Idling in a sea of red dirt with trash that crests waves made by tire marks, the mini-bus hums its song of departure. The seats sink as they embrace each new body, women in colors that churn like peacock feathers, men draped in robes of airy cotton, and wide-eyed children who stare at me.
Suddenly, an unusual figure appears at the door. It is a two-man behemoth, with one man’s legs extending from the other’s waist, arms wrapped around his chest, and head lolling over his shoulder. The one with the burden of the other’s weight grimaces and huffs a few words to the attendant, who scans the back seat, points in my direction and shouts in French to “Clear the back! There is a sick man.” Next thing I know, the conjoined men are hurdling toward me, over the folded seats that make a narrow isle.
My senses react before my limbs.
My nasal passages begin to fill with the stench of rot. And my gaze shoots toward a blackened and red mangled foot, missing layers of skin and in the stages of decay. And the smell and image trigger understanding. At that moment a word in my vocabulary becomes real, has meaning, and has an association.
Gangrene.
The noxious smell is prompting my gag reflex and its source is coming closer and closer to me. The foot.
The gangrene.
The word is ringing like an alarm in my head and I am filled with panic, but there is nowhere to go. It is coming toward me. My pulse is racing, screams or vomit, or maybe both are rising in my throat as my fear lodges itself there: the fear of that corroded skin sloughing off or that foul-smelling discharge dripping onto me.
I want off the bus, need to get off the bus, but there is nowhere to go.
So I scramble into the corner and onto my friend Alice, wishing I could defy the laws of matter and sink into her, away from the man and his foot. But it is still coming closer, until finally it is near me.
I hold my breath and look away as it is passing, my fear mounting into paralysis.
Then it’s over.
The two men untangle and the moment I am sure that its safe, I heave myself forward, find the farthest available seat, and settle into it as I quickly wrap a scarf over my mouth to stifle the urge to throw up.
But it’s not over. There is the five hours ahead, the five hours of the smell of rot mixed with medicinal salve, of passengers circulating a bottle of cologne, and of drifting in and out of sleep and nausea. But even worse than the smell, is the fact that in five hours my disgust is not once overcome by compassion.
Suddenly, an unusual figure appears at the door. It is a two-man behemoth, with one man’s legs extending from the other’s waist, arms wrapped around his chest, and head lolling over his shoulder. The one with the burden of the other’s weight grimaces and huffs a few words to the attendant, who scans the back seat, points in my direction and shouts in French to “Clear the back! There is a sick man.” Next thing I know, the conjoined men are hurdling toward me, over the folded seats that make a narrow isle.
My senses react before my limbs.
My nasal passages begin to fill with the stench of rot. And my gaze shoots toward a blackened and red mangled foot, missing layers of skin and in the stages of decay. And the smell and image trigger understanding. At that moment a word in my vocabulary becomes real, has meaning, and has an association.
Gangrene.
The noxious smell is prompting my gag reflex and its source is coming closer and closer to me. The foot.
The gangrene.
The word is ringing like an alarm in my head and I am filled with panic, but there is nowhere to go. It is coming toward me. My pulse is racing, screams or vomit, or maybe both are rising in my throat as my fear lodges itself there: the fear of that corroded skin sloughing off or that foul-smelling discharge dripping onto me.
I want off the bus, need to get off the bus, but there is nowhere to go.
So I scramble into the corner and onto my friend Alice, wishing I could defy the laws of matter and sink into her, away from the man and his foot. But it is still coming closer, until finally it is near me.
I hold my breath and look away as it is passing, my fear mounting into paralysis.
Then it’s over.
The two men untangle and the moment I am sure that its safe, I heave myself forward, find the farthest available seat, and settle into it as I quickly wrap a scarf over my mouth to stifle the urge to throw up.
But it’s not over. There is the five hours ahead, the five hours of the smell of rot mixed with medicinal salve, of passengers circulating a bottle of cologne, and of drifting in and out of sleep and nausea. But even worse than the smell, is the fact that in five hours my disgust is not once overcome by compassion.
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