I’m not sure why, really, but this morning, as I showered, I was thinking about the three months I spent living in Kenya. Several of us went, and then scattered upon arrival to the four corners of that beautiful country.
A few spent their summer in little villages in the countryside, miles away from “civilization”. The families they stayed with still spread cow manure on the inside walls of their homes to keep the walls from drying out.
I stayed in Nairobi, the capitol of Kenya. Unlike my associates who really lived a rough existence for those 3 months, the home I lived in had two servants and I was given my own bodyguard. My “country-kin” lived with their villages head chieftain. I lived with a government official, and his family were always in danger of kidnapping and other dangers.
About two weeks after arriving in-country, I confirmed that I apparently had a death-wish. The first night in Nairobi, I started to cross a street. I looked to my left, it was clear, and I stepped out. Fortunately for me, the man behind me saw my mistake and grabbed me, pulling me back onto the sidewalk as a car came barreling past me, just inches from where I’d been standing. (Someone needs to teach those folks to drive on the right damn side of the street!)
Anyhow, two weeks into my trip, we went on a trip to Nakuru, situated in the Great Rift Valley. Nakuru is home to Lake Nakuru which is famous for it’s (real, live) pink flamingos… Thousands of these beautiful birds settle in it’s waters. The streams and rivers which feed this lake are home, too, to crocodile. And in the lowlands around the lakeshore, are swamps populated with great swarms of mosquito.
We spent a beautiful, hot sunny day wandering around, then drove into town (after chasing the monkeys off our Land Rover) for dinner.
That night, back in Nairobi, actually out in the Ngong Hills area on Nairobi’s outskirts, I began feeling rather poorly. By the middle of the night, I was waking literally every hour on the hour, and vomiting.
On Monday afternoon, the man I was staying with came home from work, and, with our bodyguards, got me loaded in the car for a trip to the hospital. During those first hours at the hospital I remember two events. The first was while we awaited the doctor. I looked out the window and saw a Kenyan Army truck pull up outside. Several prisoners were unloaded, in shackles. I turned to Erasmus and asked “What’s going on?”.
“This past weekend, a battalion or larger, of Somalis invaded the north. Our army drove them back and these are some of the prisoners.” Back then, the Somalis were constantly raiding the northern borders of Kenya.
“Were they wounded?” I asked.
“No, but the Somali are a poor people, most of those men have never seen a doctor. We’ll give them physicals to ensure they’re healthy. We are a civilized people.”
“Will they be returned, then?”
“No. They’ll stand trial, and if found guilty, they’ll be executed.” I never had a chance to find out if he was serious.
The second one was between moments of absolute delirium. I awoke to find a technician by my bed. Simon, my bodyguard was nowhere to be seen. The technician had come to take some blood for testing. He was drunk. VERY drunk. Obviously BLIND drunk because he took my arm, sighted down the needle with one eye closed, swaying, then JABBED. After seven attempts, he (by pure luck, I’m sure) managed to find a vein and drew the required blood. He put the blood on his tray, and turned to walk away.
Try an experiment. Put 7 test tubes on their side on a flat, rimless tray. Pick up the tray, turn suddenly in any direction.
Resignedly, he put the tray down, turned back to me, picked up another needle.
I screamed. Loudly. And then passed out.
Three days later I awoke. I was in a different ward. The people around me were all of European descent. The man next to me pressed his buzzer, and when the speaker by his ear mumbled he spoke two words. “He’s awake.”
Later that day, I the doctor came in to see me. His words struck terror into my still foggy brain.
“Well, young man. My name is Dr. Eric _________. You gave us a scare. Let me start by telling you that you have Malaria and are quite jaundiced, which leads me to believe you have Hepatitis.” His words faded. I remember we chatted for a while, then he left the room. A month later, I too left the room.
None of my clothes fit, anymore, I’d lost 30 pounds. I had one skill picked up from that month’s visit. I was so thirsty, I could upend a large bottle of coke and chug it in one slug. I also remember being in a park with all these little kids standing around, as some guy bought me coke after coke, and I entertained the gaggle by chugging them all. Odd.
Months later, back here in the US, I went to the doctor so that he could run tests and determine what treatment regimen I would undergo. It would be for life, he informed me. A couple of days later, he gave me the results.
“Eric, we’ve taken 3 separate blood samples from you. I’ve good news. You do NOT have Malaria, and you do NOT have hepatitis. I’ve consulted with several specialists here in the US. It seems you didn’t have Malaria, but A malaria… a fever. And you were jaundiced because you had severe food poisoning, and your liver was probably damaged. You’re going to be fine.”
He was right. It took six months, but I finally recovered. However, to this day I am a total lightweight when it comes to alcohol. One beer gives me a hangover. Two and I’m drunk as a skunk.
Do skunks drink? Do they get drunk? Is that why some folks are stinking drunks?
I remember my time in Kenya, though, not for my near death experiences (there were three more… perhaps someday I’ll mention my being chased by three of apprises more dangerous creatures, a hippo and a lion.. and a troop of baboons.)
What I remember is the absolute beauty of its people and culture. I remember the times spent with my bodyguard, and 5 other Kenyans as we made our round of the Meru area. It was when I first came to realize the vastness of our world, and the diversity of peoples, and indeed, of nature.
And that I could persevere in just about anything.
