Friday 9 December 2011
Tuesday 6 December 2011
Day of rest?
I have just spent the last 15 minutes locked in a cab on the side of a highway.
One of the perks of working at a Daily Newspaper is that you get to come in on a Sunday. Yes, I was positively joyful when I heard the news. Nevertheless, dressed in my day of rest best, I waited at the usual designated place in order to catch my shuttle to the office. Unfortunately, on a weekend, there ain't one. It's just they forgot to tell me. Which how I ended up horrendously lost, getting out of a bus in the area from which the term "middle of nowhere" was almost certainly derived, and getting into a taxi navigated by Lucifer himself.
Thus followed a nail-biting ride where on more than one occasion I had to swallow a mouthful of vomit in order to avoid sicking-up across his leathery interiors. Swerving between lorries, cars and taxis - all driven by people who had also been educated at the same school of "How to not slow down when driving. Ever. Even if it means certain and fiery death" - we slammed to a halt outside media HQ.
15 Liras the meter brazenly declared.
15 Liras is the price of travelling from the center of Istanbul to the airport. Our total journey time could have been calculated in nano seconds. I could tell he knew the price he was asking for was a ridiculous one, chuckling away to himself, shaking his head as if even he couldn't believe that he was daring to push it to quite this degree.
With situation rapidly losing its charm, I handed over 5 Liras: The actual fee. He locked all the doors.
At this point, my patience finally packed up and left the building. It's Sunday! Bloody Sunday! I started banging on the window as, in our respective languages, we proceeded to shout at each other for at least twice the period of time spent in transit. I suppose, in a perverted sense, just in terms of time spent inside the vehicle, I got my money's worth.
Eventually I gave in and handed over the cash before emerging, defeated, from his chariot of despair.
As he screeched away in a cloud of dust and ill-gotten pirate gains, I'm sure I heard the sounds of demonic laughter drifting back through the morning smog.
Nevertheless, and despite a less than perfect morning, as I embark on week three of "Project Turkey" on the whole I am feeling slightly brighter about the whole operation.
Dancing has been had, sites have been seen and friends are starting to trickle in. Yesterday afternoon was spent sipping traditional Sahlep on one of the city's many glorious terraces in Sultahnamet, an area of the city which is home to the biggest names of "old stuff to see in the Istanbul," including Topkapi palace and the beautiful Highia Sophia.*
From where we sat, wrapped in blankets watching the sun setting on the sea beyond the minarets, the call to prayer from the surrounding mosques filled the evening air.
And then I got it, the sensation which for me, and perhaps every traveller and would-be explorer, is the holy grail; the chill of excitement which only be achieved when you are far away from home, and comes from a sudden goose-pimpling realisation of possibility, of future unknown and adventure...
*It is also where, last week, a Libyan man calmly bought himself a couple of guns and decided to go on a shooting spree. As a result, foreigners will no longer be able to buy a deer hunting rifle over the counter when they come to visit on a tourist visa. EVEN IF they have a photocopy of the passport. Sorry about that. I know this will come as huge blow to many prospective visitors, my granny specifically.
One of the perks of working at a Daily Newspaper is that you get to come in on a Sunday. Yes, I was positively joyful when I heard the news. Nevertheless, dressed in my day of rest best, I waited at the usual designated place in order to catch my shuttle to the office. Unfortunately, on a weekend, there ain't one. It's just they forgot to tell me. Which how I ended up horrendously lost, getting out of a bus in the area from which the term "middle of nowhere" was almost certainly derived, and getting into a taxi navigated by Lucifer himself.
Thus followed a nail-biting ride where on more than one occasion I had to swallow a mouthful of vomit in order to avoid sicking-up across his leathery interiors. Swerving between lorries, cars and taxis - all driven by people who had also been educated at the same school of "How to not slow down when driving. Ever. Even if it means certain and fiery death" - we slammed to a halt outside media HQ.
15 Liras the meter brazenly declared.
15 Liras is the price of travelling from the center of Istanbul to the airport. Our total journey time could have been calculated in nano seconds. I could tell he knew the price he was asking for was a ridiculous one, chuckling away to himself, shaking his head as if even he couldn't believe that he was daring to push it to quite this degree.
