Music of the Elite

African Tick Fever, A.K.A. Rickettsia. That was the initial diagnosis, and why not? Swollen tick bite. Raging fever. Africa. It’s classic case. Even one of those snooty, high brow “Oh, I’m not a doctor, I just play one on TV. Now please stop harassing my children” quacks would have had to do something on this one, and so my adventure starts.

Now, when Peace Corps thinks you’re sick they don’t fool around. Following a quick telephone triage I’m off to Mombasa where after a salvo of diagnostics I’m checked into a top notch (or at least upper middle notch) hotel. Hot showers. Electricity. An all you can eat breakfast buffet. I’m beginning to see that falling ill in the Peace Corps has its perks. But a man, no matter how starved and smelly from months of living with a limited food and water supply, can only shower and eat breakfast so many times a day, and when you’re not in possession of anything electricity operated (and you don’t care to watch the one channel that comes through on the hotel TV) you can find yourself with a an abundance of quiet personal time.

Alone in my room, lab results from South Africa pending*, I sit silently, my ears honing in to soft, haughty laughter (undoubtedly from some TV “doctor”) and the light drum of cutlery against tableware bleeding through the walls. As I take in the ambiance of one of the finest establishments in Mombasa a muted, though familiar, melody resonates from the overhead sound system. A refrain that takes me to a home far away. A sagely voice that sings on the importance of knowing when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em. It is none other than the siren call of that roast chicken maharishi himself, Kenny Rogers.

Another memorable tune plays itself out, and then another, and yet another. A seemingly infinite stream of John Denver, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Dolly Pardon floods out through the dining room speakers and into my room. I lay gripped with the same emotion that must be wrought in those trapped eternally in purgatory, eternally captive to overhear some kind of non-stop line-dancing afterlife next door, reserved for only those line-dancing aficionados whose life deeds proved particularly worthy of this everlasting reward, and for TV doctors and others whose days were filled with especially poor behavior. If you’ve ever wondered silently to yourself what the prestigious upper class of Kenya listens to while dining, you need only listen to your achy breaky heart for the answer.

*I did not, in fact, have Rickettsia. Please refrain from frantic emotional phone calls and emails to the Peace Corps office in Washington.