Alaskan King Crab With Kachumbari

'Kachumbari' is to the Swahili Coast what 'salsa' is to Central America and the Caribbean. You could call it the original salsa. And if you want to be a food snob you could call this recipe Swahili Fusion or Alaskan Fusion. Or, if you want to be a super pretentious nerd you can coin a name like Afrilaskan Cuisine. Blue Crabs or Snow Crabs can be substituted for the Alaskan Crab. And if you want the real deal authenticity of Zanzibar and the Spice Islands you can source yourself out some Mangrove Crabs.

1 lb. crab meat, claws reserved for garnish
Small bunch of chives, chopped
Juice of 1 lemon
3 tomatoes, seeded, fine diced
1 cucumber, seeded, fine diced
2 bell peppers, fine diced
2 tbsp olive oil
1 pili pili pepper (sub. cayenne)
Salt & pepper to taste

Mix everything but the crab. Put crab meat into chilled martini glasses and top with kachumbari. Garnish with crab claws.

Mafian Diary

I don't know why the people of Mafia Island are referred to as Mafians. If I lived there on a more permaneant basis than I did I think I would prefer to be called a Mafioso. That being said, here's some notes that I jotted down while I was living there as a Mafian.




I miss being surrounded by professionals in the kitchen. I miss the buzz. I miss the calls from the expediter. “Fire a shank.” “Picking up octopus, quail, two scallops”. The changing zip codes maintained at the grill. Each number symbolizing a cooking temperature from rare to well. I miss the twelve burner saute station with dual salamanders. I miss the energy of a well-trained line. Making sure that my mise en place is all in perfect order. Making sure that I am not the one that the rest of the line has to wait for when the orders pile in. I miss the endless chatter of the printer as it relentlessly spews dupes. I miss the cuts and burns. The sting of cold hands when the freezer needs to be cleaned and organized.

In Mafia, the challenge is working with a staff who has a fraction of the education that is typical in the United States. The majority have went through about seven years. The rest received less or none at all. And then you have a huge language barrier. Most guests spoke Italian. Most staff spoke broken English and Swahili. I spoke broken Swahili, deteriorating Spanish, and English. You can ask a waiter for a banana and could very well end up with a fish. And try to teach a Muslim how to cook a pork tenderloin. It is like teaching a vegetarian how to cook fois gras.

There is no concept of urgency. Most of my staff spends the morning laying under mango trees waiting for breakfast to fall into their lap. If I see a Swahili moving fast, or (God forbid) running, I am certain that imminent disaster is soon to follow. Fire in the courtyard. Maasai performer who can’t swim fell in the deep end of the pool. (Both happened by the way). I had a bartender reach into a drawer for a receipt book and grab a handful of Boomslang, a poisonous African snake well capable of delivering a fatal bite. But nobody is going to move a knife with that sort of rapidity.

I only brought two knives with me. A Global santouku and a pairing knife. Usually I bring a whole roll loaded with all sorts of specialty knives and tools. A salmon slicer, yanagi sashimi knife, bird beak peeler, hefty meat cleaver, bone tweezers, flexible fillet knives, and a host of others. Both of the knives I brought are near ruined. When I am in the kitchen nobody touches them. But when I leave, knives are used to open canned goods and they are sharpened on the concrete block outside rather than the stone and steel in the kitchen.

The village that I am living in is at least two hundred years behind the mainland of Tanzania. Which pretty well puts it about a thousand years behind the rest of the civilized world. Houses are still constructed with mud, mangrove poles, and makuti, or palm-thatched roofs. The local butchery here is enough to turn Ted Nugett into a vegetarian. It is open air with no refridgeration. Slabs of beef lay on a blood-stained tin sheets and are overrun by flies. And for this reason I have my livestock delivered to the back gate alive.


Goats, ducks, guinea fowl, “Swahili chickens”, and just about anything else with a pulse is brought in on a leash or in thatch baskets. Swahili chickens are about half the size of what I am used to seeing in American supermarkets. Their eggs yolks are off-white, almost the dull color of cold butter, from being malnourished and living off of trash. And the meat has a bit more of a game flavor than what most of us are used to. But I guess you could call them “free-range” and make them sound appealing to Americans and Europeans.



