This small clinic is responsible, for the affordable sum of $0.90, for telling me that I don't have malaria. I'm on a first-name basis with Adi, the chief lab technician, who lets me call him for my lab results instead of watching hip-hop videos with silent and ailing locals in the waiting room. The clinic's moto is "Insist on knowing your medical problems," which I did -- only to learn gratefully that I had a cold.
Every time I walk in, the receptionist appears unhappy to see me and shakes her head. "You're getting too cold!" she tells me as I slowly spell out my name. This weekend, it was true: Robertsport kepts up a grey drizzle, I only brought one change of clothes and was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt, and the sheets I'd grabbed from the communal cupboard were thin twin- sized and certainly insufficient for a night of heavy rain.
I was weary enough of a potential repeat of malaria that Nate and I have been taking our doxycycline, 100 mg at 2:00 pm every day, reminded by our Google Calendars.