All part of the experience

From 21 June to 25 June

I like to think that it’s all part of the experience. A story in five-parts:

The Exposition
I hope I’m not using all the water in the apartment, I think as I flush the toilet for…I don’t want to think about how many times.

“Did you clean the house today?”
“Yes madam,” I’m cowering beneath my employer’s temper and fierce accusatory eye. Something’s not right here…
“Then why does it look so dirty?”
“I don’t know.” I don’t know why I’m here, and why I’m watching myself, except that’s not me, is it, this is just a dream, right?, I can’t believe I’m dreaming about my research like this…

What’s that noise? My hand is reaching, scrambling in the darkness for my mobile phone. My bedroom in this cavernous apartment allows very little natural light. “Hello?”
“Oh, did I wake you up?” I look at the time on the travel clock on my desk. 1:13 P.M.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Sorry. This is Cathy. I want you to come and have a meal. You come now?”
I have met four Filipinas named Cathy. I have no idea which Cathy this is…Cathy with a ‘K’, or with an ‘ie’ or with a ‘y’ or…
“I’m sorry, Cathy but I can’t. I’m sick.”
“Oh, maybe I call back later, you come for dinner, yes?”
“No…look, do you know the word ‘vomit’? Yes? O.k., that’s why I don’t come.”
“Oh, ok, maybe later,” Cathy says, her cheerful ramble unabated by the prospect of a sick guest.
“Look, I’ll call you when I’m better,” I say as cheerfully as possible.

I flop back on the mattress. The fan purrs on the nightstand and I give into the spinning…vibrating…ringing of my phone. Ugh! “Yes?”
“Hi, this is Mariz. You remember me?” Of course I remember her, I met her two days ago.
“Oh yes, how are you, Mariz?”

And on it goes, calls or texts all afternoon, people I promised I would see. Maybe I overextended my schedule for today…what is today?

The Rising Action
Into the black garbage bag I’m shoving all the Filipino food in the apartment refrigerator, holding my nose and trying to think of other things like cool meadows with ponies and rainbows. It took all my energy to shower and dress and then venture out into the hottest part of the day, to do my bit of research so I don’t feel totally unproductive these past three days. Then back to the apartment to collapse on the mattress in the cool, cavernous haven that is my bedroom, now turned sickroom. And all those hours spent on my back staring up I am consumed by the burning – literally, burning – question: was it the funky Filipino dumplings, the spicy Sri Lankan curry, or the greasy fast-food chicken sandwich – or just a flu bug? Gasp, what if it’s the flu-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken? I drag myself to the computer and search the CDC website, and once I’m convinced it’s not the flu-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken, I go back to bed.

The Climax
“Oh god, there are so many Americans here,” says the nasally female British voice in the seat behind me. “What are they doing here?”
“Probably learning Arabic, study abroad programs, that sort of thing,” replies her male counterpart.
“Actually,” I imagined myself spinning around to face them, “we’re here to infiltrate your post-mandate expatriate niche, invade your indie film showings, your good-intention NGOs and your precious afternoon teatime.” But I’m not that bold.

This is the part of the story where I think I am well enough to see a documentary about the Sudanese Lost Boys at the Film Institute conveniently located a few blocks from my apartment. I love the area where I live in Amman. Unfortunately I realize halfway through “God Grew Tired of Us”, which I highly recommend, that I am covered with an itching, burning rash. Eeww.

The Falling Action
“What do you want me to say? Don’t do anything and here’s some pills?” the Iraqi-Jordanian doctor sitting opposite me smirked, his arms crossed smugly. “You’re not vomiting, your fever is gone, the rash, well, take the antihistamines if you must – really Yasmine, you bring them to me at their last breath,” he said turning to my Palestinian-Jordanian friend who has brought me to this trusted family doctor. She threw her hands up in mock frustration. Turning back to me he continued, “Do what you feel like doing and drink mint tea, it’s good for the stomach – we’ve been doing that for thousands of years! I don’t know why you Americans insist on antibiotics – you have more cancer than us, that’s for sure!”

Had I not given some previous thought to the contrasts between biomedicine and other medical systems in a medical anthropology class, and had I not reminded myself that I should be open to such views, I might have taken this berating of biomedicine to heart. As it was, I was relieved to escape the usual biomedical diagnostics like being poked with needles and solutions like being prescribed a cocktail of drugs.

The Dénouement
Mint tea is delicious, and I am well on the way to recovery. Alhamdulillah, really.