With situation rapidly losing its charm, I handed over 5 Liras: The actual fee. He locked all the doors.
At this point, my patience finally packed up and left the building. It's Sunday! Bloody Sunday! I started banging on the window as, in our respective languages, we proceeded to shout at each other for at least twice the period of time spent in transit. I suppose, in a perverted sense, just in terms of time spent inside the vehicle, I got my money's worth.
Eventually I gave in and handed over the cash before emerging, defeated, from his chariot of despair.
As he screeched away in a cloud of dust and ill-gotten pirate gains, I'm sure I heard the sounds of demonic laughter drifting back through the morning smog.
Nevertheless, and despite a less than perfect morning, as I embark on week three of "Project Turkey" on the whole I am feeling slightly brighter about the whole operation.
Dancing has been had, sites have been seen and friends are starting to trickle in. Yesterday afternoon was spent sipping traditional Sahlep on one of the city's many glorious terraces in Sultahnamet, an area of the city which is home to the biggest names of "old stuff to see in the Istanbul," including Topkapi palace and the beautiful Highia Sophia.*
From where we sat, wrapped in blankets watching the sun setting on the sea beyond the minarets, the call to prayer from the surrounding mosques filled the evening air.
And then I got it, the sensation which for me, and perhaps every traveller and would-be explorer, is the holy grail; the chill of excitement which only be achieved when you are far away from home, and comes from a sudden goose-pimpling realisation of possibility, of future unknown and adventure...
*It is also where, last week, a Libyan man calmly bought himself a couple of guns and decided to go on a shooting spree. As a result, foreigners will no longer be able to buy a deer hunting rifle over the counter when they come to visit on a tourist visa. EVEN IF they have a photocopy of the passport. Sorry about that. I know this will come as huge blow to many prospective visitors, my granny specifically.
Welcome to Turkey-land
The general consensus is that Istanbul is amazing. "What? Wait. You're going to Istanbul? OH. MY. GOD. I am so freaking JEAL-OUS!''. You almost just have to whisper the word ''Constantinople'' in a room for people to start spontaneously orgasming all over the shop.
Presumably it is fairly un-PC to say, therefore, that for the moment at least, I'm not the biggest fan. I'm not sure quite what I was expecting, but I think it involved a few more turrets, more old men with no teeth sitting on carpets and rather less being cold.
There are some gems I've seen so far, indeed, and I fully expect -- and hope -- to look back on this post in a month's time and shake my head in shame at this naive version of myself. For the moment, however, I have decided to give myself a little bit of space to be a moaning and disillusioned Brit.
I moved here from London just over a week ago to work for an English-speaking daily newspaper here, based in the ''Media Towers'' located about 45 minutes into the city's boomburb. The publication has a large staff based between here and the capital city, Ankara, with a small number from the U.S. or the U.K. The best thing about the office so far, apart from the stunning view of some large industrial cranes and the airport, is the free gym.
On first impressions, it looked like a perfectly respectable example of a workplace fitness facility. Upon closer inspection, however, this stuff could have come out of the Ark. As I attempted to rev the treadmill -- last used by Noah himself -- into some semblance of life, an elderly man materialized behind me, hailing from roughly the same era.
From his rather frantic gestures, I gathered that he was keen to show me round. This quickly turned into him putting me through one of the most grueling workouts I have ever had. It is remarkable how much pointing and shouting will drive you into pushing yourself to extent that you emerge, an hour-and-a-half later, with your spine partially dislocated, limbs incapable of anything but the most basic of movements and a sense of absolute accomplishment.
At least if Istanbul doesn't win my heart I'll leave with a smashing six pack (and potentially an ancient Armenian body-builder).
Presumably it is fairly un-PC to say, therefore, that for the moment at least, I'm not the biggest fan. I'm not sure quite what I was expecting, but I think it involved a few more turrets, more old men with no teeth sitting on carpets and rather less being cold.
