New Chapter: November Rains
My ankle is my Achilles’ heal. I scratch it with pleasure sinking my nails into the inflamed patch of flesh that is the source of my irritation. Why the back of my ankles? Is this cherry chocolate cheesecake territory for mosquitoes? After one week in the country, I made a conscious decision to stop taking my malaria medication. The medication- Malarone- caused blisters in my mouth and an upset stomach most of the time even when I took the pill before bed. After making the decision to live a drug-free life, I experienced a few moments of terror when I imagined the worse. Each mosquito bite that appeared on my elbow or lower leg became the one that unleashed the infectious disease into my bloodstream pumping eventual fever and bone crushing pain from my liver and red blood cells onward.
I have never been a person who falls sick easily. Ills that affect others on first exposure wilt when they meet my immune system’s security guards. But the fact is, I could be infected with this dormant parasite waiting patiently until a moment of weakness descends upon my army of immunity. This is a risk I am willing to take, but I talked to a fellow book club member recently whose brother nearly died of cerebral malaria. I know from living in Kenya that this strain of the parasite is no laughing matter. The student told me that she spent her days running from pharmacy to pharmacy in Brazzaville trying to find the medication that her brother needed for his survival. The doctor pronounced him to be a lost cause, but she refused to release his life into the greedy hands of the afterlife. Slowly, slowly he began to emerge from a foggy coma, resurrected from death by a sister’s persistence and faith.
Now that rainy season entered stage left like a villain in a silent movie- overdramatic and black- mosquito larvae incubate and hatch wriggling in millions of stagnant pools pocketing the city. Who will care for me if my fever spikes to a deadly number? Once again, I will have no control over my life if and when delirium descends.
Yesterday was a hot- like sticking my face 20 centimeters from a preheated oven door- and only getting hotter. I soaked through my clothes at least five times, maybe as many as seven or eight, but I stopped counting after five. Soaking through my clothes is a bit like wetting my pants. I’m standing in front of coworkers and friends with patches of perspiration all over my body experiencing a bra full of moisture. And, my jogging bra often doesn’t dry out, remaining damp for the remainder of the day. There’s nothing I can do about my less than crisp appearance because my body is a fountain celebrating the season of rain, sun, and humidity.
All through the night, the rainy season dumped relief on sweaty people tangled in their sheets in the form of wind and rain- and more rain and wind. I woke at 5:45 this morning to waving banana leaves and the drone of drops propelled through the air by the force of the new month: November. I could only speculate on what the weather was doing to the Internet service across the city including the embassy’s computers. Would I find havoc and lethargy online when I returned to work on Tuesday? Booting up my own personal computer and trying to initiate a connection led to this message: “This computer was unable to join the Airport Network you selected.” No surprise there. Rain nurtures new vegetation and cripples Internet connections and speed in Brazzaville. No sign of stopping.
I have yet to find a permanent place to land. I plan to move into a small apartment in the city center on Wednesday, but until then, I am living in a room with an attached bathroom and access to a community kitchen. For some reason, my room is connected to a city power line that is not providing me with utilities, while my neighbors’ lights shine brightly on. I can only hope that morning will bring electricity to my dwelling as well, but like so many other things in this country, the outcome of light or dark is out of my hands. Understanding the Congolese electricity grid would be an overwhelming challenge for a trained professional, let alone an English Language Fellow from Iowa. I worry that trained professionals are not in charge of the dysfunctional grid because so much hiring here is based on nepotism and personal relationships-not actual knowledge of electricity- but as I said before, this is out of my hands. There are benefits of not having electricity, but I still want its unceasing presence. When there is no electricity, the intensity to produce, create, appear efficient is diminished, and I can fully relax into the moment. I find my self-awareness increases because I can hear my inner voice explaining what it needs to maintain a vibrant equilibrium. Life slows down and I can relax into the here and now. This condition of calm, balanced inefficiency; however, is alien and scorned by American culture- therefore, my American self looks at the inept fluorescent light stick longingly.
Reading on a Sunday
From the NYT Book Review, “They Did What?” - Oct. 26, 2010
“Scandal loves your appetites,” she writes, “all of them, the more voracious the better.” In this book, the competing drives that result in scandal don’t live in some neuro-chemical haze; they’re corporal… “fermenting in every social being’s gut”; all of us fall prey to self-destructive desires that are “deviously tunneling for freedom.”
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