I knew going into the trip that Tanzania was a hot-spot for malaria, especially along the coast where we were staying. So I took all the necessary precautions. I had mosquito repellent. I even slept inside a mosquito net, which added to the already uncomfortable heat of East Africa. But, alas, none of this was enough to keep the little monsters from feasting on my blood.
Two weeks into my trip, I woke up one morning and could not for the life of me get out of bed. I was running a fever, and my head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. All I could do was just lay there. I was supposed to teach class that day and also preach at a youth group that night, but all of those plans were scratched. Luckily, my friend Biggie was smart enough to know right away that it was malaria. So, within about 6 hours from my first symptoms, I was at the nearest hospital getting proper treatment and medication. Now, I use the term "hospital" very loosely, as it was really just a few Catholic nuns running a clinic at their convent, but nevertheless, they got me the right medication and I've been feeling better ever since. I'm told from others who have had malaria that I had it relatively easy compared to what I might have experienced.
I'm all smiles after the nun tells me that I'm going to be alright.
A couple days ago, I was talking to Thabo, a friend of mine from a township in South Africa. When Thabo heard that I had gotten malaria, like so many others he patted me on the back like a proud father and said, "Well, you're officially an African now!" I looked at Thabo and asked, "So how many times have you had malaria?" His reply was priceless: "Oh, well, I've never had malaria, but...." Well, Thabo, I guess I'm more of an African than you now!
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