Montetyphoidenguelaria (or, A Very Whiny Post)

As it turns out, living the dream involves some moments tending more toward the nightmarish. The scene: Nighttime. A mosquito-infested, filthy cabin in the middle of a long-planted, well-tended garden (read: mosquito breeding ground). A mosquito net filled with holes, a skittish border collie hiding under the bed, a fever coming on. The faint but unmistakable scent of cat urine.

But let’s back up. In daylight hours, and after some time spent searching for a non-rattlevan place to rest our heads for a week or so while awaiting the delivery of an important package from the United States – time that was somewhat stressful if only because (a) certain common traveler’s afflictions had made themselves known and (b) the package we awaited included the precise and hard-to-find rattlevan parts that would make the van’s restroom whole again – the little hut had seemed charming.




Still costing a bit more than we wanted to pay (but not much more than your average campsite) but with a planty, jungle-like charm, the cabin seemed great.

It had a small kitchen, through whose cracked windows and ceiling vines grew freely, a bathroom, and a (cold) shower, and the garden in which it sat was right on the beach.  We told the cabin’s owner we might stay two weeks.


But at some point not too long after climbing under the hastily patched bug net into the dust-covered bed that first night, inhaling smoke from our mosquito coil, I began to crave the relative comfort of the rattlevan.

Chuck was agreeable and Lena was ecstatic, so we moved back out. And then the fever chills began in earnest.

The next morning, feeling that my fever was gone, I took my temperature. It had gone down, apparently, to 101.5. It rained all day. I slept all day. I firmly believed that I had come down with malaria and/or dengue fever. The vegetable guy, who alone is literally the only way to procure a single piece of produce in this town, failed to appear for the second day running. Some unknown animal(s) went into the cabin and ate the rare loaf of whole wheat bread we’d managed to get. I slept still more and felt sorry for myself. On one of the few occasions I ventured out of the van, I slipped and fell in the mud. I turned 31.

Today, though, things are looking up a little bit. We’ve hatched a plan for obtaining the care/RV parts package that doesn’t involve waiting in Hopkins, and we’re feeling strong enough to hit the road again. The fever has gone. Just now, in the next house over, someone started playing Christmas carols. (Festive!) And finally, although the sun isn’t out, the vegetable guy is.



So: an overall improvement.

Next up, with any luck: On the Road Again (or, Hiking, Snorkling, and Cave Crawling).