There are some gems I've seen so far, indeed, and I fully expect -- and hope -- to look back on this post in a month's time and shake my head in shame at this naive version of myself. For the moment, however, I have decided to give myself a little bit of space to be a moaning and disillusioned Brit.
I moved here from London just over a week ago to work for an English-speaking daily newspaper here, based in the ''Media Towers'' located about 45 minutes into the city's boomburb. The publication has a large staff based between here and the capital city, Ankara, with a small number from the U.S. or the U.K. The best thing about the office so far, apart from the stunning view of some large industrial cranes and the airport, is the free gym.
On first impressions, it looked like a perfectly respectable example of a workplace fitness facility. Upon closer inspection, however, this stuff could have come out of the Ark. As I attempted to rev the treadmill -- last used by Noah himself -- into some semblance of life, an elderly man materialized behind me, hailing from roughly the same era.
From his rather frantic gestures, I gathered that he was keen to show me round. This quickly turned into him putting me through one of the most grueling workouts I have ever had. It is remarkable how much pointing and shouting will drive you into pushing yourself to extent that you emerge, an hour-and-a-half later, with your spine partially dislocated, limbs incapable of anything but the most basic of movements and a sense of absolute accomplishment.
At least if Istanbul doesn't win my heart I'll leave with a smashing six pack (and potentially an ancient Armenian body-builder).
Thursday 25 August 2011
I'm with stupid
I've gone thick.
No, as in seriously, I am actually extremely stupid these days.
I used to know at least a bit about music, art and books. Now, I have a playlist on my computer shamefully entitled ''top evangelical hits'' and, when I recently participated in a pub quiz, I contributed one answer. ONE. Which actually really shouldn't count as it was in response to a question pertaining to a Disney cartoon about a wizard.
Sure, I was never going to be the next Philip Emeagwali, and it's always been the case that I have been somewhat lacking in the Mathematical department but, in the past that's always been sort of ok: 'Ah, yes, well you see, I'm more a conceptual thinker, me. Creative. Bigger picture stuff you know?' etc... Doesn't sound too bad when you position it like that. A bit shoddy on the old linear-thought side, but with a reasonable noggin capable of a rollicking debate when necessary. What's more, I could pull a Sylvia Plath quote out of my arse at the drop of a hat and talking about Pinter semi-turned me on.
SO WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED.
Because something sure as hell has. And, whatever the reason for this progressive retardation, today marks the beginning of a much needed intervention; the turning point positioned to avert a depressing slide into premature senility.
Some of the accumulated brain goop can probably be attributed to having spent two years working to propagate widespread intellectual despair as a minion of the Public Relations Sector, churning out sordid celebrity tat at a rate of knots as, meanwhile, ability to communicate with any sense of gravitas gradually but almost palpably seeped through my fingertips into the keyboard with the dissemination of each tawdry press release.
At a push, I could try and align culpability with my having spent the past year and a half trying to be a real-life Chapina of the Guatemala streets, getting down wiv da kids from da dump n that. Or, more simply, just drinking too much straight sodding Mezcal and not reading the newspaper.
Nevertheless, whichever way you look at this rather pathetic equation, I can't help but be led back to the uncomfortable conclusion that I only have myself to blame. I have rendered myself as some gobby brer, a former opinion-shaper who now wields about as much argument forming clout as chalk-bladed butter knife.
I hope that all is not yet lost.
Yesterday afternoon I spent five hours in the British Library. The fundamental thinking behind this move being that, via a process of osmosis, I shall absorb my way to greatness. Thus, for the coming weeks I will be endeavoring to base myself within proximity of only the most scholarly individuals or the ''raddest'' of trendsetters.
Furthermore, this morning saw me digging through my pre-travels music collection, sorting through books and listening to old pod-casts of John Peel. Yes, from now on, it's all about art-house films, reading until dawn, sleeping sporadically through daylight hours, wearing trendy specs and scribbling down Keatsian Odes on the back of napkins.
