Three weeks in Africa, with a tiny surprise at the end. By Pete Harvey.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler or read on.
In 2007, I graduated from Victoria Univeristy with a business degree in accounting and commercial law. I was about to start a graduate role at a massive, corporate Tower of Mordor - where workers' souls are steamed out the top of the building. I was acutely aware that I was about to become one of those corporate swine, and probably lose what little soul that I hadn’t spewed up and down Courtney Place while I was “hurricane Harvey”, spinning around vomiting off someone's balcony for attention.
I wanted to remain left; to remain some sort of socialist. So I booked a three-week trip to Africa to look at different types of development. Not to do any development work, just to look at it. I thought it would be token to help with something. So I went to Africa and I was thinking: Who are these people that do development work? Why are they doing it? Will this make me care about more than making money, 50 inch screens, a batch in coromandel with a silver Audi?
Why are they doing it? Will this make me care about more than making money, 50 inch screens, a batch in coromandel with a silver Audi?
I landed in Kenya, in Nairobi, or Nairobbery as they call it there, and I was shown around Kibera, a slum with a million people.
They offered me a meal at a restaurant. When I say restaurant, it's more like a plank of wood with more corrugated iron and an open fire. I'm in a predicament, because I don't really want to eat the food, but I'm the only white guy, or “Mzungu”, and I don't want to insult the guy wearing the Masai tribe outfit.
It was surprisingly good, so I ate quite a lot. The locals watched as I ate a lot of meat, and then I started to feel bad, eating all the food. I thought, “Is this some sort of gag/joke? Where the Mzungu comes in, they feed him, and then they watch him curl over, crumple up, and just start shitting himself in the slum?
I know from anecdotes quite a lot of people have shit themselves as an adults. I've done it three times: two were at sea, one actually down at Felix Cafe at 9:38 in the morning on a Tuesday. It was very unexpected, it was like lightning bolts just hit.
In the end, in that derelict slum restaurant, my bowls were strong and I ate the meal.
I moved on from looking at city development and went to look at rural development in Uganda. I had to catch a bus to Uganda, to Mbale.
Again, I’m the only Mzungu and I’m on this 14-hour bus ride and the roads hadn’t been sealed. Even though there are all these potholes, they still drive at full speed. I’m approximately 100 kilos, I’m losing weight so might be a touch lighter, but a lot of the time I was fully airborne. I was surprised at the physics of how the bus was holding together.
After about eight hours, an elderly woman takes a seat next to me. The bus sort of rattles on and I’m trying to sleep, head bouncing against the window, my back jarring against the seat.
Suddenly, I feel this rough and scratchy hand on my thigh. My eyes widen and I try to assess the situation. “Is this something culturally that I’m not aware of? Maybe I should put my hand on her thigh, is that the thing to do?”
A whirlpool of thoughts start going through my head:
'Am I attracted to her...? No. What does she think of my thighs? Some people say I’ve got chicken legs, other people say they’re okay; I’ve gotten mixed reviews. Man, her hands are calloused and scratchy.'
I don't want to cause a stir so I just leave it, and slowly the hand creeps down my leg. I don’t know what the protocol is in this sort of situation, and over 20 minutes pass. I pluck up the courage to look across, and she’s asleep!
I don't want to cause a stir so I just leave it, and slowly the hand creeps down my leg. I don’t know what the protocol is in this sort of situation, and over 20 minutes pass. I pluck up the courage to look across, and she’s asleep!
I look down at my leg and my arm rest has slowly been raising my shorts up my leg... it’s not her.
Disappointed, I return to my jarring dreams.
I arrive in Uganda and I check out some rural development work. I meet people, I see work, I hear stories. After a week, my host leaves me at the house with a dirt bike and a 4WD drive and someone to come and help me with my washing (do I need help? no, but I will accept the offer). I have had enough of the heart-ache of development work and I know the 4WD and the bike are meant for development work, but I think they could use a good blowout. They’ve done a lot of hard work, it’s all so serious. So I go out to the Ugandan countryside, up dirt roads and random tracks, to do burnouts.
My time in Africa drew to a close. I hopped on a plane and flew back to New Zealand. I arrive home around Christmas time. Everyone wants to hear my stories, but I hadn’t slept, probably in 48 hours; hadn’t changed my clothes since Africa - so I mumble something and head for the shower.
I get naked and I gaze in the mirror at my body, as I like to do, and suddenly I just see this red ring the size of a tennis ball just above the man area.
In the middle it’s another circle that is pure white.
In the middle of that is a little lump.
I start touching the lump.
I’m now fully alert and awake when suddenly all these memories come back to me. I remember being at dinner in Africa and someone telling this story about how everyone gathered around this white dude. Nurses were trying to pop this boil on his back, then suddenly a little maggot that had been growing inside the person popped out. I hear my host’s voice telling me, “Look, the lady will clean everything but you must iron your own underwear, otherwise this could happen to you.” I remember taking the underwear off the line. They were stiff as cardboard in the 40-degree heat and I thought, “If anything’s living in here, well-played... I’m going on the dirt bike.”
I run up the stairs in my towel, screaming for my mum. I’m about 23 at the time. Mum was a nurse, so she’s seen all sorts of things. She’s sort of apprehensive because I’m kind of lowering the towel, yelling, “Maggots, cut it out! cut it out!”
“What’s going on?” she asks me.
I tell the story and she says, “Look, we’re not cutting anything out, you’re going to bed; go to bed!”
Troubled, and rubbing my little maggot, I go to bed.
I wake up probably about midday. All my family’s there, everyone’s heard about this maggot that may be growing in me. My brother and my sisters want to see it. I go up to them and start like lowering my pants. No one wants to see their sibling’s dingaling… they too look a bit apprehensive. But they want to see it.
No sympathy - straight to gags:
“He’s eating for two now. “
“How’s little Maggie? “
“How’s the pregnancy going?”
“Did you like the mother?”
“Ha,” I say as I rub little Maggie. She’s growing bigger; the rash is still nice and red.
That night I fall asleep. My brother and I are sharing a room, he’s in the other bed. Suddenly I’m awake and there’s a bloody robber in the room.
“Shit, he’s got a bloody knife.”
What do I do? I Pretend to sleep.
I’m pretending to sleep and then I start to think about what are the options here. I need to save my brother.
Then the other side me thinks… do I?
What if I save myself?
My brother’s had a good life. He’s four years older, he’s been in love, he's traveled with a band, he’s done well.
Maybe I should save myself.
“Stuff it, I am.”
I leap out of bed and I as I turn and run for the door, I look back. There on a chair is a hat with a towel on the back of it.
Maggie’s been poisoning me; I’ve got a fever and I’ve become delusional.
I slink back to my bed, ashamed that I chose to save myself.
I really wanted to get Maggie out of me and into some formaldehyde.
Turns out one thing that’s worse than an infected wound is an open infected wound.
The doctor gives me some cream.
I rub it on little Maggie.
In time she stops moving.
My body absorbs her.
We become one.
Fast forward: I find myself in a new suite at a hotel in Auckland with my new swiney friends, eating a $40 brunch at the Viaduct after a night out on the CC & Drys. I hear my swiney friends complain, and say: “You don’t know what it’s like to be pregnant, to have crazy chemicals and hormones running through your body.”
And I think of Maggie.
Our time together.
I hear myself saying out loud, “Well, maybe I do.”
In memory of Maggie F. Harvey. Jan 2008.
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
Illustration: Sarah Larnach
This content is brought to you with funding support from NZ On Air.