Litany of Fear

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind killer.
Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will let it pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn my inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
                           - Frank Herbert, Dune

Of Sugar and Spice and Wine Bottles

For all those girls bred upon "sugar and spice," let it be known that you aren't that nice.  For the pulling of tears and wincing of mice, the shrieking at spiders who sat down beside her, just stop.  While it is the biggest dog whose bite is worst and the smallest spider that will kill you first, we do not own the "frogs and snails" or the puppy dog tails.  We are made of the same stuff.  For all your ball catching, finger wagging, coke guzzling, puddle jumping, only the pigtails do give you away.   So hold my snake and don't crush the worms while I fill a can with dirt.  The worms must be cold, you see, for fishing to be fine and they will stand best by this bottle of zest.  Yet another of our finding that go between, a strong vintage found on a dew mountain fog.  It is your turn, once again, to kiss the frog, as spiders descend and princes wail at the running of mice, of snails slimy and bravery wains.  Till, once again, someone says stop.

Guinea Worms

I drank it because that's all there was.  I knew the risk, but was too damn thirsty to care, and after a while, you stop thinking about it.  When in Rome and all that.  I had had my share of worms before: Hookworms, Ringworm, Roundworms.  Boys are naturally dirty and scrape up an egg or two now and again.  I had been working at the tasking office for a month to get acclimatized before going out into the bush.  It was boring work, lots of paper and not enough pushing.  When I finally got my tasking orders is when I got a lump on the top of my foot.  I didn't think anything about it, pull on my hikers, strapped on some bush gaiters over my dungarees, picked up my pack, a loaded 50cal and went out to the truck.  The rest of my group were in attendance, politely jockeying for a shotgun position in the cab of the truck.  I settled the matter by circumventing the standard pissing contest and flashed the 50cal to the only slack jaw willing to confront me.  The jungle was dense and the heat and humidity started to permeate your being.  I was sweating into my boots.  As I splayed my toes, a sharp pain on the top of my foot made me wince.  Long rides always take me somewhere else, hoping to make the ride go faster.  I started thinking about my foot and remembered the water.  We stopped to make camp for the night.  Everyone knew their duties and started the chore of setting up a secure camp, collecting fire wood, hunting and food preparation.  My 50cal was more for show or emergency.  I went out with the Mobutu trackers to find some suitable game for dinner.  My foot pained me to walk on it but wasn't a handicap, yet.  We returned with two hind hanks of an Elsbuck, more than enough for the twenty odd men in our group.  The rest of the buck was left for the nocturnal beasties to feud over instead of bothering us.  After dinner I retired to my tent and eased off my boot.  The bump that had been in the morning was now a large purple and blue nodule.  I pulled my knee to my face to get a better look at the lump.  It moved, pushing side to side and up, each with a pain of little scratchy needles.  Indiquay was the Mobutu tracker I had hunted with.  I stepped out of my tent and caught his eye.  When he saw my foot he smiled.  His own feet were bare and the tops were pocked with old and recent scars.  I knew what had to be done, the only question was my way or the bush way?  I decided it would secure my front seat in the truck to make it a public affair for show.  Indiquay agreed.  He fetched the medical kit from the truck and I found a well lit log by the fire.  As I sat down, singly booted, comments caught on tongues when they saw my bare foot.  Indiquay plopped down beside me and opened the box.  It was fully stocked.  I pulled out a flask of Everclear, some cotton swabs, hydrogen peroxide, silver nitrate and a #3 scalpel blade.  At a certain point in the life of the worm, it must leave its host in order to survive, lack of oxygen being the cause for its exit strategy.  I sterilized the area with the 200 proof alcohol, made a tiny incision over the top of the protrusion and waited like a patient ice fisherman, tweezers in hand above the hole.  I felt it before I saw it, then suddenly the head erupted from the scalpel cut.  Blood and puss oozed from its exertion.  I gently grabbed it from behind the head, sure to get a good grip and pulled the fat bastard out of my foot.  Indiquay clapped and smiled gesturing that I should eat it, as was the custom.  I threw it in the fire and listened to it sizzle then pop.  I poured peroxide into the wound and watched it foam.  I did this three more times till it ran clear.  I then opened the silver nitrate and stuck a swab deep into the bottle.  When in contact with the skin, silver nitrate picks up an OH from the water in our body and turns it into an acid.  I reamed the wound with silver nitrate, cauterizing the hole.  This was the real pain.  I salved it and put a band-aid on it.  When I looked up, all of the group were rapt like I was at the climax to a good story.  Someone on the far-side of the fire threw up and the mystique of the event was over.  I would try the bush method on the next one.  I hobbled back to my tent and fell directly asleep, cleansed.