Benadryl, take me away!
The next morning I woke up, refreshed, although the quick reflection of where I was reminded me of the past day’s events and my ongoing concern about finding a replacement brake handle for my Vespa. I made a deal with the guy at my hotel, who was headed back to Stone Town, to buy me a handle while he was there that I would then install myself. That worry behind me, I spent the morning and a better part of the afternoon enjoying the beaches that Zanzibar is famous for.
As the sun started to approach the horizon, I headed back toward home, stopping along the way in a few souvenir shops, just for a look. A lady running one of the shops noticed me scratching my arm and looked at it. “Ooh…that looks bad,” she said. I had developed a little rash, but was so darn used to it by now, I just figured it would go away. “If you go to the pharmacy, you can get a cream for it for just 5000 shillings ($3-$4).” So I decided to go. I noticed that the roof of my mouth was feeling a little strange, too…sort of like I had burnt it, although I didn’t remember such a significant burn. Maybe it was a rash…but who gets rashes on the roof of their mouth?!?
Back at the hotel I had someone walk me to the pharmacy. As soon as I walked in, I was attended to. I showed them the rash on my arm, telling them I didn’t know what it was. “Maybe from the weather,” they suggested. “No, I’ve been here a long time, and I’m used to the weather.” “Well, we’ll give you an injection and this cream.” No way was I going for another injection just for a rash on my arm; I looked at the cream, and it was something for prickly heat. “No injection…and this is not what I need.” He looked at a few more items and picked out another cream that looked more appropriate. “How much is this?” The lady quoted me something like 12,000 shillings, way more than the lady at the shop had said it would be.
“Are you giving me the mzungu (tourist) price? They told me it would be 5000 shillings.” The man-doctor told me: “You can bargain the price with her (pointing to the woman who quoted me the 12000).” “I am not going to bargain the price for medicine!” “But you are sick!” he insisted. “Look, I have rash on my arm. Big deal! I’m not going to die, and I’m surely not going to bargain for the price of medicine. That’s ridiculous!” And I left.
Ever more frustrated with the fact of life in Africa that every price is negotiable, and surely over-inflated if your skin is white, I once again surrendured myself to bed early that night. So much for the “exotic Zanzibar”…this place was becoming a nightmare. For good measure, I took two Benadryl in an effort to help the increasingly-itchy rash on my arm, the strange irritation on the roof of my mouth, and to surely knock me out hard and allow myself to forget where I was.
It was still dark when I heard a loud knock on the door. “Wha?!” KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK “Yeah? What?!” I managed to mumble out of my mouth. “Are you the girl with the motorbike?” I jumped out of bed, hoping that my brake handle had arrived, which would allow me to cruise the island a bit more the next day…or at least get out of Nungwe. I opened the door and standing in front of me was a very dark man with dreadlocks.
“Hi. Uh, sorry to wake you up. Uh, it’s my birthday and, well, everyone from the hotel is celebrating…we all left you a note and a flower before.” I looked – the flower was there, but no note. “I am from Germany, but originally from Zanzibar. Where are you from?” Chicago. “Oh. My father is from the United States, that’s why I ask.” I was so completely out of it, I stood there with my eyes closed, leaning my head against the door frame while he rambled on for what seemed like forever. “So, I’m really sorry to wake you up, but it’s my birthday, and we would all really like you to come celebrate with us.” Are you kidding me? I thought to myself…who knocks on someone’s door in the middle of the night to invite them for a drink when they’ve never met the person? Admittedly, the socialite in me considered going, but I was afraid that if I took one step outside the room I might fall on my face.
“Look, uh, Happy Birthday, but I’m sorry…I can’t go. You go have fun. I’m going to bed.” “But, it’s my birthday!” (So what!? Who are you, anyway?) “Yeah…I know. Happy Birthday. I really have to go to sleep.” I shut the door while he continued to apologize and returned to my bed. I lay there, wondering what the hell that was all about, my body all a-buzz from being jolted out of bed. Happily, the Benadryl finally won and I was back in my own little world.
Tags: Tanzania, Zanzibar, Tag Index
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