I am clinging fervently to the quite probably delusional belief that it's all in there somewhere, that all that ''stuff'' I used to know has simply been taking it easy, chilling out in the hippocampus but ready to sally forth as synaptic pathways whir back into life. It is comfort derived from this pop psychology which is doing much to sustain my waning self-belief at this point.
Finally, if anyone has any cod liver oil capsules, send it my way. Or, if you is, like, well clever, we need to hang out.
End of self indulgent venting.
A good day to you.
England-bound
I'm sitting in the Presidential Lounge of Houston Airport and, to tell you the truth, I feel pretty important...If by important, I mean high on Diazapam. Which I do. And I am.
Upon landing from Guate-ville and in anticipation of my connecting flight to London, I boshed an extra few mgs to take the edge off, but now the flight is delayed. A vague concern is forming at the back of my mind that there is quite a high chance that I will drift off to sleep in this weird first class area in which I have found myself, thanks to the generosity of a stranger and a series of unlikely events.
Apparently, if you press yourself up against the wall of the exclusive members area, a kindly old Jew may see you sitting on the floor huddled over a battered pink laptop sucking on a Twix Wrapper and take pity on you, subsequently inviting you into a muffled world of plush carpets, pastel polos and white leather sofas.
People are looking at me with a mixture of skepticism and disgust. Perhaps a refugee from Antigua wearing a Panama hat and a bemused expression, walking boots swinging from a backpack which has certainly seen better days, isn't your standard upper-class lounge fodder.
Argh! Just got wind that there are meal tickets to be had courtesy of Continental royally fucking everything up. This premature close is probably absolutely the best thing that could have happened to this blog post; having to focus on scraping sentences together through a layer of nostalgia and tranquilizers is not inspiring my inner Pulitzer winner.
With any luck, the plane won't go down over Canada rendering this a pitiful final chapter.
Upon landing from Guate-ville and in anticipation of my connecting flight to London, I boshed an extra few mgs to take the edge off, but now the flight is delayed. A vague concern is forming at the back of my mind that there is quite a high chance that I will drift off to sleep in this weird first class area in which I have found myself, thanks to the generosity of a stranger and a series of unlikely events.
Apparently, if you press yourself up against the wall of the exclusive members area, a kindly old Jew may see you sitting on the floor huddled over a battered pink laptop sucking on a Twix Wrapper and take pity on you, subsequently inviting you into a muffled world of plush carpets, pastel polos and white leather sofas.
People are looking at me with a mixture of skepticism and disgust. Perhaps a refugee from Antigua wearing a Panama hat and a bemused expression, walking boots swinging from a backpack which has certainly seen better days, isn't your standard upper-class lounge fodder.
Argh! Just got wind that there are meal tickets to be had courtesy of Continental royally fucking everything up. This premature close is probably absolutely the best thing that could have happened to this blog post; having to focus on scraping sentences together through a layer of nostalgia and tranquilizers is not inspiring my inner Pulitzer winner.
With any luck, the plane won't go down over Canada rendering this a pitiful final chapter.
Monday 30 May 2011
La gente viene y la gente se va
A smokey watering hole, cheap beer, and that second of contented silence when the laughter subsides and before the next joke is told, it hits you: the pure happiness of that moment, and the significance lent to that moment in knowing that it won't last forever.
Or, maybe it isn't smiling around a table in a faraway bar but instead, sitting on a faraway beach, or on a dusty faraway pavement looking up at the stars, when you experience that sensation which, for me, defines what it is to travel. Suddenly something which felt so normal is rendered with near palpable importance in an abrupt and bitter sweet realization that you are experiencing something unique. You will never be in this place again, sharing a cigarette with this person again, thousands of miles away from that life you call home.
And in that moment you make a memory.
We live this life because we love the transitory, we love to travel, reveling in the unexpected; we are addicted to '' being on the road'', to the idea of weaving our way down the winding path into a sun setting on the distant horizon. The existence you chose when you live on the other side of the world is exciting, it's intoxicating, it's challenging and presents you with the extraordinary privilege of meeting people you never dreamed existed.