All of the animals are slaughtered in the rear of the resort in Muslim tradition. Unless I do it. I just neck the goat and get on with the day. The Muslim staff say a few prayers, point the goat in a certain direction, dig a hole, bury a bit of blood, and pour water over the knife and wound. The thought of chopping off a chicken’s head on a block with an axe and then watching the chicken run around directionless for a minute is absurd. But the Swahili tie up the chickens feet and kneel on their wings before cutting off their heads and bleeding them into the ground.

I tend to hide offal in things like spring rolls and samosas. I just fine chop it and mix in a few vegetables and a bit of curry. People don’t often ask “Hey, what part of the lamb was used to make the Zanzibar Spring Rolls”? I will mince up flap meat, hearts, livers, stomach, kidneys, and whatever else doesn’t look pretty on the plate. But I won’t use the intestines. The putridity and foulness that is emitted out of the pan when these babies are boiled is stomach churning. It smells just like the grass mix that spills out of the stomach when you gut a lamb or goat. You could not hide the repugnancy with the strongest of curries. So I give it to the staff.

The staff boil up intestines and any other part of the carcass that will not be used in the kitchen. The boil-up is served with ugali, which you probably know as polenta. The ugali is rolled into a ball with the right hand (everyone eats out of the same bowl and the left hand is used for wiping), then with your thumb you fashion a sort of scoop or spoon out of it. Dunk your scoop into the mchuzi, grab yourself a chunk of offal, and roll it into your mouth. The Swahili people chew it. I don’t recommend it. You are far better off if you can manage to swallow the whole lot. And I highly recommend chasing it down with a cold bottle of Tusker or Safari Lager.



My fish arrives strapped to the back of a bicycle. Most is caught with hand lines as the people can’t afford proper fishing rods and reels. Big tuna, silver trevalley, sailfish, grouper, snapper, and barracuda. The island is not yet a huge dive destination even though there is world-class reef surrounding it. So the big fish are still around. Some fish are longer than the bicycle that they are tied to. It is sort of like a scene from The Old Man And The Sea unfolding on land.

Usually the same guy who brings me the fish filets it for me. Because he knows that I will give him the head if he does. I keep grouper cheeks and prepare them as a special treat for my favorite guests. But all the rest of the head goes to the fish monger who usually shares it with the rest of the staff. Kitchen knives are used like hatchets to split silver trevalley skulls the size of manhole covers. The heads are grilled over charcoal and picked apart methodically and served with the ever accompanying ugali.

A Letter To Shaun

You really develop a love/hate relationship with Africa after living here. It is a beautiful place but at the same time a very ugly place. Stunning beaches, shades upon shades of blue and green water, white sand and thousands of palm trees. But also AIDS, poverty, malaria, and disease. You can have the most serene moment spoiled by absolute trajedy. I have had staff die from AIDS. More than once I have given someone the day off because their child has died. Malaria is common. I don't think I will understand this place even twenty years from now when I look back at it in retrospect. It is without a doubt the craziest place I have ever been. These people survive on less than what is in your trash can right now. Yet they have some of the most abundant resources on the planet. Most of my staff make around $60-80 per month. And many have to feed and clothe a family on that. So you can imagine the expression on their faces when I (embarrassingly) tell them that I paid $280 for my iPod. Or $1200 for a camera lens.



I am still struggling to find my place here at the resort. I am running it. I am somehow holding it all together. And somehow it is holding me all together. But I don't understand how. I am in a really strange place emotionally. Not a bad place. But understanding what is going on around me is challenging to say the least. Most of my staff has not had education past Standard 7. Many have had no education. It is something that we totally take for granted.

