General Peace Corps Stories

Chasing Amoebas
by Amanda Noble
I’ve been so lucky in the Philippines. Until now.
A year and a half into my stay, I’m suddenly
overcome by what seemed to afflict everyone else
from day one. “Amoebic dysentery,” they whisper,
when you ask how they’ve grown so thin. “I can’t
seem to shake it.”
Meanwhile I eat everything, and in settings I can’t
believe I’d frequent. Now, I keep telling myself I don’t
have it; that stress is setting off this gut trouble.
Unbearable stress, really. And these explosions won’t
stop; cramps, doubling over in pain, the wet brown
streams of shit, even when I’ve had nothing, literally
nothing to eat.
Okay, I’ll need to go see Dr. Solia; he’s the official
Peace Corps doctor for Northern Luzon Volunteers,
which means he’s who we have to turn to when we’re
ill. Dr. Solia is in heaven with so many female
Volunteers knocking at his door, all of us nutrition
educators. You go see him for a cold, he insists on a
breast check. You go see him for some skin ailment,
he insists on a breast check. You go see him for…well,
anything at all, and he wants to look at and feel your
breasts.
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The last time I went to get my shots, he took me
behind the fish motif shower curtain he uses to close
off his examining room, a fading but still
hallucinogenic seascape of red flounder and orange
starfish. I lay on the table, with my jeans and panties
down as he gave me a gamma globulin shot. (Meant to
prevent hepatitis, they’re administered through a very
large needle, full of fluid, into a buttock; they take
forever. I hate them.) Toward the end of the shot, he
bent close to my body and whispered intimately, “You
have a beauuuutiful butt.”
Given my current ailment, I don’t look forward to
visiting him.
“I have to go see Dr. Solia,” I tell Anna, my
current roommate and a member of my group,
explaining the problem.
“If you don’t come home tonight, I’ll drop by the
hospital tomorrow.”
One last trip to the bathroom so that I can make it
down the hill to downtown, then I’m off, walking the
dirt-packed path that leads directly to the Baguio
market and the shops and offices along Session Road.
I make no leisured stops the way I usually do, looking
at handicrafts, chatting with shopkeepers, maybe
getting a bite to eat; I’m in a hurry to reach the next
clean, Western-style bathroom, the one at Dr. Solia’s
office. When I arrive, I quickly acknowledge his office
manager, Lety, asking to use the comfort room. She
points with her chin in that direction. I race, barely
making it. My gut cramps and I lean over my seated
body, head in hands until the cramps pass, my body
bathed in a cold sweat.
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Pulling myself together, I walk back to Lety and
ask to see the doctor. She asks me to wait; he’s with a
patient. Squirming on a hard plastic chair, another
spasm of cramps comes over me. I jump up and race
to the comfort room, getting there just in time. I moan
as the cramps continue, and suddenly Lety knocks on
the closed door and enters the room. I don’t have the
energy to flush and exit the stall.
“Masakít?” she asks in Ilocano, inquiring whether
I’m sick.
“Wen,” yes. “Kalámbre ken burís.” Cramps and
diarrhea, I elaborate.
Lety clicks her tongue against the roof of her
mouth, expressing dismay. “I will ask the doctor to
hurry,” she tells me in English.
“Agyámanak, Lety,” I thank her.
As I make my way back to the waiting room, Lety
is consulting with Dr. Solia. As always, the sight of
him gives me an involuntary shiver, this time it’s icy
from my cold sweat. His thinning hair is pomaded up
from his forehead; his shifty eyes bore into mine and
then slide up and down my body. He breaks into a
long, yellow, snaggle-toothed smile that betrays his
thoughts. I don’t have much energy to stand up to him
today, but I swear to myself I’ll refuse a breast check if
he asks for one. He switches to a concerned look, one
I want to believe.
“Lety tells me you’re very sick.”
“Yes.”
“Come into my office and tell me more about it.”
He sits behind his desk and waves his arm to offer
me a seat across from him. “Any fever?”
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“I’m not sure.”
“Let’s check.” He moves to a tray loaded with
medical instruments and removes a thermometer. He
walks to the sink to rinse it, not clean it with soap,
then brings it over to me. I let him slide it under my
tongue, my eyes closed so that I don’t have to look at
him. This turns out to be a mistake. His arm grazes
my breast ever so lightly when he places the
thermometer. My eyes fly open; I shake my head,
letting him know I’m on to him. He ignores me,
pretending to look at his watch. Eventually, he
removes the thermometer.
