"Africa: Shake Rattle and Roll "
The convulsions started at about six. I crawled into my sleeping bag, curled into a fetal position and began to shake uncontrollably.
My friend Jeff gave me some terrific advice several years ago, right before my trip to Peru - my first trip overseas. Jeff had spent half a year bouncing around South America in his youth and thus had plenty of third world travel experience. He said to me, "Jim, if you travel in the third world, one day you are going to get violently ill. You won't know when, you won’t know where. But you will get sick, usually so sick you're gonna want to die. So just accept it and be ready for it."
Jeff was right.
I had been taking Pepto Bismol tablets as a preventative measure against travel illness throughout my stay in Africa. I had been doing pretty well, too. I made it up Kilimanjaro without so much as a burp. I handled three days in the Serengeti and digested Moses' stewed potatoes and grease bread. I even survived the deep fried veggie mush-burger, an extra spicy slice of pizza and several banana milkshake at Arusha's only fast food joint, McMoodys.
But a bad ass little bacterium caught up with me at Ngorongoro. By the time we returned from our safari, I felt positively crappy. And when the sun set and the temperature began to drop, I went from crappy to miserable real, REAL quick. I choked down only some papaya and rice for dinner and hastily retreated to the tent.
But when I started to shake I knew I was in for a helluva night.
If you think being violently ill at home sucks, you should try it while camping - especially camping on another continent. But I came prepared. Before settling into my sleeping bag, I broke into my treasure chest of medicine, a complete collection of everything and anything I might possibly need, from Moleskin to Motrin and a collection of prescription meds to make any hypochondriac proud. I shakily selected the crown jewel in this fortune of pharmaceuticals: My bottle of Cyproflaxin, a particularly potent antibiotic, all but guaranteed to kick the microscopic asses of those infuriating bacteria. I made a toast to my good doctor and the rewards of western medicine and began my week's worth of pill popping.
A strong as the Cypro is, I still had to get through the night. Racked by chills that seemed to start from the center of my spine, I shook like my earlobes were connected to jumper cables. I was vibrating like some supercharged sex toy from hell. And dammit, I wasn't having any fun.
Meredith just lay there reading, wondering if I was going into shake off a limb or rupture my spleen. She had already suffered through her bout with bacteria while in Nepal a month before. Her boy Steven succumbed while they were in Thailand. Now it was my turn.
Thomas popped his head in and asked me if there was anything he could get me. Although morphine sounded real attractive right then, I resisted the urge to make that request.
"S-s-s-s-s-o-d-d-a, p-p-p-p-l-ease."
Thomas left to go find me a soda in the middle of Tanzania. But believe it or not, that's not that hard to do. About thirty minutes later I was sipping a Sprite - when I wasn't convulsing like a Parkinson's patient in an electric chair.
I kept the door of the tent open in case I needed to make a rapid exit in order to vomit, but I was so weak, I didn't know if that would help.
I' m not sure exactly when, but sometime after ten, I just blacked out. Basically, I shook myself unconscious.
I woke up early in the morning, feeling reasonably human again, and I thanked the filthy rich pharmaceutical firms who make billions off drugs like Cyproflaxin. They can have as much of my money as they want. I got up and took a few Ibuprofen tabs to ease my now terribly sore muscles. Shaking violently for four solid hours results in one hell of a workout.
Considering those recent events, we decided not to take a second tour of the crater and left for the long, rough trip back to Arusha. I felt pretty good (all things considered), and at least I wasn't convulsing anymore. I even had enough of an appetite for a breakfast of toast, bananas and a passion fruit Fanta - my beverage of choice while in Tanzania.
However, as rough as that road felt the first time, after a night like mine, it now seemed I was riding a jackhammer back into Arusha. Every bump, every rut, every hole had me praying for pavement. I almost cried for joy when we finally pulled off the dirt and onto the road that led to Arusha. Even Meredith let out a sigh of relief. After six days of rough four-wheel drive travel, we were having hallucinations of blacktop.
I was thrilled to be back in civilization. Arusha certainly isn't the most beautiful city in the world, and the AAH boarding house will never be mistaken for the Ritz, but to my sleep deprived and drug altered mind, it all just looked a lot like heaven.