In many ways I will miss Mafia. But there is a part of me that wants to take the film out of the camera, point it over my shoulder, and take the picture. Leaving it all behind and taking nothing more than a memory. I will miss the people and the friends that I have made. But I think that I won't be able to easily look back. Because I will probably know where my next meal is coming from. I will probably be making more than $2 per day. I will have the security of living in the USA. And when I think of them I will be wondering if they are still alive. Statistics say that ten of my staff of fifty will die from AIDS. So which ones? How and why? Which ones are sick with malaria? It's all really surreal. Because you don't see any of it at the resort. The resort is polished. It is luxury. It is not Africa. It is $440/night for a couple. Africa is the guy who didn't come to the resort today because he had to walk 10 miles to get some expired American asthma medicine for his sick and dying grandmother. It will cost him a couple days pay. And it will be a tax write-off and a charitable deed on paper for an American pharmaseutical company.

I am learning a lot about food here. There is a lot of African influence in Caribbean food. A lot of the recipes that I am collecting are very similar to the ones found in the Caribbean. Same recipe - different name. The African food is a bit spicier. Lots of influence brought here by Indians and Arabs during the slave and spice trade. I have Jon bringing me like $200 worth of books about African food and history. So I am pumped to have things on the way that will keep me busy. Not that I am not busy enough already.



I like working in Third World kitchens. Because I can get away with a lot of shit that I couldn't get away with in places like USA. I remember talking with you at Pebbles about contracting a charter boat fisherman so we could cut out the middle-man. And I remember the tremendous amount of red tape an expense involved in doing it. It is really frustrating. I have fish delivered strapped to the back of bicycles. It is fresh as. But can you imagine that scene in Winter Park? I kill my own goats, chickens, ducks, and guinea fowl. They are delivered to the back gate alive. Nobody gets sick. Working in places like this allows you to get in touch with your food. Most Americans are completely out of touch. And the problems that we have right now with obesity and diabetes are largely attributed to that. Even my dishwashers can fully dress a goat or a lamb.

Most of the younger generation along the Swahili Coast have lost touch with old-school Swahili recipes. They favour the fish-n-chips that is starting to come into the big cities. Once Tanzania can afford KFC and McDs all the authentic recipes will die. There is no interest in their preservation. So I have been hunting down all the old mommas and picking their brains. I pay them $1 for a recipe. Their recipes will die with them. The young ones aren't interested. I am trying to preserve their food and history. There isn't a whole lot of info out there.

So.......all is well. I just need a day off. Four months now without one. 110-hour weeks. I'm looking forward to a trip to Central America. I crave Cuba too. I need Cuban cigars. Cuban rum. A Cuban sandwich. And a Cuban woman. Not necessarily in that order though. Give all my love out. I will see you guys around April. Will try to stay for a month or so and then I will probably jet to Alaska again.

Peace.

Hunting Gear List

This is an ongoing project of sorts. We have changed our hunting location from north of Fairbanks and are heading West. The newspaper yesterday said that there is an unusual amount of bear activity over in that area this year. We will be "walk and stalk" hunting for roughly twelve days with a base camp set up outside of Bethel. The photo below is a clear shot of the ghillie. I just put an arm guard on it to keep leaves, jute, and burlap from catching the bowstring. I've shot it with a few hats as well just to make sure that the string won't catch on any of it. So far, so good.



Glock 20 10mm pistol
3x 15-round clips + 50 rounds 200-grain Blazer TMJ
Uncle Mike's shoulder holster
Rescue belt
Bowtech Mission 70 lb. compound bow
18x Gold Tip Expedition Hunter arrows
Fixed broadheads, expandable broadheads, small game broadheads

Garmin 530 Rino GPS w/earbud, charger, extra AAA battery pack
Nikon Monarch 12x42 binoculars w/ case

Canon 400D Digital Rebel camera
24-70mm f/2.8L & 70-200mm f/4.0L & Sigma 15mm “Fisheye” lenses
2 GB & 1 GB memory cards, cables, chargers
Canon 420Ex Speedlight (AA)
Slik 705E tripod
6x AAA & 8x AA rechargeable batteries w/ charger

The North Face Tadpole 23 2-man tent w/footprint & loft
Thermarest Ridgerest sleeping pad
Thermarest Base Camp sleeping pad
Marmot 15-degree mummy bag
Hammock Bliss portable jungle hammock

