her audience, "that it will answer ... if you listen well enough. It will."

Because, she explained, that the only way to live with the virus is to be at harmony with its existence, to accept its interference, and come to a compromise. "It's not a cure," she later enforced, "there is no cure, but there is life with HIV."

She called her virus 'Little Dragon," and when she spoke to it, Little Dragon told her to go out into the world and teach, to fight, and to live. If you think, as someone not living with HIV, I have nothing to learn from this, you'd be wrong. In fact, we all have something to learn from Gifty. Though it may not be as daunting as HIV, we all have Little Dragons, demons that weigh us down, and if you sit there in dejection - if you allow your Little Dragon to possess you, steal the fire in your heart for its own - then you are letting your Little Dragon win.

And so I left with a fire in my heart, hands entwined with my own Little Dragon, waiting to unleash twenty-two newly inspired, positively loud group members onto a world that will - eventually - accept them, wholly, for who they are. And, despite having reservations about publically declaring their status, I believe that each of them walked away as PLWHA. Loud and proud. Positive in every aspect of the word.

What's not to be inspired about that?

xx

http://www.stampoutstigma.ie/



Ruby Red

He walks into the storm with purpose - parasole, ruby red, and detailed with something I'd think to see in Saigon. He leaves with sprays like purfume in his wake. Ruby red, daintily protecting him from the rain; a stain, vibrant, in my periphery.



Observations of ‘that girl:’ Gimpy

Gimpy is wholly original, unlike any other cat I’ve ever encountered. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced she is one.

She is completely at the mercy of the world – ‘helpless’ might be the word – though she often seems too smart for her own good, even for a cat.
Three years old and graying at the ears, when she stares (which is often) it is with impossibly green eyes. The rest of her face, lost to black shadow, dims in comparison to those bright lights.
Three paws (she’s missing one) do their best to keep her upright; often it seems they forget that she is under-staffed. She barrels her way through every movement – somersaulting, vaulting over herself in an effort to get anywhere, colliding with any stationary object in her path (which isn’t always straight).
She frequents the space between feet, usually while they are moving. Being that she’s missing one of her own, it likely ends in disaster more often than naught.
Purrs like a whisper, little more than a silent hum in a narrow chest, the sound is only detected by direct contact with a rib or her very loveable, pettable under-belly.
She cuddles, constantly attached like Velcro – currently attached like Velcro. It is impossible to sit anywhere without Gimpy finding me and taking up residence on my person.
I don’t believe she realizes claws are sharp, evident by scratches and scars – the marks of her devotion as she climbs her way, often forcefully, into my arms.
An inside cat (because three working legs and an escape plan rarely succeed), I am trying to keep her un-pregnant (though somehow she always is).
There is a piece missing from one of her bat-like ears which, when compared to her long, often tilted, face, give the impression of satellites ready to transmit orders, sir. Maybe that is why she always looks confused – she should have made contact months ago.
She sleeps with her eyes half-lidded, it is impossible to tell whether or not she is asleep. Does an operative for the alien enemy really ever sleep?
Mid-rest, she has been known to roll over, leaving her incapacitated on her back, startled and tangled on the floor, very far away from where she last remembers being (namely a few feet higher and in a cushioned chair). Involuntary movements, all; definitely unplanned.
Though seemingly startled by life, she is not without enthusiasm for it – surprised to find that she can walk and eat and roam between two moving feet, she is content to find herself upside-down when her zeal catches up with her. But there is never any doubt that she loves me, she is never startled by that. I often wonder what she must be thinking, something profound and life-changing, no doubt, though instantly forgotten. She is, perhaps, the perfect companion. I love her dearly.

Fringe Division, Ghana

Someone call Joshua Jackson, ‘cause I’ve come to a conclusion:

As a continent rife with any number of ailments by way of myopic parasites and creepy-crawlies . . . Africa is kind of gross.

I came to this conclusion in a veterinary clinic, inspecting a type of parasitic larvae imbedded in the hind leg of my cat, Gimpy. How she came to acquire such roommates, I could only guess (she’s currently an inside-cat), but if it was anything – it was gross. Like cross-your-heart, turn in three circles, and spit on your mother gross.

She got a bath (like a child with lice), a standard de-wormer (because apparently you can never be too safe in Africa), and I was left to ponder, like a paranoid volunteer, the parasitic potential of my little piece of the continent.

Once home, I flipped open our medical handbook and did what any paranoid volunteer would do – I sought out every bug-caused malady and tortured myself with its details. As I wavered between engrossed and disgusted, I realized that I live in an episode of The X-Files. Africa: a place where things hatch out of the skin, burn at the touch, and carry Malaria; a place where my own body becomes an enemy (as if I didn’t have enough to worry about with all of the creepy-crawlies).

I have yet to experience, but hear tales of the infamous abscess – an infection and swelling of the hair follicle, sometimes to the size of a quarter, that has to be cut open, drained, and scraped out (insert collective gasp here). Even now, I fear the razor, as I fear my bug-bites catching an antibiotic-worthy infection and scaring my newly-tanned skin for life.

During hot season, I was perplexed to find large, painful blisters behind my knee – a minor infection of the poor, over-worked sweat glands lamenting the day I learned to sit with my legs crossed. And any beetle within ten feet is shooed away in-case it happens to be the Blister Beetle, which releases a chemical that burns the skin and causes a blister which, if popped, will continue causing blisters until the fluid is washed away.

If random tapeworms weren’t enough, the thought of a Tumbu Fly’s eggs hatching under my skin leaves me skittish (though morbidly curious) about whatever caused my three-footed cat’s current predicament. The amount of times I’ve doused my house in bug-poison is kind of ridiculous considering it’s apparently futility, but the false security of my bed net (I looked down to find a giant centipede crawling along my leg in bed the other night) and market-found pesticides (because, let’s face it, the ants just keep coming back) give me enough comfort to let me sleep at night (with my medical handbook far, far away once I retire).

I suppose in the land of follicle cysts and sweat gland infections it’s only natural to find skin-burning beetles and burrowing larvae like an episode of Fringe. It certainly explains the vivid Mefloquin dreams of giant poisonous spiders, snakes, and hungry, hungry ants swarming the bed in a feeding frenzy.

Africa, as it turns out, is a pretty hostile place – a place where survival means inhabiting the intestines of the nearest living creature and stealing their food; a place where the only way to keep a happy home is to douse it regularly with poisonous insecticides; a place where the bugs not only like to bite you, but may give you Malaria as a result. Maybe I shouldn’t hold it against my potentially threatening fellow creatures: in a harsh environment, it seems that harsh is the only way to survive. Maybe one day, it’ll convince Joshua Jackson to visit … a girl can dream, right?

xx