Friday, October 06, 2006
I have amoebic dystentery
The guide book promised that few travelers get amoebic dystentery. Even fewer get the worst kind -- the bad kind of traveler, it said, the kind of traveler who happily licks poo off street venders' slimy fingers. Apparently, I am that traveler.
When I described my symptoms to a captive audience of medical students at my Spanish immersion school in Xela, they told me that it was travelers' diarrhea, to let it pass. When I described my symptoms to locals -- blood, mucus, runs -- they all had the same response: amoebas. They all had stories about amoebas in the same way that Americans have stories about having their wisdom teeth pulled. And they give advice about amoebas in the same way that Americans give advice about cars -- detailed, confident and usually wrong.
To find out whether I really had amoebas, the doctor leading around this group of medical students had me poo in a cleaned out jar of Nes Cafe. A small jar mind you, not the large Costco economy size that wouldn't have splashed everywhere. I delivered my particular brew to a laboratory around the corner from my school, where several men in white lab coats hung about the waiting room. One took my sample, observed it and furrowed his brow and then proceeded to pass it to the others. Embarrassed, I said, 'I walk to the laboratory with my poo,' and they roared with laughter. Lesson learned: Men everywhere, from the day they can identify it, find shit hilarious.
Levi would probably have considered me a joykill last week except that this bout has allowed him to talk about poo and intestinal animals without abandon. He has researched the critters on the Internet and in a travel health book. He has even choreographed an amoeba dance to Lionel Richie.
When I described my symptoms to a captive audience of medical students at my Spanish immersion school in Xela, they told me that it was travelers' diarrhea, to let it pass. When I described my symptoms to locals -- blood, mucus, runs -- they all had the same response: amoebas. They all had stories about amoebas in the same way that Americans have stories about having their wisdom teeth pulled. And they give advice about amoebas in the same way that Americans give advice about cars -- detailed, confident and usually wrong.
To find out whether I really had amoebas, the doctor leading around this group of medical students had me poo in a cleaned out jar of Nes Cafe. A small jar mind you, not the large Costco economy size that wouldn't have splashed everywhere. I delivered my particular brew to a laboratory around the corner from my school, where several men in white lab coats hung about the waiting room. One took my sample, observed it and furrowed his brow and then proceeded to pass it to the others. Embarrassed, I said, 'I walk to the laboratory with my poo,' and they roared with laughter. Lesson learned: Men everywhere, from the day they can identify it, find shit hilarious.
Levi would probably have considered me a joykill last week except that this bout has allowed him to talk about poo and intestinal animals without abandon. He has researched the critters on the Internet and in a travel health book. He has even choreographed an amoeba dance to Lionel Richie.
