There is a fungus eating away the flesh on the bottom of where my toes connect to my feet. Every time I take a step, the skin splits. All day at the beach today, sand has been getting in the cuts, followed by salt water. On the way home, our truck blew a tire. Then we got it fixed, then the tire blew again. So we walked, me in flip flops, down the highway until an overcrowded tap tap picked us up. We transferred to another tap tap, then a bus, then another tap tap, in the rain. The final ride wouldn’t drop us off in front of the house, so we got out to walk. And let me tell you, one place you do not want to walk when you have open fungal cuts on your feet and are wearing flip flops, is in the rain-flooded streets of Haiti. I have never missed New York City cabs so much.
Luckily (and crazily, considering how many people there are in Haiti), we didn’t get far at all before we rain into Alain Armand, my journalism buddy who I’ve been adventuring with this whole time, and he gave us a lift in his Jeep the rest of the way home.
Coincidentally, today was the day my dad decided to force me to learn French via immersion because listening to my English exhausts him and “Americans think that they only have to learn English because they think they are the best country in the world.”
“Dad, I wrote you a list of anti-microbial medications. Can you see if you have any of these in the house? If not can we get one first thing in the morning?”
“Que cherchez-vous à me dire? Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites, vous devez parler en français.”
After an hour of asking him to find it for me, he came back with a spray can of expired jock itch spray. When I pressed down on the nozzle, nothing but a puff of solidified aerosol gas came out.
The stupid thing is, I consulted the Walgreen’s pharmacist before I left, told him I was going to Haiti and asked him if there was anything I should get. “I don’t know, maybe an anti-fungal or something.” Yeah whatever, like I’ll need that.