“Slight fever only. Tell me more,” he urges in an
intimate purr, sitting across from me again.
“I’m just very sick. I have constant diarrhea, can’t
be far from a comfort room. Terrible cramps, no
appetite.”
“For how long?”
“A little over a week. It seems to be getting worse.
Nothing helps.” I tell him about the Lomotil I’ve been
taking; the Peace Corps gave us a huge supply before
we trundled off to our distant sites. Volunteer lore,
this being the mid-1970s, is that Lomotil, combined
with a couple of San Miguel beers and some pot, helps
with boredom in the provinces; the pills contain a
small amount of opiate.
“Well, we’ll give you an injection today that will
stop the diarrhea.”
An injection? A year ago I would’ve been too
afraid to let a doctor give me an unspecified injection.
Now I just don’t care.
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“I’m very worried about dehydration,” he
continues. “Have you been drinking liquids?”
“I’ve been trying to drink lots of liquids,” I claim,
wondering if that’s true. There’s only so much Nescafé
and Coke I can consume. Water has to be boiled: it
doesn’t seem worth the effort most of the time. My
mind spins out to the black market in town where I
can buy canned fruit juice at exorbitant prices. Maybe
it’s worth a stop when the injection goes into effect.
After Solia gives the injection—in my arm, not
requiring removal of my tee shirt—he offers a
diagnosis. “I think you have amoebic dysentery.”
“No, please! I don’t want that!”
“We have to run further tests. Come to the
hospital tomorrow at 10.”
“What kind of tests?”
“We have to search for the amoeba.”
“How?”
“We will give you a rectal exam and we will look at
your stool. Don’t worry. None of it will hurt. Don’t
eat any food tonight or before you come to the
hospital.”
The mystery injection helps and I stop in the black
market section of City Market on my way home,
purchasing orange juice siphoned from the
commissary at Camp John Hay; two cans just about
breaks my budget, but I won’t be eating for a couple
of days, so it seems worth it. I labor up the hill to our
house in Camp Allen, feeling really beat, looking
forward to a nap. Anna’s still sitting where I left her, in
a chair staring out the picture window, unread book in
her lap. She’s the most lethargic person I’ve ever
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known. I don’t believe she’s done a full day of work
since she arrived, just keeps a low profile, loves
Filipino men and is only sometimes willing to go out
at night. It’s a far cry from living with my former
roommate who had to be one of the most intense,
dramatic, demanding people alive. Life with Anna is
relaxing to the point of boredom, except when one of
her many romances erupts into drama. I worry she’s
depressed, why else would she be so motionless?
“I watched you coming up the hill. You look tired.
You okay?”
“Yeah, but I’m going to take a nap. I have an
amoeba test in the morning at the hospital.”
“Yuck.”
“Yep, yuck. What are you up to?”
“Well, Boing might drop by, then again he may
not.”
“If he does, have fun.”
“Well, he’s been so unreliable lately. I just don’t
know what to think.”
They’re always just out of reach. I’ve had similar
problems. His name was Johnny and in our case, his
family didn’t want us dating, which certainly didn’t
make things easier. But I don’t want to get into this
conversation; it leads down that same dark rabbit hole:
chasing Filipino men and trying to pin them down.
“Solia gave me a shot to stop the shits, and I think
it’s got a drug in it. I have to get into bed before I fall
on my face.”
“Okay. Take care of yourself.”
In the morning there’s not enough warm water to
bathe. Damn. Boing must have showed up after all and
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those two used up our small supply of “hot” water.
The morning’s cold, it’s maybe 45 degrees in the house
and I struggle through a cold bucket bath. Toweling
myself and dressing quickly, I put a pot of water on
the stove for Nescafé and open one of the cans of
orange juice. I slept through the afternoon and night,
slept heavily, relieved of the cramps and diarrhea.
Maybe this whole thing will be easier than I thought.
Boing enters the kitchen wearing only a pair of
jeans. I admire his smooth hairless torso, experiencing
a kind of déjà vu as if it were Johnny walking toward
me, half-dressed. But it’s Boing, not Johnny, and the
truth is I don’t know what she sees in him. He’s got an
extreme lantern jaw, and his long hair is worn in a kind
of Beatles mop, falling into his eyes. And he seems
quite humorless, talks rarely, smiles even less—and his
name is Boing. He is tall, though. Maybe that makes
up for the features I find unattractive.
