Poisoned Words

My boss might have well have cursed me. Today, he turned the haterade on full blast, and succeeded in making me genuinely worried. It all started with some groundnuts. Basically it is the local peanuts from Nigeria, and I am occasionally provided them by the admin for the group. I have come to like them a lot, and usually eat a few handfuls each day. Today Greg happened to see me, and he made it seem like I was eating fresh meat that had been lying on the ground. Over and over, he repeated, don’t you know they don’t have the same cleaning standards as us, don’t you know this isn’t the States, don’t you know you are really pushing your luck eating the stuff you do? All this I would have brushed off if I did not secretly believe that it’s true. Really, I just made piece with the fact that I will get really sick at least once while I am here.

But what he was warning me about was worse than sickness, it was worse than death actually. According to him, people here don’t just get the usual runny poo and stomach aches, when you get sick here, you end up in the hospital for days. ‘Have you ever been so sick you wish you would die?’, that’s how sick you will get, says the boss. Worse yet, he had supporters. One of the Pilipino guys that I work with said the same thing. He got so sick he wished he would die, and said he surprised that was possible, considering the things he ate in the Philippines. So now I am pissed, why couldn’t they let me live in blissful ignorance. And if I got sick, so be it. Now I am setting at my desk dissecting any movements in my bowels in search of foul play, thinking back over my last meal. I have lost the mental advantage, and everyone knows that soon after, the physical falls as well. Before the talk, I was in the middle of eating a roasted plantain that was brought to me, but afterwards I quickly wrapped it up and plan to throw it away. Although that is probably a good idea since it came from a street vendor and was wrapped in newspaper. But now I have to fight this paranoia, because scared or not, I have to eat this food. Unlike my boss, who shipped over two years worth of pre-packaged food (yes his apartment is full of boxes), I have to eat the food here. So all he really did was make me afraid for no reason. I liken Greg to the guy who tells you that there are 92 deaths a year on elevators, right as you press the button to get to the 72nd floor. Yes I made that fact up, but the point is the same. Greg knows my situation, he just wants to rain on my parade. Really I think he is upset that I like it here, because he has convinced himself that he has to be miserable in his room for the next two or three years. Que sera sera… whatever will be will be.