Losing the plot
I woke up in the doorstep of a room. Not mine, there was no sign of the rucksack, but my bag was next to me. It was dark and quiet. Cursing my stupidity, I crawled under the mosquito net and went back to sleep.
In the morning I crept out for water and salted nuts and returned sheepishly to recover before facing my hosts. However, water and salt did not do the trick this time. Almost immediately, I was violently sick. I have never before been unable to hold down water. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I started to shake all over my body. There was serious trouble afoot.
The day passed in a blurry haze, interspersed with blackouts. Daylight melted into dreams. I blinked: a curtain fluttered in the breeze. Whenever I have fever dreams there is always a curtain fluttering in the room I happen to wake up in. What a cliché!
The shaking and fever abated towards the evening, but I failed to hold down water. I was in trouble. The chalk tablets I carried in my bag were no use in settling my stomach. I needed help but by now I was too weak to care.
They came soon after dark. When I moaned in the glare of the light, they left and returned soon after with a torch. One of them, the owner as it turned out, crouched down next to me and talked softly: “Madam, you need medicine. You have eaten or drunk nothing.”
“I’m OK,” I lied: “I’m getting better!”
He persisted: “No madam, you see if you are sick it creates a problem for us also!”
I cursed inwardly. I saw, but the trouble was I could no longer trust myself to stand, let alone walk. Leaning heavily on my host, I was let from the room. Just out of the door, I slumped from his grip. The world tuned out.
…
Sensation returned gradually. Something was dribbling onto my lips. Lime juice. I concentrated on the taste, sucking it in with every cell. It drew me back into conciousness. Somebody was rubbing it into my gums. Another person seemed to be doing something to my hair. Most bizzarely, someone else appeared to be oiling my feet.
I opened my eyes and regretted it.
“Relax”, the host said soothingly and for a blissful moment I lay absolutely still. Whoever it was who had been massaging my feet resumed; it was a sensuous feeling which slowly brought me round. Much too soon, some liquid was forced down my throat.
“Drink!” the host urged impatiently: “– it’s just coconut juice and lime!”
I swallowed and to my surprise it seemed to go down OK. Not that it did much good. I fainted again. My body must have figured that I was safe, so it was OK to let go. The last thing I heard was a half-bitten curse.
When I came round the guys asked whether I needed to be taken to hospital. Images flashed through my mind. Emergency wards and police cells. Visions from not long ago. No. I certainly did not want that — this time, these images were the dream and the tropical beach was the reality, and these people really wanted to help.
Groggily, I sat up. Eventually, my saviours managed to half-walk, half-drag me to a bathroom where the owner sent the others outside, maneuvred me under the shower and turned it on. I gasped and spluttered. Undeterred, he poured bucket after bucket of water over me until the fog lifted and the world came back into focus. He carried on. I stood shivering, patiently awaiting each deluge, until he finally seemed satisfied. He rubbed down my trembling limbs and broke into a wide grin: “Good medicine, no?” He presented me with the glass of coconut juice.
I took it meekly and gave him a weak smile: “Excellent … medicine.”
It struck me that the owner appeared to be quite an old hand at reviving people.
After a few minutes, I could walk almost unassisted. My host’s smile grew broader. “Madam is better!” he beamed. I couldn’t help thinking uncharitably that he sounded just like Dobby the house-elf, but he had a completely disarming charm. He led me back to my room, the original room with my backpack and belongings all neatly arranged. When I picked up the waterbottle he shook his head. “Don’t drink that, madam, not today!” Evidently, he knew a thing or two.
He told me to change “But don’t go to sleep, madam, come back outside!” To emphasise his point, he knocked on the door at intervals so I hurried to get back outside and followed the guys to the restaurant where a hot vegetable soup was waiting, along with more coconut juice. As I sat down, the host massaged my shaking shoulders. An old man sitting on a bench offered me a beedee with an encouraging grin. I accepted it gratefully.
