I didn’t take anti-malarials on a regular basis while in Tanzania. I heard a lot of hideous tales about hallucinogenic dreams, rashes, diarrhea, nausea and all sorts of other atrocities, all related to the preventative meds. I was to be in Africa for eight months and I didn’t want bad side effects for that long. Besides, everything I read about malaria's actual symptoms was identical to the side-effects of the pills. And you take the same pills to treat it as you do to prevent it. So if I am going to feel like shit regardless then I’d rather save the money. Eight months of anti-malaria (plus another month of pills after I am home) was a little less than a thousand bucks if you include the doctor’s visit.
Double-Jeopardy.... I’ll take Malaria for $1000, Alex. Thanks.
I was a few days into it before I realized what it was. My mom was paranoid about me living in Africa. Had she seen the first aid kit that I had access to she would have had a panic attack. Had she learned that the island only had two doctors and that one would often head to Dar Es Salaam without notice she would have had a conniption. That my assistant didn’t know “what white people took for medicine” when I was having a weird allergic reaction to some hellish insect that maliciously spewed hateful venom into my arm? Full-on nervous breakdown.
We had no Band-Aids in our first aid kit, a small amount of gauze, some ear drops, and I think some eye drops. It was a three section medical kit and cockroaches ran some sort of casino on the top floor. I say that I think it was eye drop medicine because there was an eye on the label. But I wasn’t sure because, like everything else in the first aid kit, it was written in Italian. Probably because it was sent out by a charitable warmhearted pharmaceutical company who yearned relieve the poor people of Africa. Then again, all the medicines had expired years ago so it is also possible that a money-grubbing, materialistic pharmaceutical company who yearned to fuck the people of Africa sent the medication just days before expiration in order to capitalize on a hefty tax break in the name of charity and good will.
As the parasite multiplied it brought waves of fever and sweating. I had started to take anti-malarials though I had not seen the doctor and didn’t know what was wrong. A marine biologist who was doing dive research here had malaria not too long ago and started taking anti-malarials too late. She was emergency evacuated from Mafia Island to Dar Es Salaam where she received multiple blood transfusions and nearly died. I wanted to catch it early if I had it.
I tried to visit our resident doctor but found that he was studying in Dar Es Salaam. I heard another doctor was staying at a neighboring resort so I tried to find him. But he was also not on the island. I had a fever of about 39C degrees - that’s a wee bit over 102F. I made the decision to go via Land Rover to Mafia Beach where I could catch a dhow to Chole Island which was about twenty minutes away. It was a short drive away but the dust, the heat, and the horrible condition of the road made for a miserable trip. After reaching Chole I had to walk a kilometere or two to the health clinic. When I arrived the nurse told me that the doctor was also unavailable and that she was not qualified to do blood tests for malaria. There was a mother with an infant child waiting there as well. I wondered if she was there for herself or the child. And then I found myself wondering if she would get the help she needed. I was in a miserable condition. But at the same time seeing the woman and the child made me feel fortunate. I had access to good health care. If my situation worsened I would make a phone call for a prop plane and head to Dar Es Salaam or Nairobi. And if Dar or Nairobi failed to find a solution I would fly direct from Nairobi to New York City and take an ambulance from the airport to the best health care on the planet. And by the time I reached NYC that mother might still be waiting outside that dirty clinic on Chole Island holding on to some hope that the doctor would be back soon and be able to help whatever condition she or her child had. I wasn’t getting treated on Chole today. So I made the journey back.
My sous chef was off for the day so I had to help in the kitchen. The kitchen has no extractor fan. And the small air conditioner is temperamental. When it’s busy it gets hot. I have had 35.4C (95F) readings on my watch. Add about 110% humidity to that and you will find your left nut stuck to your right leg. Every time I opened the oven I was assaulted by hot wafts of air and steam. I had to take many breaks in the air conditioned vegetable cooler. I was dizzy and tired. My body was aching at every joint. I would feel as if could fall down at any second. And then it would all go away. And I would tell myself “I can do this”. Almost there. And I would push myself. And then the sweat would come again. And the hot air of the oven. And every time it was worse than the last.
I retired to the vegetable cooler time and time again. I had several kikapu of veggies there that had just arrived from Dar Es Salaam and I needed to get them arranged and stored properly before the humidity ruined them. I was cleaning the chest freezer as well as I had also received a giant load of lobster and cigale de mer from Zanzibar and I didn’t have enough room for it. Oh, and I had what seemed like 50 kilos of half-frozen octopus to deal with as well.
Waves of nausea came over me while I was cleaning the fish freezer. The smell of octopus and prawns and crabs overwhelmed me. My hands were freezing from cleaning ice and fish bits from the bottom of the cooler. I had to break every ten minutes or so. Once I saw that the menu would work and that the staff could push through the night I headed home.
I fell asleep immediately. I couldn’t get away from the seafood cooler though. We mentioned before that one side effect of anti-malarials is that they produce horrid hallucinogenic nightmares for some people. I couldn’t close the freezer. There was too much octopus in it. I would rearrange the repeatedly. Like a Rubik’s Cube. The octopus was stiff but not yet frozen. They still changed colour like they did when they were brought to me still alive. I would push down on them trying to get them deeper and deeper into the cooler until both of my arms were up to my elbows in cold octopus. I could smell them in my dream. Octopus, like broccoli, tastes delicious when cooked. But octopus, like broccoli, smells horrendous when it is being cooked. I could smell it in my sleep. I would wake every hour or so covered in sweat. My sheets were so wet with sweat that I would have to change sides of the bed. And every time I went back to sleep the octopus came back. Cold and foul. My hands would get sticky and be stained with ink.
The next morning I woke to my morning baker saying “hodi” outside my door. “Karibu”, I replied (“you are welcome here”). He brought me some chai and some fruit. He asked how I was doing. I said that I was alright but I needed to rest and maybe get more sleep. He told me that breakfast was coming along fine. And then he turned to leave and peacefully said, “lala salamu”. “Sleep well”. There was a gentleness and understanding in his voice and I had wondered how many times that tranquility graced his family and other friends who were in the same situation or worse. I was thankful for that presence. And then the octopus came back.
I had contracted plasmodium falsiparum. A strain of malaria that kills millions of people every year. Without medicine you have about a 90% chance to dying. I am glad that there was a picture of a mosquito on one of the pill packets inside the first aid kit. When people ask me what it felt like I fail to draw the words. I would assume that it is like eating a lot of really bad acid while you are fighting a really bad flu. Oh, and fighting an octopus. I was out for about four days.