But, by choosing to be someone who is always seeking something new and different, you also make the choice to say goodbye. Which hurts. Every time. Each goodbye becoming a goodbye to every person you have ever said farewell to. Sometimes it seems that it would be easier to avoid making attachments all together and treat those you meet as you would ships in the night, content in never knowing what could have been, rather than getting a glimpse of something before it disappears into the impossibility of distance.
But what is the cost of not daring?
The answer is, to forfeit something beautiful.
There is nothing quite like the intensity of a connection made in an elsewhere. There is nothing quite like the beauty of sharing a storm with stranger. There is nothing quite like the pain in watching someone who has become part of who you will be forever, shrug on their backpack and walk away, not knowing how or if you will meet again.
Monday 23 May 2011
Amoebas ate my brain...
Dried Papaya seeds, Secnidal, Flagyl, Perricon tea, cloves of raw garlic, part time Veganism, chlorinated vegetables, wearing green underwear when the moon is full, braiding the pubic hair of a mountain goat whilst performing an Irish folk ballad : I've tried almost, if not quite, everything to shift them. From the hardest the Mr Miyagi man in the pharmacy can provide me with, to the most unlikely sounding whimsical shite-bags Google can muster, still they thrive.
I have become au fait with such terms as ''host'' and ''incubation period'', I spend a lot of time boiling herbs and I discuss my bowel movements with people I've met moments before. I have become one of the stricken, one of the damned, one of the people you see despondently propping up the end of the bar with a fizzy water and a sachet of re-hydration salts, glaring enviously at ''The Healthys''.
Amoebas: they aren't funny, they aren't clever and they certainly aren't sexy but, they have now formed a large part of my life for the past three months and it's time to talk about it. Before I share my experience with you, please forgive me for any vulgarity, it is written in the spirit of honesty and openness. Having said that, I continue with the full understanding that it is likely I will lose any residual street cred which still lingers from the days before I become someone who perpetually wailed about abdominal cramping and, with the article that follows, knowingly relinquish any future hope of romantic/ intimate relationship with anyone stumbles upon this post...
I'll begin by saying that I've almost forgotten what live was life pre-parasites. These days I seem to exist in some kind of godforsaken, low budget, Alien sequel. The little bastards have resisted numerous extermination attempts, coaxing me into a false sense of security as they lye low for a period of weeks only to sally forth with renewed gusto. I am evidently somewhat of a catch in the world of single celled organisms, providing this potent breed of flesh eating buggers with a rollicking good time as they merrily chow down on my innards. With apparently no regard to the laws of traditional (and not so traditional) medicine, maybe the only solution is to shave my head and throw myself into a ravine of boiling lava, Pacaya is only 45 minutes and $10 dollars away after all.
In all honestly, however, I am semi-worried that I might be heading to an early grave thanks to the little critters. If you look them up on the net, which I don't advise if you are a sufferer, you will encounter many many gruesomely disturbing images, a great deal of scary statistics, and numerous news stories from the States regaling you with various individuals who fell victim to one terrifying brain eating Amoeba or another and died a slow and painful death. Heartwarming stuff eh?
Living with Amoebas not only tests your patience and your immune system, but it examines the limits of friendships. Where do those relationship boundaries lie? How far would you go for a mate? I am pleased to say that one of the things to come out of this continuing and sorry episode is that my friends have fared pretty well on this count. An example: one day, unable to get back from the city in time to make it to the laboratory with my ''sample'', I gave it to a gal pal of mine to deliver on my behalf. The mission was ultimately unsuccessful as the confounded container leaked its contents into her bag and later, onto a shelf of her fridge (where she had, for some bizarre reason, placed it for safe keeping). Despite the fact that I almost died of embarrassment when she told me about it the next day, particularly during the part where she explained how she mistook the mystery brown substance seeping through her backpack onto her hands as coffee, if anything I feel the incident brought us closer together. She may, however, not agree.
Conversely, the issue of finding an appropriate vessel to serve the purpose of ferrying ones business is a complex one. It rarely seems to be the case that the moment you need to go the bathroom correspondents with doctor opening hours or having an appropriate container to hand. You find yourself looking around the house for things that could be used to llevar your latest passing to the hospital for analysis. Ironically, I once resorted to the use of a Sabe Rico jar, it even still had the label on. Presumably the staff of San Hermano Pedro Hospital now consider me as some sort of sicko fetishist.
