Not Malaria, but it involves an insect

Every Tuesday all the trainees get together at the Songhai Centre in Porto-Novo. The rest of the time the four sectors are separated. TEFL (my sector) and SED (business sector) train at Davie, and RCH (Health) and EA (Environment) at another local—I am not sure of its name.
Songhai is a tourist attraction of sorts for Porto-Novo. Other NGOs and organizations, mostly comprised of other Yovos of the world, convene here. Conferences are held at Songhai. The drive to Songhai is along a extremely busy road. We have to cross the road to get lunch, sometimes. And sometimes I feel like I am playing Russian roulette. I could get lunch at Songhai, but it is expensive at the Buvette. Walking down the drive is a cyber café, and gardens. Our sessions are held in a pavilon with stadium-like seating.

The last two mornings at Songhai have been dedicated to health-related issues. The first week in Porto-Novo we learned about diarrhea, AIDS/HIV, and avian bird flu all morning. Diarrhea talk at 9 a.m. in the morning is interesting to say the least. The second week the topic moved to malaria. After the morning sessions, we have a lunch break. This past week, we finished early so I used the cyber café first. Then I ran into another PCVT, Jonny. While I was eating my strange lunch of salad, pasta, hardboiled eggs, and a small piece of poisson, a bug flies into my eye.
Not to really paint a picture, I want to add that I had sunglasses on. The fly was determined. I felt it fly in, but didn’t think too much of it, because normally things come right out. Your eye tears up and it falls out, or occasionally you rube it out. At least that had been my experience. I finish eating.

Jonny tells me he has a huge cockroach problem at his house. He tells me about trying to write a story, and looking up to see one facing him off. My eye feels irritated. I tell Jonny I think there is something in it. We stop, and he offers to look. Jonny is from the New England area, but he has this very go with the flow attitude. He looks at my eye, and says he doesn’t see anything. We keep walking, and I suggest he write a story about his cockroaches, where the one coackroad, who eats the others, is a King Kumba figure, like from Mario Brothers. I stop again.

“I really think there is something in my eye,” I say.

“Do you want me to look again,” he says, but not with any hint of impatience.
He looks more closely.

“Oh yeah, you could some kind of bug in there.” Pause. “Do you want me to get it out?” He adds, “I hope it isn’t one of those bugs that can dig under you skin and lay eggs that hatch out.” I feel reassured.

He tries to remove the bug, but can’t, and so I go up to the mirror of a random moto and take a look. I am unsuccessful in trying to remove it as well. I have forgotten, for the first time, to bring water. I want to try and flush the bug out. I have to buy Pure Water for 25CFA. Pure Water does not come in a bottle, but a bag that resembles a Ziploc, without the Ziploc. I have to bite the corner of the bag open with my teeth. Jonny and I have stopped now, and I try to splash some water in my eye. It does not work. Jonny tries to put some in hand and put it in my eye. It does not work. A Beninese lady tries to show us that we are not holding our hands right for the water. It does not help. Finally I tilt my head back, and Jonny dumps some water on my face. The first time, most of it does not even get in my eye, but on my shirt. The second time is more successful. We look, and the black spec is still under my bottom eyelid. Jonny asks if I have anything in my purse that we could use. I don’t know what this vague “thing” would be, but I do see my Kleenix. Jonny uses one, and manages to finally get the bug out. It is no ordinary bug. Only part of it was black, hanging from what I can only describe as a head are three small transculent tentacles. I don’t think I have or will ever see again anything like this bug. It has been a production. I am sure the locals thought us two very curious Yovos, more than usual anyways. We continue to look for Jonny’s bug killing spray. It is not over.

As we are walking back, my eye still hurts. At first I ask Jonny if it is red, and he says yes. Again, he does not seem alarmed. Another few minutes go by, and I lift my glasses up again to show him. My eye feels like it is swelling up, he just says, it doesn’t look good. I wonder out loud if I should see if the doctors are still at Songhai. Jonny says that would probably be a good idea. By the time I get back, I am certain I can not look good. I walk up to the PSL trainer, and inquire about the doctors.

“They have left already,” she says.

I lift up my sunglasses, she gasps, and says let me call them. I don’t have a mirror I am not sure what I look like. I imagine though I look like Brad Pitt in “Twelve Monkeys.” And the reactions I get from the other facilitators are like those people seeing Penelope for the first time. I talk to the doctor and tell her what happens. She asks that I come to Cotonou. Another PCVT, Jennifer comes up. I show her my eye, when she asks what’s wrong. She needs to see the doctor for something minor, and comes along with me. I have to wait 10 minutes to leave. I keep my glasses on, I don’t want anyone to see me. I am not to worried, but see irony in the fact that of all the health concerns while in Benin, an insect in my eye was never one of them.

The drive to Cotonou seems long; it takes between 40 minutes to an hour. We listen to the radio, and enjoy air conditioning. Jennifer and I talk the whole time about our different programs. It keeps my mind occupied, but the swelling of my eye reaches a point that I can not ignore. I feel a bit uncomfortable. It feels like someone has tried to fit a giant bouncy ball in the space of my eyeball.

The doctor looks slightly alarmed at my eye. She washes it out in no other way than being described as A LOT. She makes some calls, and I have to go see an optomologist. She wants to make sure I have not cut the cornea of my eye. I have to wait a few hours to see the optomologist. In the meantime the doctor creates a make shift patch. I look like a twisted pirate.
When I arrive at the optomologist’s office, she is not in yet. She will return in another hour. I have to wait, and the receptionist tries to get me to pay 200CFA. I refuse. Two other nurses come in, they talk, and I am told to sit down. I am glad I stood my ground. The optomologist confirms there is no cuts on my cornea, prescribes three medicines, and creates a nice eye patch for me. I am hoping I can now return to Porto-Novo.

The doctor has me stay over night. I have to go out and find dinner. Now, not only am I a white female in West Africa, I am a white female that looks like a pirate. The day has been a random, bizarre string of events. While discoute-ing, a lady comes up and gently touches my boobs. I was warned about this my first week in Benin. The lady was just curious, because I am white my boobs might be different. I try to tell her in broken French they are the same. We laugh at each other. I was worried about going out with an eye patch, but I am not looked at any differently.