Muffin Fever in Africa · by Chelsea Trousdell

After an intense cycle out of Kampala we ride into some sort of massive heat wave. Passing through the country side at a human pace; earning ones hunger and good sleeps with much more interactive greetings. We stopped in a village, I say village but what it really was was more of a truck stop with a few huts and snack stands. The vendors just took up residence it seemed.

Coca cola pretty much owns Africa so it’s easier to find a pop than it is water. I bought a bag of muffins that surely had been sitting in the sun for months. I must have been high on sunshine and orange Fanta.

“Hey guys, lets all enjoy a sack of dusty muffins!”
“Ya great idea, stupid!”

Needless to say I was the only one (except for the locals I shared them with, so sorry) who ate a muffin after now famously saying; “I sure hope this muffin is ok.” I thought nothing of it and we mounted our saddles and dripped salty sweat to a tree about 2km away. There we rested under the canopy of shade with a roaming rooster and his hens. A boy ran into the jungle and brought us back an over ripe papaya and I gave him a muffin. A woman stepped out of a near by hut. She was sort of hunched over, cradling her breast. She exposed her inflamed tumor and spoke to us in one of the hundreds of languages spoken in Uganda. Of course there was nothing we could do. We had no money, so I gave her the rest of my muffins.

We drank our special homemade electrolyte drink (salt and sugar in water). My stomach was in knots at this point. I chose to ignore it. We had 10 more kilometers to the Lutheran Guest lodge and I could make it. The longest 10 kilometers of my life passes by at a snail pace. I am grey and steer my handle bars through cold sweats and shivers .

I don’t remember what happened next. Tracey tells me that she helped me into a bed no wider than a bench and no more comfortable at that. Supposedly, I refused to let her ask for help, not that she could have found any; we were in the middle of nowhere, but I guess maybe we could have been able to find a witch doctor.

When I come to, it is dark and hot. Trace is on the floor. A knock on the door startles my heart. I wait. Another knock. It’s soft, but persistent. I pull back the mosquito net and grunt as I slowly sit up on my elbows. I push myself up to a slumped-over sitting position. My head is pounding. I am careful to step over Trace who is out cold.

Another knock. I brace myself on the cold cement wall. I press my red-hot cheek to it for a moment of relief. My head is pounding and the dry taste in my mouth is bitter. It tastes like I ate a liter of sour yogurt before bed.

Another knock. Each step towards the door feels like miles. I’m used to staying in motels with bars on the windows. My stomach is empty. I must have thrown up. My head thumps with another knock. I have my hand on the door I take a moment to catch my breath and rest my damp forehead on the cold wall. I open the door. A child stands in front of me. His skin is black like charcoal. He takes my hand in his and leads my limp stinking self to a thatched roof hut. It’s as if he carries me there in his little hand.

The hut is dirty and dark. It smells like earth and life. The boy’s body disappears in the dark and I can only see the whites of his eyes. There is something to him that I trust and understand. He is wise and knowing, he doesn’t say a word. He cannot be more than 12. He tells me, without speaking, to lie down. The sand floor is cool and sticks to my clamminess. The boy covers me in the sandy dirt. When he is finished, nothing but my face is exposed. The earth pulls me in, picks me apart and places me back together again. The boy closes his eyes and is gone. I close my eyes too.

When I open them, Trace is standing over me. We are in our guest room. She has a glass of water in her hand. I am in the empty bathtub. She feels my forehead and tells me my temperature has gone down and the color in my face has returned, but she wonders why I am in the bathtub. I also wonder how I got there and notice the dirt under my fingernails, but don’t mention it.

I shower and Tracey fixes me a peanut butter and jam bun. I stuff the entire sandwich in my mouth. I am famished, but feel amazing. Reborn almost. Energized.
I am eager to get back on the bikes and convince Tracey that I am ok, great even. I try to rationalize my night, decide that it was just a dream. Had to have been just a dream. We pack.

There is a knock at the door. My heart skips and I jump out of my skin running to answer it. I yank the door open. A young girl stands in the doorway. Her skin is black as charcoal. In broken English she asks me if I met her brother last night. My heart is pounding, how did she know? Was she there? I proceed to have verbal diarrhea and tell her about my “dream”.

Out of breath, I search the girl for a reaction. She doesn’t look surprised, just nods her head with understanding. And with a look of pride she tells me that her brother often visits people staying in this room. She also tells me that he died 3 years ago of malaria.

Tracey looks confused (to say the least) and I can tell she is trying to chalk it up as another, what we call, “African-ism” (bizarre shit that only happens in Africa) and god knows I was trying to do the same.

Photos by J.D.

To find out more about Chelsea Trousdell
and her travels go to:
jdandtracyinafrica.blogspot.com
www.bikefurthereatcloser.com
Chelsea currently lives in Vancouver, BC.