And where do they come from these Amoebas? I am not sure if this is the same resilient batch, or if I keep catching them, which admittedly seems less likely. More likely is that they never went away and the lotions and potions entrusted to me at various pharmacies around Antigua have failed miserably to perform. I have spent a long time trying to work out the source of my current plight. And everyone seems to have a theory. The trouble is, the most likely one is the one I don't want to be true, involves swimming in lakes and rivers which might not be one hundred percent sanitary. I kind of think you really have to decide if you are going to be one of those people who bleaches the fuck out of everything you eat before you eat it, wearing closed toed shoes through a heatwave and generally opting out of life, or, you just press on through and hope for the best. I have opted for the latter. Perhaps unwisely. Indeed, when I am on my deathbed having failed to shift the blighters, please don't quote this paragraph to me.
A disputed issue around Amoebas and the consumption of the various medicines used to counteract them, is for how long alcohol should be avoided. Some say that it has little negative effect and you should jump back on the liquor wagon within 24 hours of your last dose, whilst others warn that the whole business of taking these various lotions and potions will be spectacularly and unequivocally negated if so much as a drop of four percent beer passes your lips. Erring on the side of caution I have actually been pretty strict with myself on this count, and have decided to heed the advice doled out by advocates of teetotalism. I was rather annoyed, therefore, when on my third visit to the pharmacist, having ascertained that I had stayed off the sauce (his expression suggested he wasn't convinced), the guys tells me that the reason the first two batches of pills failed to the job was that I must have drunk a Coca Cola. Coca-bloody-cola?? They just make this stuff up as they go along. Um, come on Sunny Jim, I think it is much less likely that having a class of Coke brought the house of cards tumbling back into a parasitic puddle, than him peddling me a placebo at some extortionate cost. Plus, if these drugs really are as susceptible to carbonated drinks as he seems to suggest, it may have been worth giving me a heads up on their respective Achilles Heels before I started forking cash, almost literally, into the toilet.
It is now just moments before I commence with my next tranche of treatment. The aluminum on the foil wrapped capsules, my latest pharmaceutical offering, glisten seductively from where they lie on the table next to me... little pellets of false hope winking seductively a promise of more wholesome times to come. Please forgive me if I don't crack out the celebration Moet just yet...In the meantime, if you are a fellow carrier, pop over for a cleansing cuppa, I've just boiled a fresh pot of Jacaranda.
I have become au fait with such terms as ''host'' and ''incubation period'', I spend a lot of time boiling herbs and I discuss my bowel movements with people I've met moments before. I have become one of the stricken, one of the damned, one of the people you see despondently propping up the end of the bar with a fizzy water and a sachet of re-hydration salts, glaring enviously at ''The Healthys''.
Amoebas: they aren't funny, they aren't clever and they certainly aren't sexy but, they have now formed a large part of my life for the past three months and it's time to talk about it. Before I share my experience with you, please forgive me for any vulgarity, it is written in the spirit of honesty and openness. Having said that, I continue with the full understanding that it is likely I will lose any residual street cred which still lingers from the days before I become someone who perpetually wailed about abdominal cramping and, with the article that follows, knowingly relinquish any future hope of romantic/ intimate relationship with anyone stumbles upon this post...
I'll begin by saying that I've almost forgotten what live was life pre-parasites. These days I seem to exist in some kind of godforsaken, low budget, Alien sequel. The little bastards have resisted numerous extermination attempts, coaxing me into a false sense of security as they lye low for a period of weeks only to sally forth with renewed gusto. I am evidently somewhat of a catch in the world of single celled organisms, providing this potent breed of flesh eating buggers with a rollicking good time as they merrily chow down on my innards. With apparently no regard to the laws of traditional (and not so traditional) medicine, maybe the only solution is to shave my head and throw myself into a ravine of boiling lava, Pacaya is only 45 minutes and $10 dollars away after all.