“Coffee ready?” he says shyly.
“Not yet, just about. You have to go to work?”
“Yes. You?”
“No, but I do have to go to the hospital for some
tests.” His eyes widen, reflecting the terror he feels at
hearing these words. Many Filipinos hate hospitals and
it’s not hard to understand why: they’re strongly
correlated with death. Boing is scared on my behalf; he
probably thinks he’ll never see me again.
“You are sick?”
“Yes, but I hope it’s not too bad.”
“Oh yes, I will pray for you. God bless!” he adds,
throwing on his shirt and running out the door, no
longer sleepy or in need of coffee.
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Of course I forget to bring a book or a magazine.
I wait for more than an hour before Solia arrives in the
reception area. It’s almost noon, and I’m absolutely
starving. God knows when I last ate anything of
substance. He does not apologize for his lateness, but
leads me to an exam room where the “testing” will
take place. It’s a simple room with a hospital bed in it,
covered by a rubber sheet with a big metal bedpan on
top of it. A young nurse, very pretty, her hair pulled
away from her face with an expensive ornate filigreed
silver clip and just a light touch of pink lipstick, enters
the room and asks me to put on a hospital robe.
“Why?”
“We are going to give you enemas until your
system is cleaned out,” says Solia. “Sylvia will take care
of you. She will let me know when you are ready for
the rectal exam,” he says as he leaves the room. I glare
at his back as he leaves.
Sylvia and I stare at each other for a few moments.
“I didn’t know he was ordering enemas,” I say. “I don’t
think there’s anything left inside of me and I haven’t
eaten in a couple of days.”
“We just need to make sure it’s all out before the
doctor can do the test,” Sylvia replies, smiling. I’ve
never had an enema before, but I don’t think it’s
something to smile about. She confirms this.
“I will prepare the first enema and return here.”
The first? Oh, Jesus.
Sylvia enters the room almost silently in her white
nurse shoes. She’s carrying a large dark red rubber bag,
with a hose hanging from the end of it. “Get on your
side on the bed, please.” She affixes the top of the bag
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to a rolling rack, the kind they use to hang drip
medications. She pulls the rack to the end of the bed
and I figure my head is supposed to rest at the top; it’s
my bottom she wants access to.
“Have you had an enema before?” Sylvia asks, as I
plant my face in the opposite direction, trying to
ignore the action.
“Never.”
“Well, I will pump this water into you. You will
feel a need to void, but hold it as long as possible. I
will catch it with the bedpan.” The “it” being whatever
is left in me.
“Okay.”
“I am placing tube now.”
Is she ever. She pushes the hose as deeply as she
can then squeezes the water from the bag inside of
me. I moan a little as she removes the hose. I need to
void now!
“Hold it in, please,” she says, as if she can feel my
urge.
“I can’t!” I shout.
“Okay, I have bedpan.” The liquid gushes from
me; I’m sure Sylvia’s white uniform must be splattered.
She says nothing until it’s finished.
“I will fetch another. Next time try to wait.” She
leaves the room to fill the enema bag with more water.
When she returns, I can see that her uniform is
indeed stained. “Sylvia, can’t I do this myself? I hate to
see you get soiled. Can’t I just squat on the floor over
the bedpan once the water’s inside me?”
She looks relieved, even smiles a little. “Okay, we
will try.”
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This time it goes better, I am able to hold the
water for a few minutes; I dance around the room to
distract myself from the urge, making Sylvia giggle,
and finally squat over the pan. Quite a bit of solid
matter is released, surprising me, delighting Sylvia.
By the seventh enema I’m not longer dancing; I’m
starting to get quite testy. There’s very little fecal
matter anymore; I argue with Sylvia over the need for
more.
“Not yet finished. Doctor said must be perfectly
clear.”
By the tenth enema, teeth gritted, I say, “That is
clear, Sylvia.”
“Not yet.”
When she comes in with the fourteenth bag, I tell
her, “This is the last one.” She smiles, making me
wonder if she’s been enjoying my discomfort.
When I’m finished, she leaves to find Dr. Solia. I
feel weak and sore from the hose and the subsequent
explosions. I’m anxious too about the second part of
the test, the first part having been so unpleasant, with
more hoses likely to come into play.
