Part of a larger work. After the death of her father, Lee Morelli, sorts through his papers to find the journal she sent him while volunteering in Africa decades ago.
Dear Dad,
Mention Africa to people in the industrialized world and what do they think of? The thoughts would probably include man – eating beasts, coup d’états, incessant heat, poverty, Apartheid and disease. Thus far in my stay on the continent I have seen no man – eating beasts, unless you count the mosquitoes, no coup d’état, no Apartheid, outside of South Africa, but plenty of heat, poverty and disease. The indigenous population is rife with exotic, tropical maladies and suffer greatly due to lack of adequate medication and facilities to deliver them. It’s local belief that parasites are normal. The noises heard the human stomach (that we call bowels sounds) are the parasites moving about. There’s only a problem when your “worms” get out of balance. There’s a running joke among the volunteers here regarding this belief. When one of us gets upset about something we say, “Now don’t go getting your worms out of balance.” In other words, chill out.
But what about the expats who have had enough shots to make them feel invulnerable to every vaccine preventable disease on the planet? What about the foreigners whose governments can speed them to the nearest “civilization” at the hint of a life – threatening condition? When illnesses are less severe these same governments have provided their employees with “approved” local medical facilities stocked with all the latest in treatments and prevention. But what happens to the poor Yalo (white European) who acquires something that makes all the wonders of modern medicine helpless? What is this obstinate malady? No, it’s not Malaria, Lassa Fever or anything with a long, unpronounceable name. It is the infamous African virus, the virus that antibiotics can’t combat. That is the number one nemesis to white-skinned wimps.
I’ll admit that it may not have the drama of Dengue fever and it probably won’t kill you, but while you have it you feel like you’d have to get better to die. I was told by our
medical officer that there are about 200 identified, pathogenic viruses in our area of Africa. That means your chances of contracting one or more varieties are excellent. Once this virus makes a home in your body, one can be flat in bed for 24 hours to several days. They can affect every part of your body; headaches so severe you can’t see straight while the army is marching through your temples; a bowel and stomach which eliminates anything and everything that enters it; cough, fever, sinus impaction and a multitude of other equally painful miseries.
Since having diarrhea and vomiting at the same time was fairly common for me, I arranged an empty, dry milk can by the toilet for just such a contingency. If a wave of nausea rattled me while I was on the pot with the runs, the “vomit bucket” would be handy. My friends who would visit frequently from up country were aware of the device and had to utilize it more times than they’d care to remember. I was proud that I always had a “vomit bucket” for my friends.
My first experience with the infamous African virus was when I was in training. It seemed to invade me the minute I set foot on the dark continent. This version of the disease involved only diarrhea attacking every two hours for ten days straight keeping me awake through the night. The attacks would often be accompanied by stomach cramps so severe that their cessation left me feeling as though I had done 500 sit-ups. The medical officer had me do stool specimen after stool specimen trying to find some sort of parasite. None were discovered. The lack of any parasites or their eggs led us to the conclusion that it was one of the ubiquitous viruses and thus without cure. All I could do was ride out the intestinal storm and keep myself hydrated.
The thought of eating wasn’t very pleasant because I knew the fast fate of anything that went into my mouth. I put myself on a bland diet of milk, bread and bananas in small quantities. This worked pretty well and I could return to my room after a meal without making a side trip to the latrine. Final1y, the attacks began to space themselves farther apart and then disappear. What a relief! I s1owly went back to a normal volume
of food and did pretty well until I got to Gombazi where I had another six days of the stuff though less severe.
The next viral plague to hit me was six months later. I woke up one morning not feeling quite right. As the day wore on I felt more and more fatigued. I felt drugged with some exotic sleeping potion. Once I reached the point where standing was difficult, I took to bed. Then the waves of nausea started and off I flew to the washroom ridding myself of what little I had consumed and a good deal of bodily fluids. Shortly after this, my body was invaded by muscle cramps and aches. It made no difference whether I was still or shifted around in bed no position was comfortable. I ached from my head to my shoulders through my back, arms and piercing my thighs and calves. I felt as though I were a sponge and some giant were squeezing the life out of me.
When an empty stomach stopped the vomiting, I was able to take some aspirin. This reduced the aches to where sleeping was possible. I revived sixteen hours later and
felt remarkably better. Within two days I was pretty much back to normal strength with no desire for a similar experience. Considering what I had suffered for those interminable 24
hours I assumed I had done penance for whatever sin I had committed and would not be forced to endure another viral visit. This was not the case.
After I had succumbed and survived several bouts of bacterial food poisoning (“vomit bucket” again) and amoebic dysentery, my immune system once more surrendered to the villainous virus. Not only did I endure simultaneous evacuation of the stomach
and bowel but I had much difficulty getting to the evacuation site. Each time I stood up from my bed, I’d black out and find myself on the floor. I soon learned to crawl to the
toilet keeping my head lowered so the blood would stay in it. I was losing a lot of fluid and each time I tried to replace it with my government issued Gatorade, I’d throw it back up.
Nothing would stay down. This was one time I really missed not having a phone. It was Sunday, so no one was working in the office part of my house. The company watchman was at the front gate and I had no way of getting to him unless I crawled all the way across the compound.
This was a time in my young life that I realized the fragility of my existence. Even through the pain and fog in my head I was aware that I needed bodily fluids and, if I didn’t get some soon, I would be in big trouble. I kept drinking Gatorade hoping I could hold enough down to stay alive. Slowly the vomiting began to subside and I could retain more of what I drank. A steady rejuvenation convinced me that I wasn’t going to die after all. Three liters of Gatorade later I was able to stand erect without the floor rising to meet me. Cautiously I nibbled my old friends, bread and bananas. Ten hours from the start of my miseries, I was able to relax enough to sleep.
By Monday I felt able to visit the medical office and restock my Gatorade.
The State Department doctor came through while I was there so I went to him complaining of my bodily disintegration. I felt that I was falling apart and could do nothing about it. He consoled me and said that non-Africans just don’t do well in these climes. We don’t have the immunity to the everyday diseases that the locals do. I would just have to lower my standards of health. From then on, I stopped expecting to feel good. I was never going to be
healthy only less sick. I had endured 3 invasions of the African virus. Only 197 to go.
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