Life before death

"You promise me I'm not going to die?" I asked Jordan?

"I promise you that you will not die," she said, doing her best to comfort me, yet justifiably taking this far less seriously than I.

"I just feel like I'm going to faint, and I think that if I faint I'll die," I said, ignoring her promise.

If I stood up, I would vomit again. If I lay down, I would pass out. I wanted neither. I wanted nothing but to feel normal again. I wanted to enjoy the most beautiful beach I've ever stepped foot on that taunted me from a football throw away. But instead of basking in the Zanzibar sun, I sat on the step outside the tiny restaurant kitchen with my elbows on my knees, my face in my palms, suffering from one of the many options floating around my overreacting mind: Extremely unfair hangover after a relatively calm night of drinking? Malaria? Food poisoning from the fresh snapper the bartender caught with his bare hands in the Indian ocean and grilled up at 12 a.m. to satisfy our munchies? Some African disease I don't know about that makes you believe you are going to die even though you likely just have food poisoning?

Fact: I was being a big baby. Fact: I didn't give a shit. Fact: I wanted my mother.

Despite my pessimism about my chances of survival, the symptoms screamed nothing life threatening. What had me freaked out was the thought that if this 'whatever it was' took a turn south, I had no idea where or how to find a doctor since I was a 45-minute drive from the nearest town. And even if someone with a stethoscope and thermometer appeared out of nowhere, I was on the thinly-populated side of an island off the coast of Africa. Not exactly the campus of Harvard Med School.

I stood up and used all the energy I had to walk the 10 feet to the bed of bamboo in the kitchen staff lounge. Before I could put the pillow in a suitable place, I had to run out the room so I wouldn't make a mess. I didn't make it more than a quarter of the way to the outhouse before I knelt beside a flowerless flowerbed and projectile vomited. There couldn't have been another passion fruit seed in my stomach from the morning's breakfast. I added a bit of color to the naked landscape with chipati, toast, fruit salad, coffee, midnight snapper, and a few servings of my dignity.

After I gathered the courage to stand up, I noticed two Maasai men staring at me from 10 feet away. For those of you who have never been to Africa, think National Geographic photos. Think warriors. Think beaded bracelets, red and blue cloth outfits, and stretched earlobes.

When they were certain the show was over, the men walked up to me with quizzical expressions. They wanted answers.

"I've been puking all day....uhhh....vomiting....(I put my left hand by my mouth and spread my fingers out like a firework as I moved it away as if playing a round of Pictionary)," I replied, as if talking to a two-year-old despite the fact these men speak perfect English. "I've never felt this strange in my life."

"Would you drink special Maasai medicine, or would you be afraid to?" one of the men asked.

How do you tell a man who possesses the skills to kill lions without modern weapons that you are scared to take a little local Pepto-Bismol.

"Um...yeah...I mean no...I would appreciate that," I squeaked out. "I would love some. How much would it cost?"

"No, no. You do not have to pay. We just want to help you. We will return shortly."

While the Maasai went to their village to gather what was synonymous to magic potion in my mind, I retreated to a sandy area nearer to the outhouse. With nothing left in my system, physically or mentally, I lay as still as a dead body, letting sand stick to the side of my face and ants use me as their playground.

The men returned within a few minutes, not leaving me much time to ponder whether or not it was a good idea to accept strange medicine from a tribe who, according to Wikipedia, "Believe that they own all the cattle in the world," and have a diet consisted of, "meat, milk, and blood from cattle."

My doctors with holes in their earlobes the size of quarters squatted down beside me as I sat up, noticing a small tea cup in one of their hands with what looked like a double shot of watered-down blood

Not allowing my hesitation to last any longer, one of the Maasai handed me the cup. "Take it all at once," he instructed.

One of the worst feelings in my opinion is drinking something that tastes much different than you anticipated. Like taking a drink from a carton of orange juice on accident when you expect it to be milk. But I had no way of knowing what dance this would do on my taste buds, especially since I neglected to smell it.

On a dare in college I once took a shot of well tequila, Tabasco sauce, and a raw egg. "Can't be any worse," I thought as I downed the potion.

Much spicier than I thought, although I can't say I formed a mental prediction aside from 'blood from cattle', which I've never had the opportunity to try. I hiccuped violently, and then once more. I could picture some sort of chemical reaction I learned about in fifth grade taking place in my stomach. Bubbles, steam, green flames. The Maasai began massaging my belly in clockwise circles, to, I assume, let the potion work its magic. Jordan apologized, saying she "had to do this" as she snapped a picture.

Once I confirmed that I was not going to die or turn into a frog, I thanked the men. They said I could take some more later if I needed to.

"I think one dose should do the trick," I said, and lay my face back in the sand while the Maasai walked away.

I still felt like death, but at least I had a story to tell if I lived.

"What are you laughing at?" Jordan asked.

"The kid from Iowa getting his belly rubbed by two Maasai warriors in front of an outhouse on an island off the coast of Africa," I said. "Just another day."