Getting sick in Africa.

(from the back of my journal where I write immediate thoughts)

I don't understand why travel books dedicate so little time to being sick on the road. Although it's not a frequent occurrence, it dominates all thought during its course. There is no better way to grind your legs to a halt and kick your mind into emotional overdrive then getting sick 10,000 miles from home. It's not like getting sick at home and definitely not if that home is in the U.S. I would take a sick day in the U.S. over a healthy day in the third world. One thing about being sick with nothing but a backpack and an attendant that wakes you up to empty the trash, is you realize how sick you really are. Back home I hole up on my bed, occasionally stumbling to the toilet. My food is usually within arms length as are my remote and a few things to read. Existence requires little energy and spirits stay afloat... Here I have nothing. The bathroom requires putting on my shoes, grabbing my soap and walking 20 meters after locking my door. It's a bit more personal so washing is a bit more necessary. This is tiring, but it gets worse. Three times a day I have to eat. I managed bread and yogurt in the morning which I bought downstairs, but for the remainder of the day I couldn't bare the thought. Instead of arms length I have to suit up, shoes, jacket, money belt and head down the street to the nearest restaurant. By the time I get back I have to rest before I have the energy to take off my shoes. Out of survival your body will give you just enough to get therem but once the door is bolted I pay the price. After an hour of silent moaning I'm back in bed with my shoes off and reading pages I should have memorized by now. Sometimes the seconds go by slowly. Sometimes I find myself starring at the wall playing out conversations in my head. Sometimes I fidgit with my watch and a small lock, items which have managed to substitute for toys. Sometimes the hours go by especially when I'm dreading the next meal. Dining is available during short windows of time so procrastination is not an option.

I wonder why the travel books don't offer advice. I've found the most trying part of each day is maintaining hope. Granted it's impossible to find at the bottom, recovery is the bulk of the illness and hope an important factor. At home it's easy to come by. It comes from friends stopping by, from distractions, from phone calls, from the comfort of home. Hope is rare here and if I don't actively search I won't find it. Sometimes I read through the guide about fancy hotels and dream of going there for a weekend. Lately I've been reading a phrasebook for Polish with anecdotes dispersed throughout. Hope is in potent form on the internet, but it's more draining then eating and I found my attention span very short.

My mom says that when shit happens we have to learn what we can from it. I'm trying, but I'd much rather tell fate, 'Hey, I get it,' and skip this part of the lesson plan.

(end of entry)

After Fez I headed down toward Marrakech very slowly and comfortably. The first day I went to Khenifra, then to Beni Mellal, and on the third I spent the day soaking up the mist at Morroco's grandest waterfall. The fourth day I head to the nearby town of Azilal and missed the bus to Marrakech. That night I got Traveller's Diarrhea. I spent three days in bed until I had the strength to get to Marrakech.

I have to address two issues here, sickness and recovery. Sickness is an unfortunate part of travel. Part of the reason why I believe this country is classified as third world is its deplorable sanitary conditions. Only in Marrakech have I seen signs educating people about washing there hands and how to keep meat from spoiling. Even in Fez I found people defacating in the streets. Sneezes are not covered. Noses are blown by hand. The main culprit is that in bathrooms, wiping is done by hand and soap is never available. Poor hygiene is fairly universal and the folks that prepare food are no exception. I've been served spoiled meat. I found a piece of yarn in a loaf of bread. The guide books say stew and tea are fine but I don't trust that anymore. In the country, shopping is done once a week, and if you show up the day before you can guess how long the meat has been sitting around. I don't care how long it gets cooked I don't trust it. Sure tea is boiled, but it's also poured out of a dirty teapot. The outsides may be sparkling, but customarily the insides are NEVER washed. The bad news is that there is no escape from nasties. The good news is that I only got sick when I was in villages, where the hygiene is the worst, and my immune system is at it's lowest because of cold nights in mud houses. But still, if I came back again I would pump up on vitamins, take it slowly, and keep my immune system maxed out because sickness is sadly inevitable given enough time (sorry Lorraine, I wish I was more optimistic).

The second issue is recovery and how not to do it. I holed up in bed for three days, often with a dark blanket over my head blocking out the sun. I had NOTHING to do so I slept and I slept and I slept for three days. When I got into Marrakech I basically had jet lag. My body rhythms were all off and my energy came and went. After a few days of resisting the urge to sleep and dealing with a gassy belly I was eventually back up to speed, but because of my poor recovery habits, I spent an entire week miserable and I won't get it back either.