It was then that I saw the tick. It was wedged into the skin between the ringfinger and little finger of my right hand. Not one of the tiny specimens we had seen crawling up the wall after hosing down Gamini, this was the real thing, the size of my little fingernail, wedge-shaped, dug straight into the skin, legs protruding and with an evil pattern on its carapace which made it look like something out of a heavy-metal nightmare. And I could feel it.
“Ohmygod…” I wimpered, my eyes as wide as saucers. If I had not been in a semi-befuddled state, I would have freaked out completely. To their credit, the guys looked shocked, although I was clearly making a mountain of a molehill, it couldn’t have been something they hadn’t seen plenty of times before. But I had not.
“Gross! GROSS!” I squealed, squirming away from the thing, trying to put as much distance between myself and my own right hand as possible. The host went and came back with a pair of tongs with which he grabbed the tick and proceeded to pull. It didn’t budge.
“NO!” I shrieked, nearly hysterical: “Don’t! It will come apart!” I was thinking quickly: “Get some salt!”
Salt was duly produced – and had absolutely no effect when I caked it in a thick paste around the tick. I remembered that this was meant to work on leeches, along with burning cigarette ends, neither of which were feasible options in the present situation. Ticks will drop off when covered in vaseline or oil as they can’t breathe, but a thing this size would have no shortage of breathing pores along its body and I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. It felt as if I’d grown another nail.
Suddenly, the host grabbed my hand and lunged with the tongs. Before I could pull away, he had squashed the tick with a sickening crunch.
“It’s OK!” he shouted: “I have already taken its life!”
I closed my eyes as he pulled it out. Naturally, the mouthparts came off. I’m writing this a month later and I am still carrying the mark. But I didn’t care, I was relieved to be rid of the thing. Because of the salt, the bite hurt like buggery, but moments later somebody had produced some tamarind from the kitchen and rubbed it on. To my surprise, the pain eased almost at once.
The host walked off with his trophy and deposited the tick on the wall which separated the restaurant from the beach. The others formed an admiring semicircle around it. I did not want to see, but apparently it was an impressive specimen of the sort found on buffalos and elephants. The general consensus was that it must have been carried from the bush by a stray dog.
Gradually, I calmed down. In an effort to get me to relax, one of the younger guys brought a large metal bowl filled with wood coated in coconut oil. He proceeded to light a fire at my feet. All the attention was getting a bit embarrasing but I guess I had compensated by providing the entertainment for the evening.
The host urged me on to eat and, seeing that I was still shaking badly, called for some cigarettes and a measure of arrack to be brought over.
“When your body is like this,” he explained: “it will help to bring it back under control.”
An old hand indeed.
He broke into a renewed grin.
“Smoke! Eat! Drink! Life is good, no?” then he frowned and continued sternly: “but this is your first and last glass of arrack today!”
I nodded meekly, explaining that I had gone completely crazy and he grinned again. But I did not notice it at first. A cloud of shame had descended over me. I grew quiet.
“Madam, don’t think” he implored: “thinking does not make it better. Don’t worry, all is good. OK?”
I nodded.
“But why were you so very tired? Have you taken pills?” A note of alarm crept into his voice, a bit belated I thought.
“God no!” I said quickly: “Just my malaria pills. I mean just two. Like every day!”
“Ah, malaria pills.” He nodded: “they can make you tired!”
The guys tried to coax me to finish all the juice and the vegetables, but when it became clear that I couldn’t keep my eyes open, the owner guided me back to my room. He came in after me with a bottle of coconut oil and told me to lie on my front. I was alarmed when he unfastened my bra-straps, but he proceeded to massage me with professional detachment, telling me to turn over half way through. While I was glowering at him from my pathetic position, he worked my arms until they flopped limply by my side. Then he bade me goodnight and switched off the light. The shaking had ceased.
Tags: The Whales of Trincomalee, Tag Index
Denni