Dr. Solia bounds into the room, rubbing his hands
together in anticipation. “So I understand you are all
cleaned out now.”
I roll my eyes and nod.
“Let’s get started, then. Follow me, please!”
We walk down a hallway to another examination
room. As we enter, I take a sharp intake of breath,
shocked at what I see. It looks like some kind of
torture implement, like something they’d use to get
you to confess. It’s a massive metal structure, with four
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padded arms at each corner of it, I assume for hands
and feet. The middle of the contraption is also
padded, I guess for the body.
“What’s wrong?” asks the doctor.
“What the hell is that thing?”
“It will help me see inside you, it will help me find
the damage from the amoeba.”
“I thought you could just look at a sample of my
stool.”
“They are doing that in the lab right now, but we
also need to look inside to see how badly things have
become.”
“You can keep your robe on,” says Solia. “Let me
help you get positioned.”
I don’t like the looks of it, and tell him so.
“Once you’re in, it will be only a short test. The
worst is over now.” With his yellow teeth in stark
contrast to his white coat, he smiles a full smile, or is
that his old leer? I just can’t tell anymore.
He steers me to the contraption and plays with the
mechanics so the bed part is low enough for me to
climb on board, and I climb. He adjusts the length of
the arms so that they fit my hands and feet. “Hold on
to the handles,” he instructs.
I panic, feeling terribly exposed and vulnerable,
remembering his breast checks and comments on
other parts of my body. Just then, Sylvia enters the
room and I expel a long sigh, relieved that there will
be another woman in the room, a witness if needed.
“We will begin,” he announces. “This will not
hurt. We have to place a tube in the anus with a light
and a magnifying glass to examine the colon. He
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begins to readjust the body of the contraption so that
my butt is at his eye level.
“We are about to put the tube in your anus. I will
insert some cream first to help with the tube’s
insertion.” Snap goes the latex glove. My body is
trembling and I’m glad I don’t have to watch. Even
though he’s gentle, it still hurts when he inserts a
moistened gloved finger inside of me; it must have
quite a bit of cream attached to it: when he removes
his finger, there’s a wet sucking sound. I wish now that
I had just asked for a few more mystery injections.
“Good, good,” mutters Solia. “Now the tube,” he
says softly. Slowly, he snakes it up my intestine,
stopping here and there as it examines something or
another. The light on the end is warm, and nothing is
sharp. I realize I’m holding my breath. “Just a little
further,” he says and I feel the tube moving up and up.
I groan a little, wanting it to be over.
“Hurts?”
“Yes!”
“Almost done.” The tube is stationary now, and I
can only assume he is peering closely at an internal
part of me. Slowly, the tube begins to snake its way
out; the breath I’ve been holding forever expels from
my lungs. My eyes tear up from exhaustion.
The contraption is lowered so that I can climb off.
I’m free to move around, but getting my bearings is
not easy; I’m wobbly, but I finally find my balance.
“Get dressed and Sylvia will lead you to my
office,” says Solia. Sylvia hands me my clothing and
points to a curtain I can use dress in private. I feel like
I’ve lost five pounds, my snug jeans now a little baggy.
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That won’t last long. We walk down to Solia’s office
and Sylvia turns to say goodbye. I manage a smile and
thank her, shaking her hand. She smiles too.
“I’m sorry I soiled your uniform,” I offer.
“Do not worry. It will clean.”
I enter the room and sit in front of Solia’s desk,
awaiting his judgment. “No amoebas,” he pronounces.
“Really?”
“No sign, either in the stool or in your intestine.”
I’m delighted. “So what’s wrong with me?”
“Well, I did see some inflammation. I think maybe
you have colitis.”
“What is that? I think my dad had that.”
“Ahhhhh. That might help to explain. Have you
been sick recently? A cold or the flu?”
“No.”
“Stress doesn’t help either. Have you been under
stress?”
“Well, yeah, I have.
“What kind of stress?”
Living here, I want to shout. “I’d rather not talk
about it.”
“It might help to talk.”
I sit silent, stubborn. Then my exhaustion
overwhelms me. Even though I don’t think highly of
this doctor, I often find myself crying in doctor’s
offices, so what starts as a sniffle, becomes serious
sobbing as I tell him about breaking up with Johnny.
