November 17. Hitch a ride to the tsetse fly zone on the back of a sorghum truck. I arrive with my face pasted with red dust. Prostate trouble, a blowtorch in my dick, all fifteen inches of it. Hop off the truck in a mud-and-wattle village. No hotel, no B&B, no TV, no McDonald’s. Nothing.

November 18. Late afternoon. Fucking Christ, is it ever hot! I rent a room in the back of the OD Macaroni Factory.

November 19. I hate Africa.

November 20. I dug out a flea that had somehow burrowed under my thumbnail. There is a small fan over at the button factory. I rent a stall there. Mealie meal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At least you don’t get caught in a menu quandary.

November 21. The night watchman introduces me to Charles, a university student from Ethiopia who quickly makes himself at home in the stall across from my own. Charles shares a bucket of beer with me. In the light of a kerosene lantern we play cards all night. Lions roar in the distant jungle.

November 23. Bucket-of-beer hangover persists. Charles constantly sprays himself with DEET. “Tsetse flies, man. Can’t be too careful.”

November 24. Drunk on palm wine at nine A.M. I buy a fish, oranges, and a banana at the outdoor market. While the saleswoman bundles my purchase, I drop her baby and momentarily pass out on the road. Thankfully, the baby broke my fall.

November 25. Tonight at dusk, as I walk back from the market, I step off the road to take a leak and, forgetting I am in Africa, disturb a jumping pit viper (Porthidium nummifer). It’s a sturdy, short-tempered snake. This one strikes with such force, its husky body leaves the ground. It shoots past me faster than a left jab and sails deep into the roadside undergrowth. I pick up its Bolivian passport and wallet. Inside there’s a picture of the snake’s wife and children. There is also a letter. “My darling Estella, Africa is very bad. I have lost weight living on mouses. I miss joure shovel-shaped head, joure hort-shaped face, you gleaming fangs. Do you miss me at all? Why have you run off with Kenny Stabler?”

November 26. Oh God, I promise, I swear I will never drink palm wine again. Save me!

November 29. Venture into the bush with Charles and a new acquaintance, Sylvester. Chased by warthogs.

December 2. My stomach hurts low down. Sylvester says it’s roundworms. “Eat a cigarette and it will die,” he says. I wolf down a Pall Mall and become sicker than a dog.

December 3. I void a nine-inch tapeworm. That’s odd. No wonder I’m so thin. Sylvester wants me to sponsor him to America. “Sell tapeworms to college girls,” he says. “They can eat all they want and stay thin. Make us millionaires.”