The North Face Hammerhead hydrator backpack
Kelty Redwing 2500 backpack
Pinnacle expedition backpack
External backpack frame

Leatherman Wave
Leatherman Micra
Praying Mantis tactical knife
Petzl headlamp (AAA)
7 Mammut wire caribiners
10m 5mm rope
Bulldog ice hammer

MSR Dragonfly stove
MSR 30ml fuel bottle (white gas)
MSR water purifier
MSR BlackLite Guide cookware set
2x Nalgene bottles
Stainless steel chopsticks
Frisbee
Foon/Spork
3x lighters & waterproof matches

Mirror
Superglue
Duct tape

Castro hat
Executive fedora
2x Bandana
Scent Lock boonie
Beanie
Bug mask

Scent Lok Dream Season camo jacket & pants
Scent Lok Dream Season merino wool Base Layers
Bush Rag Chameleon ghillie jacket & pants
Mountain Hardware Wicked T base layer - top
Thermasilk pants base layer - bottom
Marmot waterproof pants
The North Face Gore-Tex rain jacket
Arc’Teryx Apache AR polar fleece
Camo face paint
Scent-Lok gloves
Marmot gloves
Glacier glasses
Polarised sunglasses
6x socks
Asolo Gore-Tex Boots

Toilet paper
Toothpaste
Toothbrush
Trash bags
Zip-Lock bags

Pen
Sony digital voice recorder (AAA)
iPod 30GB w/ charger
Pelican iPod case
Garden Gnome, stolen

20 lbs. miscellaneous food
Truffle oil


When I am not bowhunting I will also be carrying Keith's:

Remington Model 760 Gamemaster 30-06 rifle w/ scope & strap
2x 5-round clips 210-grain Federal Premium rounds

Mt. Marathon

Overlooking Seward, Alaska is Marathon Mountain which stands at 3022 feet (that is exactly 921.1056 metres for all my sheep-shaggin' wanker friends). Every year on the 4th of July (that's Independence Day for all my sheep-shaggin' wanker friends) a multitude of people scramble up and down the mountain. It is one of Seward's largest events. Well, that, but also The Polar Bear Jump which occurs in January- where people dress up in crazy costumes like ballpark chickens and jump off the fishing docks into the near-frozen sea. But January is pretty damn cold in Alaska whether you are in a giant wet chicken suit or not. So the marathon usually fills more hotels.

Let me start by saying that this was by far the dumbest thing I have done all season. Boomer, the liberated garden gnome, needed to cement down a travel experience so that he would have something to write home about. So, in our infinite wisdom, four of us decided to take the "difficult" approach up Mt. Marathon. The route runs along the spine of the mountain and leaves plenty of opportunity to trek through shale and scree, slide ass-first down muddy trails through alder brush, or otherwise fall ass-over-elbow down the side of a mountain. My legs started to cramp up about three quarters of the way up. They were Jello by the time we reached the summit. A few hundred feet from the summit I found myself frozen to a piece of rock with indecision and raw fear. My knees were wobbling and I was in a position where I could see no way to climb further up nor down. Then I made the fool's mistake of looking down. And while I am looking down I hear Jake yell something like, "Dude! You'd be fucked seven ways from Sunday if you slipped up here." Thanks Jake.

We couldn't climb down the mountain the same way we climbed up and I often found myself recalling the words of Patrick Hughes' when he offers More Advice For Children in his Diary Of Indignities:

"Now that you've climbed up there, it's a lot higher than it looks, isn't it? Dumbass."



We took the wrong route down the mountain and found ourselves overlooking several drop-offs that were several hundred feet. So we had no choice but to turn back and summit the mountain again. My leg cramps would only allow me to climb about 50 feet before my legs would buckle and I would be forced to my knees. It is an awful feeling when you are a few thousand feet from where you want to be.

The gnome was fearless and tireless. And now that we are in the comforts of homemade chicken soup and homebrewed Scottish ale he says that he has no regrets. Wouldn't do it again any time soon... But the gnome must roam.

