Things I never thought I'd say in Africa:

It’s getting cold.

Not chilly, not cool, but cold. I can’t see my breath yet, and I fear the day when I can (because it will most likely be somewhere with an actual zip code), but I’ve been cold.

I don’t know if Africa’s getting to me, or if I’ve just been getting used to the heat or what, but I’ve stopped needing my fan when I sleep at night. Cold showers have stopped being a relief from the heat and started being…well cold. The other night I actually needed my sweatshirt. You remember, the one that I brought thinking “oh I’ll never need that, it’s Africa!” Well I needed it. Score one more for Africa.

We were sitting on a terrace hanging out, waiting for the appointed hour (1:00 am – they start things a bit later here) when we would go to Youssou N’Dour’s club to watch Senegal’s answer to Michael Jackson (except without the nose) as he played at his club. It was 12:30 and a strange sensation overcame me. The hairs on my arm started to stand on end, straight up. My arm and leg muscles began to vibrate uncontrollably.

I didn’t know what was happening to me. This had never happened to me, usually the strangest thing to happen to my arms is they get shiny with the sweat (and that’s walking home at noon). I was completely unaware as to what was happening to my body. I thought I might have developed some sort of disease – one of those horrible ones that they warn you about but are so rare that they never give you a shot for them:

“Yeah, Jake” the doctor says, “there’s this Ooluubula Fever that they have there, but it only strikes one person a year. It’s pretty bad, first your skin puckers up and then you start to shake uncontrollably and then a giant alien bursts out of your chest and devours your soul. There’s a shot for it, but I don’t think you’ll need it, I’m pretty sure they’ve had their one case this year. Though it might be one case every fiscal year in which case I’m not sure they’ve had their case yet, or it might be on the Muslim calendar, which means that if you don’t see the moon you’ve got it but if you see it, you have to wait a day or two before you get it.”

So here I am, on a roof, my muscles are shaking uncontrollably and my skin looks like a freshly plucked goose. “Hannah,” I say, turning to my toubaba neighbor who happened to be accompanying me that night, “look here, do you think this is anything I should be worrying about?” I ask (she’s pre med so I figure she knows about these things).

I show her my arm, almost hitting her in the face my arms are shaking so bad now. “hmm,” she says. “Ahh.” She takes out a tongue depressor and checks my ears. “Oh my,” she says. “What?” I ask. “What is it?” “Oh it’s just very interesting. It’s been a while since I’ve seen anything like this.” she says.

Oh no I’ve got the Ooluubula Fever. I’m counting down the seconds until my chest explodes and an alien devours my soul.

“It appears that you’re cold,” she says.

Cold. It sounds strangely familiar. Like a picture of a childhood friend that you stumble across in a closet or attic somewhere. I know that face, but I can’t put a name to it.

Cold. It reminds me somehow of Connecticut, and sitting inside by a fireplace.

Cold. It reminds me of staying up late one night at GW, watching snow (whatever that is) fall softly in the streetlight, covering the street and sidewalk in a soft glow.

Cold. “Cold?” I ask. “What’s that?”

“It’s the body’s natural reaction when the temperature dips below 80 degrees.” Dr. Hannah answers. “It happens to everyone at some point in time,” she assures me.

“Is it bad?” I ask. “Is it contagious? Can I still go out?”

“It can be bad,” she tells me. “Fortunately, it’s not contagious and it’s easily cured.”

“How?”

“A sweatshirt. Everyone should have one; you probably have on in your closet somewhere,” (as she spoke, that semicolon came out…it was weird).

“So I can still go out?” I ask. I mean, this is my one chance to see the Michael Jackson of Senegal (without the nose thing). The only way I wouldn’t be going is if an alien burst from my chest and devoured my soul. Because let’s face it, Michael Jackson’s just no fun without a soul.

“Yeah, I mean you should really go back and put a sweatshirt on,” she says, “but if you’re going out to dance I think you should be alright,” she tells me.

Phew. So I went out. I saw Youssou N’Dour. He was amazing. Let me recommend to anyone who happens to be in Africa, specifically the westernmost city (Dakar), that you go and see Youssou if you get the chance. I mean he didn’t come onstage until 2.00, a time at which point most clubs in the states are (I’m guessing) closing. But if you’re not my dad and can stay up past 8.30, its definitely worth staying up till 4.00, dancing the night away to the liquid rhythms of Youssou’s mbalax (I should really look into reviewing music) and pretending to be married to four different toubabas so they have an excuse to not talk to sketchy guys that haunt clubs (I mean I know four is a bit much, but they say if you can afford it you’re allowed, and it costs nothing to pretend to be married – that and it’s over as soon as you get into the cab home unless your cabbie is sketchtastic in which case you’ve got bigger problems to deal with).

And the best part about the whole thing is this: when I came out of the club hot and sweaty after having danced to liquid rhythms for two hours, a cold shower actually sounded refreshing. Unfortunately, by the time I woke up the next morning, cold shower sounded once again…cold.

Stay warm.

Love,
Jake

PS – If you noticed that this post is noticeably devoid of evil hoards of evil goats, it’s because all evil goat energy is currently being used to write what is quite possibly the Melville family’s greatest contribution to world literature since Moby Dick. So if you’re craving evil goat stories (and even if you’re not) then fear not, because once this masterpiece is finished, you shall have an evil goat epic for the ages. It will make you laugh, it will make you cry. It will rival The Odyssey in its epic-ness, The Collected Works of Billy Shakespeare in its lyric-ness, and Farmer Browns Goat Almanac in its insight-ness into the lives of evil hoards of evil goats.