I’m crying so hard I hiccup involuntarily while
admitting his whole family hates me. Blubbering like a
child, I add that when I moved here to Baguio, I “left
my best frieeeend…”
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He looks at me kindly. “I am very sorry about
your boyfriend. I will prescribe more Lomotil to help
keep the intestine calm. Would you like some
tranquilizers too?”
I wipe my eyes, thinking, wow, here’s a doctor
offering me tranquilizers! I happily accept.
“You can pick all this up downstairs.” He stands
to shake my hand. Despite the strangeness of my
previous visits to his office, he seems almost kind.
“Come see me if it gets bad again. And try to
relax and enjoy yourself. Find another boyfriend,
maybe?” He smiles suggestively, not quite a leer, but
close enough. I’m too tired to care.
Leaving the hospital, the extent of my exhaustion
weighs me down like a woolen blanket. My limbs are
rubbery, my balance challenged and my bottom sore. I
walk a few steps before deciding to hail a taxi, even
though it’s beyond my budget. At Camp Allen, Anna is
in the same position; staring out the picture window, a
book balanced on her lap, working slowly on a bottle
of Coke.
Her head moves ever so slightly to indicate that
she knows I’m there. “Hi. How did it go?”
“I’ll tell you later, after a long nap.”
“Maybe we could go out for dinner later?”
Food! Food to feed the empty intestine! “Sure.
Just let me sleep.”
“No problem.” She slowly returns her head to its
original position, stares out the window, lights a
cigarette and takes a sip, her closed book resting in her
lap.

Finger Food
by Jerry D. Loudenback
My personal theory is that God finished up the world
late on the sixth day, and Afghanistan got slapped
together to meet His “and on the seventh day He
rested” deadline. He just simply ran out of time and
materials; after the purple mountain majesty and the
amber waves of grain, the fjords, the Mediterranean,
the Amazon River basin, there just wasn’t a whole lot
left to work with.

  • * *

Bleached and barren desert broke right up against the
Hindu Kush mountains, with a few fertile valleys
casually tossed in here and there like insincere
apologies. That was pretty much the landscape and the
landscape’s attitude. Afghanistan was one of the most
desperate places on earth in which to try to eke out a
living: an almost subsistence livelihood, even in the
best of times.
And I arrived in the worst of times, when
Afghanistan was in the seventh year of a drought.
People were starving to death, or if not to death, to
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the next best thing—like twelve-year-old Ahmed,
whose father cut his nose off so he could make a
living as a beggar. Afghanistan wasn’t very charming,
or comfortable, but it was contagious.
I was there to teach English, having joined the
Peace Corps to track down some adventure, and
hopefully do some good along the way. So it was
rather disheartening to teach the future tense to a class
that didn’t have much of a future to speak of. Both
literally—the Farsi language had no future tense—and
figuratively, as time and a twenty-year war would tell.
But after I settled into the boundaries of the past
continuous tense, I stopped expecting so much.
As the drought continued and the crisis loomed,
the United Nations stepped in with the present tense:
all able-bodied, male Peace Corps Volunteers were
requisitioned to lead “food caravans” to remote areas
inaccessible by truck. They warned us of dust and
heat, the pissing and moaning of camels ten hours a
day, amoebic dysentery—every Volunteer’s most
intimate traveling companion—bedbugs, bread and tea
three times a day, and the threat of bandits (real
bandits!). It was exhilarating news—the stuff of
adventure—and what I had hoped for. And it sure
beat the hell out of modals: “should haves,” “could
haves” and “wish I would haves.”
Paired with an Afghan counterpart, Hasan, I was
responsible for a guide, a cook, three guards with
1880-era matchlock muskets, eleven camels, a donkey
and around three tons of UN wheat. Riding the
donkey bareback, with my feet dragging the ground,
wrapped up in a turban and the loose-fitting Afghan
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“pajamas,” I envisioned myself as Lawrence of Arabia,
or, loosely translated, a Don Quixotic, Jerence of
Afghanistan.
Our goal was two villages a day, as time, distance
and amoebic dysentery permitted. We arrived in a
village to great occasion, as we brought an event, some
gossip and a chance against the winter. After lengthy
greetings and thanks, and negotiations with the
landlords for their ten percent cut of the wheat
distribution, we unloaded half a camel, set up the
scales and books, then weighed out 20 kilograms of
wheat to each “head of household.” With help from
extended family, the village and a little luck—or the
absence of worse luck—this was enough wheat to
keep six members of a family of seven alive through
the winter.
