Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'There are more people dying of malaria than any specific cancer.' Bill Gates

I was dropped off at the airport by another WFP employee that I hadn't met; we did not speak during the drive, which made me feel uncomfortable, even though I don't like to talk either.

The aircraft seating is not assigned, so everyone crowds the gate in order to stake a claim. I am embedded in the group; the seats on the Dash 8 are all the same to me, no middle seats, so that every one is either a window or an aisle; but I need to get on early to find space for my extra bag.

This time, we walk like a line of ants to the Dash 8. The baggage handler recognizes the passenger beside me and comes over.

"Salaam Alekum!" he shouts loudly to him, and they shake hands and embrace. Then they talk Arabic, but I distinctly hear the word 'malaria'.

I board and find a window seat at the back of the plane.

As boarding completes, there are still a few empty seats; I may have won the lottery and have the row to myself.

Malaria-man enters the plane, marches up the aisle past the empty seats, and with a broad smile, plops down beside me.

"I like the back of the plane," he offers as an excuse. I force myself to smile.

He sniffles, massages his temples, closes his eyes, and coughs into his hands. He is fidgety, and then quiet.

"Are you ok?"

"Yes, thanks, I have malaria."

I flinch and lean away.  He is sweating, and in pain. I contemplate disembarking. He laughs,

"You only get it from mosquitos."

I think it through and relax. He introduces himself, 

"I'm Hamza," and he thrusts out the hand that he had just coughed into. I give him the quick 'wet fish' handshake.

"Harry. I have some Malaria pills I can give you," and I reach into my bag to get the package I had bought in the Khartoum pharmacy.

"No thanks, I have my own remedy."

I am interested; I thought chemical cocktails were the only alleviation.

"I take a large steak, the biggest I can eat, and throw as much hot sauce on it that I can handle, and then, I put on more," he pauses, enjoying my attention, "and then I go to the neighbors and get more." He chuckles.

"Then I eat it raw. I wait, and sweat out the malaria in due course."

I am still sitting on my hand that touched his; I can't help it.

The door closes. The engines start. We taxi.

I look out the window and spot a pickup truck with ropes attached to the back, dragging rag bundles on the ground behind it.

"Those are dog carcasses," offers Hamza, "they will drive around the airport; the smell of dead dogs will keep the wild ones away from the airport."

It seems cruel or inhumane; I'm not sure how that would go over with the PETA groups back home. But then again, a dog could get eaten here too.