I just stepped on gecko shit – now there’s a first line! I’ve just stepped on gecko shit for the 100th time since moving into our rental property and it never gets old, it is also followed by ‘ah FFS! Where are the tissues?’
Oh, tropical paradise you are nothing like the brochures make you out to be. To be fair, there is a gaping chasm between holidaying on a tropical island, staying in a lush resort having your every need and want pampered for and living here. Thus, begins my story. It has been eight weeks since our family moved to Beautiful Samoa – the website and all it’s amazing tropical pornography was the only thing that got me through the shit storm of a move here; I would visit it often and daydream about my life in paradise. You would think that at the ripe old age of 39 my cynicism would have shielded me from wistful daydreams, that I would have more sense, and less naivety – HA! Such an idiot. But how did we get here? I won’t bore you with the minutia of our decision to change lifestyles; we’ve all been there, wanting to get out of the rat race, to live a life that would have a positive impact on this planet blah blah blah. Suffice to say there was a job in Samoa and we agreed to check out of white middle class suburbia (the children didn’t really get a say due to their ages, but they were involved in the discussion and seemed excited about living a life like Moana – thank you Disney). But it’s not like Moana (thanks Disney) because Moana isn’t real and the world she inhabits doesn’t and never really existed – only in a beautiful composition that resulted in one of the best Disney movies so far. I’m going to take you back... back to when we arrived in Samoa (insert wavy memory image here) to where our story begins. Week 1 – Arrived 5am at Faleolo International Airport after travelling for only 6 hours from Australia we all feel like crap. S is over her illness, E is at the tail end of the stomach bug and I am starting to feel a little unwell. Yay children the vectors of all things snotty, spewy and pooey. The airport is small and basic (due to upgrading construction), if I wasn’t so tired I would have enjoyed the traditional band that was playing to greet us, as it was we spent a long time getting our passports and visas checked, and fatigue had now turned to exhaustion. Why am I wearing jeans? It is so damn hot and humid. We are picked up at the airport by G’s work, thank God they have a mini bus otherwise we would have struggled to get all 6 suitcases to our hotel. It’s pitch black and I can’t really make out where we are going, how we are getting there or our surroundings. I have a sharp stabbing pain in my stomach and I can’t keep my eyes open let along start small talk with our driver and HR staff member, however my sensibilities kick in and I start to ask banal questions about the weather, the different churches we pass and the speed limit (because I am not sure what that is exactly) – turns out it is a rough guide – good to know. For such a small island the drive to the hotel feels like it takes forever, I’m trying desperately to log landmarks such as supermarkets and petrol stations for future reference, but I know that is a futile exercise. When we get to the hotel we are all so tired and bedraggled that the bright sun is burning our retinas now and I can only assume that the rest of my family feels the same as me – where is the bed? After sleeping for pretty much the whole day it was time to hit the pool! This is what I have been waiting for; sun lotion, bathers, pools, blue skies, palm trees and a fresh coconut by the water. Yet, these stabbing pains are getting worse and now I am vomiting .... a lot! In between the vomiting (which is happening more frequently than I would like) G and I are continually telling the children mosquitoes are not your friends, put your repellent on! Mosquitoes can kill! Nothing like a bit of hysteria to get the message across. Not sure what the long-term effects of DEET are, but according to the travel doctor we saw before we left, it isn’t as bad as contracting Dengue Fever, Chikungunya, or Zika so for now we are bathing in the stuff. G starts work straight away, and I am now alone with two children in a hotel room too sick to even leave the bed this is going to be interesting.... Room service it is, and it looks like a visit from a doctor! The Doctor prescribes antibiotics for a mystery illness either caused by something I ate, drunk or the weather and medicine to stop me from puking all day (scary internal thought ... Am I Pregnant?). The staff are so sweet, and their constant fussing over my health and the children is truly touching, I want this to last forever, surly this is the life we are going to immerse ourselves in and love for the rest of our lives. The medicine starts working and I give in to the children’s constant begging to swim in the pool – ahhh this is heaven. Back again to lounging by the pool, drinking tropical fruit smoothies, eating – remember eating? Actually putting food into your mouth, swallowing and keeping it down? (nah not pregnant, surely not pregnant right? Can NOT be pregnant). I am dislodged from my holiday bliss by the fact that:
The mystery illness makes a comeback and we still haven’t found a house yet .... clock is ticking. Remarkably G finds a rental property that won’t leave us struggling to buy food every week. Many of the houses they showed G were in expat compounds and something lifted out of a display home catalogue for desperate housewives! Thankfully, G decides to rent a property that is in our budget. As I am perched over my sick bowl praying that this vomiting with stop, G describes our new house and uses the term ‘basic’ many times; I get the feeling he is trying to brace me for something. The day we leave, I can barely make it to the hotel room door, but we have suitcases packed and a rental car on its way, so I must get my arse moving and there is no way I am going to be sick forever. I’m too sick and after dumping our stuff in our new ‘basic’ home I’m being driven to hospital and there is where we spend the next 5 hours being moved from the Emergency Department to the out-patients department and finally seeing a doctor. My middle-class sensibilities are being assaulted by the standard of cleanliness and lack of equipment I am witnessing as I fade in and out consciousness. I am sent to a room that can only be described as a room out of the SAW movie series to give a urine sample – if the sight alone didn’t make me puke then the smell of festering urine certainly did. I pee as quickly as humanly possible into a sample jar and barely do my pants up as I stumble out of ‘the room’. After being moved from seat to seat, I see the Doctor who was amazing. His genuine concern and help was heart warming and he also tells me I am NOT PREGNANT (I nearly cry). After a brief discussion about not drinking the water unless it is bottled, not eating food in certain places and how the weather can also make one feel this way, I am prescribed another dose of antibiotics and finally a beautiful injection into the butt to stop the vomiting. In retrospect my experience at the hospital was at the time confronting, yet it made me realise the amazing work of the staff as they care for patients with limited resources and constraints that us privileged douche canoes wouldn’t understand – I am such a dick wad.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorExplorer of words and worlds. Categories
All
Archives
February 2021
|