On the second day out, right on schedule at Tal-i-mirghazi,
a small village of around two hundred just
inside the Hindu Kush, we finished up the wheat
distribution just before midday, had the camels repacked
and were saying our final ‘bamona xodahs.’ But
nothing moved very fast in Afghanistan—nowhere to
go really, so why hurry—and the malek, the village
chieftain, insisted we stay for lunch. The invitation
could not be refused, of course, either in good
manners or in good conscience, so Hasan and I set
aside our culturally insensitive timeline and sat down
to enjoy edible hospitality.
Hasan and I took our positions of honor, crosslegged
on cushions, at the head of the circle, amongst
twenty village elders. After some chit-chat, the
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servants brought in a copper pitcher and a tin basin
for hand washing. As the ritual made its way around
the circle, the malek began what must have been an
eloquent and moving tribute. With intense
concentration, I picked up maybe one-third of what
he was saying, Hasan, with limited English, translated
another third, and the remaining third—well, who
knows.
The malek went on and on, as the custom dictated,
and it took all of my concentration to keep up, so I
didn’t notice the vat that the servants had placed in
front of us until my nose caught a rumor of
something, and my eyes watered up in sympathy.
Whatever it was, it had very poor personal hygiene.
And, then, with a flourish, the servants lifted the
lid from the vat and revealed…a head. Goat’s head
soup. A skull, in essence: skinned, muscle and
cartilage, tendons, brains (I think) floating out of the
neck cavity. And those cooked, dead goat eyes staring
me down.
Simultaneously with this intimate eye contact, my
Midwestern stomach began a frantic dialogue with my
“well-you-wanted-an-adventure-now-didn’t-you?”
brain.
“I ain’t eatin’ this.”
“You’ve got to or you’ll insult the malek and his elders.”
“No way, I’m already starting with the dry heaves.”
“These are poor people, Jerence ol’ boy, and they slaughtered
a goat in your honor.”
“Yeah, well, maybe so but—good God, there’s something in
the damn thing’s nose!”
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A sudden silence interrupted the bickering. The
malek had finished up his eulogy, and twenty pairs of
eyes, with twenty proud smiles underneath, were
eagerly waiting for something. From me. This being a
diplomatic circle and all, I offered in appreciation all
of the kind words I could find, but I was uneasy; very
uneasy when the malek responded. I leaned over to
Hasan for a translation, and he explained, “It is the
custom in my country that the honored guest has the
privilege of eating the eye.”
The rivalry between stomach and brain escalated
into an ugly confrontation.
“You got to be fucking kidding.”
“Nope, this is serious diplomacy here, Jerence, cross-cultural
adjustment, I think they call it.”
“Look, I shouldn’t have to do this, what with my
dysentery and all.”
“Be good for you—hell, it’ll probably kill off the
amoebae.”
“But, man, it smells bad, it looks bad, and you just know
it’s gonna taste really, really bad!”
There wasn’t any choice really; it had to be done.
Using my thumb and two fingers—all matters of
cuisine are finger food in Afghanistan—I dug out an
eye (it came out of the socket more easily than I had
expected—the eye muscles were a little overcooked),
shoveled it into my mouth, bit into it twice—once to
kill it and again to make sure—and swallowed
everything in one gulp of coagulated, jellied mucous.
I immediately began, very loudly and very quickly,
to thank the malek, his elders, the village, the state of
Badakshan, the proud country of Afghanistan, Allah
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and Mohammed, for this very great honor, of which
my father back in the U.S. would be so proud, and that
I would tell my sons and their sons, and they would
tell their sons, about this great occasion and this
hospitable village of Tal-i-mir-ghaz. The speech gave
me time to lock down my throat, but the coagulated,
jellied mucous was on the move, crawling, ever so
slowly, down my esophagus. My stomach tried to make
itself really, really small, as my intestines grumbled
with anticipation.
But no one said a word. The silence again: the
twenty pairs of eyes, the smiles, they were insatiable.
Things were getting ominous. Hasan came to my
rescue and explained the situation, ever so gently, with
a shitty little smirk on his face. “In my country, it is
unlucky to eat only one eye.”
7

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