Detour along the journey

Getting malaria in Africa is tough. Getting malaria in Africa while homeless is even tougher. Getting malaria in Africa while homeless, having spent the last week in a certainly less-than-luxurious hotel, with few prospects for finding permanent residence, while unsure as to the direction of my organization, and often asking God, "why am I here?" is probably one of the toughest experiences of my otherwise relatively easy life, and comes together on paper to form one of the longest run-on sentences ever. When you're sick in Africa, your mind tends to do funny things. You become more aware of every wave of heat over your body, sure that you're feverish. Every ache informs you of your frailty and tells you that soon you won't have the strength to leave your bed. And every seeming shot of fire through your veins becomes the disparaging proof that you have a potentially murderous malarial parasite infecting your bloodstream and attacking every area of your internal structure. Thoughts of dying 7000 miles away from home in an under-funded sub-Sahara African hospital try to find their way into your scattered daydreams, and it's difficult to push them out. But then you think of the ease with which you were able to have your malady diagnosed and treated, and the little it hurt you to hand over the 20,000 Ugandan shillings to receive effective medication. And then you're forced to think of the millions- millions- in this same region who die every year because for them receiving treatment is not so simple. And you are humbled. And you pray. And then you think back to your own situation, and realize that you're being very dramatic, and that if you keep it up, your mother just might get way more scared than is really necessary, and ask you to come home early. So you stop writing.

TIA.........?

So here's a fun little story for ya.........
Two nights ago a bunch of us were walking into town. It's about a mile walk along a dirt road, heavily trafficked by walkers and bikers (called bodas), some bicycle and some motorcycle. As we were talking and walking all orderly-like along the side of the road, I suddenly felt something hit my right elbow. I turned to see the guilty bicycle boda, whose course had now been altered, attempting to gain control while careening wildly into the middle of the street. Unable to right its way, it swerved into oncoming traffic and abruptly crashed into a motorcycle boda. The latter was barely affected and kept on driving, leaving the bike- and its rider- to fall to the ground. This all happened in a split second; understandably, I was still trying to comprehend what had just happened when I began hearing a high-pitched animal shriek. It was only then that I realized that there was a one hundred and fifty pound hog tied to the back of the boda, and that its head was now driven directly into the dirt. We were all momentarily stunned. What the heck did we just witness? If you've ever heard a huge distressed pig squealing for help, you know how hectic it can make any situation, much less one in which a high-speed accident (or at least mid-speed) just occurred. I was immobilized. Finally two of my companions came to their senses enough to help the biker, who was also stunned, but unhurt, to pick up the heavy-laden transport, at which point Adam rang the bike's bell and sarcastically informed the owner, "that's what this is for!" The boda driver was not happy. But seriously, I think he was an amateur; we've witnessed tons of huge loads on the backs of bodas, including one of the largest fish I've ever seen, and most seem to do just fine. So I think this guy needs some experience. Anyways, eventually we walked away, leaving him to tend to his pig, who was probably more emotionally hurt than anything, and his bike, whose handlebars now had to be turned sideways in order for the wheels to go straight. I guess he fixed it though, because later he passed us on his boda, yelling "It's ok now! Thank you! Good bye!"
Meanwhile, the hog was silent.