Teacher on Two Wheels

Above:  I couldn’t take a picture of malaria, so instead, here’s a picture of a boy who, judging by his smile, doesn’t have malaria.  One of the most common illnesses treated at the clinic where this photo was snapped, however, is malaria.

Sunday 5/3/09   Gulu, Uganda

The morning started out fine.  By lunch, I felt myself dying.  I told my co-workers that, should I die from whatever was ailing me, they could have my most valuable possessions.  James?  My bike.  Cass?  My old yellow shirt.

When I got off the motorcycle taxi in front of the health clinic, I almost fell over.  My head was pounding.  My spine felt like it was filled with magma.  I was so achy my hair hurt.

A quick pin prick and 20 minutes later, the doctor confirmed it:  I had malaria.

*****

Outside malaria zones, malaria is known as a monster with 27 heads, an appetite for fresh baby’s blood, and a fondness for eyeball stew.  Inside malaria zones, however, it’s an illness that, although stronger than many other types of sickness, lacks mythical notoriety.  Here in Uganda people get malaria all the time.  It’s true that it can kill children and the eldery, but nearly every adult I’ve met has had it one or two (or 20) times.  One co-worker of mine gets it three or four times a year.  Malaria, for him, is like an annoying cold that comes on at the start of fall or winter.  Another co-worker gets it once every 10 years.

Yesterday one co-worker kindly explained why I got malaria after two short months in Uganda, while other people get it once every decade.

“You’re white,” he said.  “Mosquitoes like white people.”

“I never heard that!” I said, laughing.

“It’s true.  If we have a crowd of people sitting around at night, the mosquitoes will always find the mono.  They can smell you, I guess.  Maybe your blood tastes better.  I don’t know.  You people should start wearing black clothes to cover that skin!  Or paint yourselves black!”

*****

For two days I sweat and shivered my way deep into the recesses of malaria misery.  One hour would find me zipped up in my mummy bag with teeth chattering so hard I feared they’d chip; the next I’d be naked in bed in a pool of my own sweat.  Back and forth, back and forth.  The fever broke after two days of taking medicine, but still, five days later, I’m not totally right.  My head still hurts.  I feel out of sorts.  The thought of working up a sweat on a bicycle riding a single mile (much less 60 or 70) seems totally absurd and downright masochistic.  For someone without access to water (I drank 20 cups or so a day while sick) or medicine, I can see how the disease can be deadly.  In Africa, malaria’s Mecca thanks to a mixing of factors that create prime conditions for it, children most often succumb to the illness.  One co-worker spoke about malaria as if it was Death itself when we bumped into each other at the clinic:  “Malaria came for my life when I was a child.”

*****

Under the shade of a wide tree, 15 of us sat and ate.  I told Eric, a Ugandan and chronic sufferer of malaria, that I just came down with the M-word.

He smiled that big toothy smile of his and extended his hand.

“Welcome to Africa, buddy!”