The following entry is how I left a draft about three months ago. I'd like to say that it was lack of internet that kept me from writing the paragraph about my trimesterly report, Kola nuts, and Coca-cola, but to be honest I don't remember why I abandoned the draft, and I think I owe you every paragraph I can muster at this point. Forgive the lack of conclusion, and just keep reading the next entry.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: my life is like a film.
In village a few days ago, I crossed paths with a friend on her way home from the hospital, terribly distracted. My well-intentioned small talk was thoroughly interrupted by her announcement that her son and granddaughter had in fact woken at five that morning to the crumbling of their house around them. Yes, that's right. A house fell on them. There are no ruby red slippers for proof, but apparently I'm not in Kansas anymore.
This was not my first trip to the hospital that week, though. A several-day stint of appetitelessness and an accompanying feeling of nausea, chills, and lightheadedness left me fearful of one of those illnesses that may or may not actually be that serious, but by their tropical nature automatically register in the American mind as potentially deathly: malaria, typhoid, and what have you. I cancelled a trip to Bertoua and plans with friends. I climbed in bed at 1pm and listened through several Ben Harper albums to keep me from thinking too keenly how badly I wanted my mommy. Luckily, a bottle of Coke, 75 fcfa worth of Parle-Gs (that's 15 cents worth of graham crackers) and 18 hours in bed did the trick, and I woke up bright eyed and bushytailled. A quick visit to the hospital (clinic may be the more appropriate word) just for good measure, and Laura was back on track.
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