By Kendra Collins

In 1997, my husband Josh and I backpacked through West Africa for almost four months. Both of us were well-traveled already; I had lived in France for a year and sailed around the world on a ship, and Josh had backpacked through Southeast Asia for six months. Even so, Africa was an intense trip for us. We started in Cameroon, flew over Nigeria, took local transportation through Benin, Togo, Ghana, and Cote D’Ivoire, and finally flew to Morocco before ending up in Spain.

Over the course of four months, we stayed in exactly three hotels that cost more than ten dollars a night. We chose not to dine in restaurants; instead we ate in local markets or sampled street food. We literally wore out our hiking boots, walking up to twenty miles in a day – both to save cash, and because that was what it was all about for us: seeing the countries, meeting the people, having the experience.

The experience was a full one. One night we would fall asleep listening to waves crash against the beach in Kokrobite and smell the fragrant night scents of the Ghanian garden outside our window, the next we would be awakened by a slimy, long, glowing worm crawling over our legs as we lay on top of mildewed foam mattresses in a crumbling guest house. We feasted on beautifully spiced chunks of fish, luscious tropical fruits, and creamy yogurts, but we also went for days without a good meal; by the end of the trip, we had each lost almost twenty pounds. And in Morocco, we got sick.

It felt like the flu. A bad flu, the kind where you have to stay home from work. We staggered through Marrakesh, clinging to each other like drunken sailors on a quest for rum, when we were actually just trying to find a bottle of aspirin and, inexplicably, Corn Flakes. The fever and chills lasted for four days, during which we lay sprawled on our bed, craving popsicles and TV but instead being roasted by dry breezes and blasted by the adhan (call to prayer), which was ear-splittingly broadcast over loudspeakers five times a day.

But that mess was nothing compared to what happened later.

We weren’t taking anti-malaria drugs, you see. My brother had taken them while he lived in Africa, and he suffered through vivid, horrific nightmares. Also, huge chunks of his hair had fallen out, never to grow back. I decided that I would rather take the risk of getting malaria than be terrified nightly for months, then look mangy for the rest of my life, so I opted out. Josh followed me into the breach. We were slaves to Deet. We faithfully, liberally applied it every evening, and for good measure we wore long sleeves and slept under a mosquito net. It worked: the mosquitoes left us alone, and we slept peacefully, our hair intact.

But then one night in Ghana, we skipped a night. Why? So many reasons. We were lulled into complacency by window screens, we were in our twenties and felt invincible, we’d had a few beers with some Germans we met in town, and yes, we felt burdened and bored by our Deet application ritual. So we skipped it.

And then we regretted it. We woke up the next morning covered in mosquito bites. I counted fifty-two on my upper body alone. And it was fine for months. And then it wasn’t.

We were back in the states by this time, in California. We were broke, doing temp work and substitute teaching gigs as we looked for full-time jobs. So no health insurance. One evening, as we were shopping in Safeway, I was jolted by a chill so severe that it stopped me in my tracks. Josh gave me his jacket, but by the time we left the store, my teeth were chattering, and by the time we got home, I had a fever of 103.5. This went on all night, but by the next day, I was fine. I went to a job interview, we went on a run, and I chalked it up to a 24-hour flu.

The next day, it happened again. This time my fever spiked at 104, but again, I was fine the day after. This pattern continued for two weeks, getting worse and worse every forty-eight hours. Before you ask, Googling it was not an option: this was 1998. And we were in our twenties and broke, with no health insurance. So I didn’t go to the doctor.