Well.

I think I've recovered from the relapse -- the relapse of whatever it was that felled me and at least 15 others earlier this week. We were all at the same party on Friday night, and we all ate the shawarma. Now, I should know better -- every time I eat a shawarma I get sick. I am the canary in the coalmine of food-borne instestinal illness. But everyone ate the shawarma, and by Monday six of my friends reported they were ill. Even E had to come home early from work to rest, which, trust me, never happens. Later in the week he heard that nine people at the Embassy were sick. (I think that's like 50% of their American staff, maybe more now that everyone's on summer vacation.)

Anyway I felt much better by Wednesday night, downright perky, and on Thursday I went back to the gym for the first time in a week. Friday morning though -- well, I'll spare you the details, and just leave it at "relapse." After some discussion amongst ourselves and consultation with the other fallen expats, E and I decided that giardia was the likely culprit, so he went out and bought me some Fasigyne. I took all 4 tablets yesterday and I don't want to speak too soon, but I think I've finally bombed the damn thing out of my system.

Yes, I could go to a doctor to get tested, but I'm rather dubious about that whole process. For one thing, after they take samples for the test, they prescribe two or three different potent medicines and tell you to start taking them all before the results come back.

I'd rather make a reasonably educated self-diagnosis, buy something over-the-counter, and treat myself; if that doesn't work then maybe I'll see the doctor.

About that party. This was the so-called ARPO* party. I had long heard about the last legendary ARPO party, which also took a week to recover from, but for alcohol-related reasons. The three "ARPO guys" have a huge Playboy-style mansion on the edge of town, with three floors, a balcony the size of our whole house, a pool, a pool table, a jacuzzi bathtub, two weight rooms, satellite TV, a cement peacock sculpture, and an alcove lined with what I like to call 'make-out couches.' Periodically the ARPO guys fill this frat house to the brim with booze and free (tainted) food, and invite everybody they know, mostly Americans, lots of cute Peace Corps girls, and a few odds-and-ends (e.g., a pint-size Rhodesian airplane mechanic). There is a lot of drinking, a little dancing (not so much this time, since they didn't hire a DJ), and some silly stunts like guys jumping off the second-floor balcony into the pool.

*Africa Regional Planning Office. No link, because I can't find a damn thing about it online. The ARPO guys -- young, male, clean-cut, physically fit Department of Defense employees -- come in shifts of 4-6 months to "build wells and schools." Do you buy it? Me neither.