In all honestly, however, I am semi-worried that I might be heading to an early grave thanks to the little critters. If you look them up on the net, which I don't advise if you are a sufferer, you will encounter many many gruesomely disturbing images, a great deal of scary statistics, and numerous news stories from the States regaling you with various individuals who fell victim to one terrifying brain eating Amoeba or another and died a slow and painful death. Heartwarming stuff eh?
Living with Amoebas not only tests your patience and your immune system, but it examines the limits of friendships. Where do those relationship boundaries lie? How far would you go for a mate? I am pleased to say that one of the things to come out of this continuing and sorry episode is that my friends have fared pretty well on this count. An example: one day, unable to get back from the city in time to make it to the laboratory with my ''sample'', I gave it to a gal pal of mine to deliver on my behalf. The mission was ultimately unsuccessful as the confounded container leaked its contents into her bag and later, onto a shelf of her fridge (where she had, for some bizarre reason, placed it for safe keeping). Despite the fact that I almost died of embarrassment when she told me about it the next day, particularly during the part where she explained how she mistook the mystery brown substance seeping through her backpack onto her hands as coffee, if anything I feel the incident brought us closer together. She may, however, not agree.
Conversely, the issue of finding an appropriate vessel to serve the purpose of ferrying ones business is a complex one. It rarely seems to be the case that the moment you need to go the bathroom correspondents with doctor opening hours or having an appropriate container to hand. You find yourself looking around the house for things that could be used to llevar your latest passing to the hospital for analysis. Ironically, I once resorted to the use of a Sabe Rico jar, it even still had the label on. Presumably the staff of San Hermano Pedro Hospital now consider me as some sort of sicko fetishist.
And where do they come from these Amoebas? I am not sure if this is the same resilient batch, or if I keep catching them, which admittedly seems less likely. More likely is that they never went away and the lotions and potions entrusted to me at various pharmacies around Antigua have failed miserably to perform. I have spent a long time trying to work out the source of my current plight. And everyone seems to have a theory. The trouble is, the most likely one is the one I don't want to be true, involves swimming in lakes and rivers which might not be one hundred percent sanitary. I kind of think you really have to decide if you are going to be one of those people who bleaches the fuck out of everything you eat before you eat it, wearing closed toed shoes through a heatwave and generally opting out of life, or, you just press on through and hope for the best. I have opted for the latter. Perhaps unwisely. Indeed, when I am on my deathbed having failed to shift the blighters, please don't quote this paragraph to me.
A disputed issue around Amoebas and the consumption of the various medicines used to counteract them, is for how long alcohol should be avoided. Some say that it has little negative effect and you should jump back on the liquor wagon within 24 hours of your last dose, whilst others warn that the whole business of taking these various lotions and potions will be spectacularly and unequivocally negated if so much as a drop of four percent beer passes your lips. Erring on the side of caution I have actually been pretty strict with myself on this count, and have decided to heed the advice doled out by advocates of teetotalism. I was rather annoyed, therefore, when on my third visit to the pharmacist, having ascertained that I had stayed off the sauce (his expression suggested he wasn't convinced), the guys tells me that the reason the first two batches of pills failed to the job was that I must have drunk a Coca Cola. Coca-bloody-cola?? They just make this stuff up as they go along. Um, come on Sunny Jim, I think it is much less likely that having a class of Coke brought the house of cards tumbling back into a parasitic puddle, than him peddling me a placebo at some extortionate cost. Plus, if these drugs really are as susceptible to carbonated drinks as he seems to suggest, it may have been worth giving me a heads up on their respective Achilles Heels before I started forking cash, almost literally, into the toilet.
It is now just moments before I commence with my next tranche of treatment. The aluminum on the foil wrapped capsules, my latest pharmaceutical offering, glisten seductively from where they lie on the table next to me... little pellets of false hope winking seductively a promise of more wholesome times to come. Please forgive me if I don't crack out the celebration Moet just yet...In the meantime, if you are a fellow carrier, pop over for a cleansing cuppa, I've just boiled a fresh pot of Jacaranda.
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