Some experiences feel the same no matter where you are in
the world. Staying up all night hopped up on caffeine with a canister of sour
cream and onion Pringles trying to finish a paper you stopped being interested
in about a week prior feels the same, from what I can tell, in North America,
Europe and Africa. I suspect the stress and anxiety are consistent on the four
remaining continents. The pride and relief of hitting submit on the online
submission form is also consistent regardless of geography. Stubbing your toe,
though more frequent here, also feels the exact same, making you consider
chopping the damn thing off to stop the throbbing. Rain storms still make me
want to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and a book, preferably fiction
for such an occasion.
Other experiences are amplified. Stimuli are more intense.
Foods taste stronger, colors are brighter, temperatures can feel more extreme.
Being sick also falls into this category. I have been sick away from the comforts
of home for many years now. Bronchitis, swine flu, sinus infections, even a
broken toe or four, I’ve been through it surrounded by college students who are
more interested in getting papers in and getting to the bar than the physical
well being of a comrade. Which I cannot resent.
Fast forward to Friday February 22, 2013 1 am in a bus
station in Kampala, Uganda to find yours truly curled up in a ball covered in a
variety of bodily fluids praying I won’t toss my cookies on the twelve hour bus
ride home to Kigali. Or even earlier that day in a hostel surrounded by wads of
snotty toilet paper (see explanation below) and downing East African cough
syrup wondering why on earth I thought it was sensible to eat tilapia and get
on a boda boda. Being sick sucks. Everywhere. Doesn’t matter how good the soup
is or attentive a caregiver you have. Being sick in eastern Africa just sucks a bit more. The
fevers feel worse because there is no reprieve with fans or cold air. Even
taking a cold shower is out of the running because the water pressure is so
hard it feels like it is tearing apart your ultra sensitive, fever ridden skin.
Having blood drawn even in a legitimate clinic in what looks to be a sterile
and safe environment, a little, Western, prejudiced, neurotic part of you prays
for clean needles as the nurse takes your blood. And the most important reason
being… I cannot find tissues. Handkerchiefs are the primary tool for nose
blowing which means purchasing tissues would mean holding down bile and
partially digested tilapia on a moto ride across town to a muzungu grocery
store. I resorted to toilet paper which literally ravaged my poor nostrils with
its sandpaperesque qualities.
Those looking for a better description of time spent in
Uganda are going to have to hold on to their knickers a bit longer. I have work
and homework to catch up on first. But since none of that is happening at the
moment, I figured I’d provide a brief explanation. I'm feeling much better, taking it easy and spending a respectable amount of time sleeping.
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