Mister K to the rescue

Wednesday:

I drive the J-Dock 3/4 ton truck with massive trailer from Seward to Soldotna to pick up approximately one ton of salmon. I am asked before I leave if I "have ever driven with fish before". Of course I have not. And I am warned that if I take corners to hard the fish will slosh around and consequentially cause the trailer to slosh around which in turn will make the back of the truck slosh around, and I think you get the picture.

The directions I am given are vague. Only one turn to get from Seward to Soldotna and only about two hours of drive time. Once I am in Soldotna I am to drive through town and head toward Homer. About five miles out of town I am to look for a big red 'T' and a road called Coho Loop. About five miles down Coho loop the road truns to dirt. I am to make a left just before the road turns to dirt. And then I am to look for a sign that says "farm fresh eggs" about two miles up the road. That is my final turn that will take me to a farmhouse wher all of this salmon is waiting. Easy enough.

Nine hours later, two streets called Coho Loop, untold turns down dirt roads that turn into bike paths or bear trails, numerous failed attempts to back up this massive trailer down said roads/trails, a short walk through a chicken farm, dozens of calls to Seward with requests for MapQuest and Google Earth and I find myself at the farmhouse.

The man at the farmhouse asks me if I have ever driven with fish. And then I am told that "multitudes" of truck drivers spew salmon all over roadways because they don't know how to drive "with fish".

I make it back to Seward without incidence and am lauded as a hero.

Thursday:

Two fish cutters call in sick and one walks off the job. I should tell you that there is a pecking order at the dock that I am vaguely aware of. And "cutters" are at the top of the pecking order. Probably because it takes a few more brain cells to fillet a fish than it does to bag the fish. Or maybe just because the "cutters" have knives and the baggers don't. I arrive at 7:41am to help pack all of this "retail" salmon as it must be fully processed before the "sport-caught" fish can be processed. Because the dangers of processing salmon caught and iced down by commercial fisherman at the same time as the salmon that is caught and iced down by professional fishing guides is quite obvious and people could die. Or worse. So we have about eight hours to fillet, bag, cryovac, and package about 1600 lbs. of fish.

The lone fish cutter starts in on the load and about two hours into the day it is painfully obvious that he will never finish in time. So I ask the boss if I can somehow lend him a hand without insulting the hierarchy of fish cutter status. I am given the green light and I start cutting. We manage to finish the retail fish just in time and then we get to start with the sport caught fish that is now starting to arrive on the docks. One of the first boats to arrive has been on an overnight charter and hammers us with 542 lbs. of halibut, ling cod, salmon, and rock fish. It is by far the busiest day the dock has seen since I have been there.

After about 12 hours of cutting fish I have a tendon in my left hand that does not want to cooperate. The swelling begins. Two hours later my tendon tells me to fuck off and I am forced to stop cutting fish. We have a good head start and we have trained a new guy how to cut so I am off to run the cryovac machine - my usual job. My hand continues to ache and I start asking around for some pain medicine. I am offered aspirin and Advil but I explain that none of that will work. I am looking for something with a suffix like -dan, -din, or -set. One of the guys just had shoulder surgury and has some Percodan but it is at his house. Just when I am about to die Mister K walks in.

Mister K has the most extensive first aid kit on earth. I explain my situation and he goes to fetch it. When he returns he has a Glad-Bag full of goodies. He says, "I have Advil or I can numb it". Numb sounds good. It sounds better than "throb" anyway. I was expecting some sort of sports rub. So I was a bit surprised when he busted out the syringe and Lidocaine. After four little stabs my hand was back to normal. Numb but normal. I returned to the fish cutting station and put in another three hours or so before the Lidocaine wore off. That is when the real pain set in.

I returned to the cryovac machine but my left hand was pretty useless. One of the girls who was helping us bag fish made some snide remark like "I'm gonna laugh when you have a claw replacing your hand". I told her I would replace it with a dildo and chicks would dig me even more.

I clocked out at 3:40am. Approximately 20 hours after I started. I would assume that we butchered and processed at least 3500 pounds of fish.

Plasmodium Falsiparum

Malaria.

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.