Downed by an amoeba

Last week, when my bad stomach continued to act up for a second day, I had myself driven to the hospital. I knew exactly what I had, as I’d been through something like it 20 years ago, and I had to stay in the hospital for five days. 

Amoebiasis struck me the first time in 1994, after a visit to a newly established military camp in Marag Valley in Cagayan. Marag Valley was known as “no-man’s-land,” a closed area completely controlled by the New People’s Army. It was known to be their place for both R&R and training. There were no roads leading to Marag, and no government services had been delivered there for over 10 years.

But around 1993, when government troops were able to make headway into the valley, a report was made to the Commission on Human Rights — complete with photographs of  women and children living in a cave — about alleged military atrocities against a peaceful community. Knowing the background of the area, I didn’t have to be persuaded to join the inter-agency, multi-sectoral fact-finding mission that was organized to check on the report.

This is a long story, but hang on, I’ll get to the point.

We had to take motorized bancas into Marag, on a wide pristine river lined with tall trees where kalaws nested at the top. The river was calm, the flora growing around it virtually untouched. When we entered the area, via one of several docks built along the river bank, we found what looked like a pastoral community where everything seemed to work. The children were bright-eyed, friendly and active, and the women were able-bodied, but there were no adult men around. There were public toilets that were makeshift and rural but very clean in a scientific way.  We met the community in a large hut obviously built for meetings, but there was no visible government, no community leaders to welcome us. There was a community all right, but the people would not respond to our questions about their lives, their needs, and the reported human-rights violations that brought us there. 

Clearly, it was a well-organized “red area” run by the rebels. I imagined them hiding quietly behind the bushes observing us. Why they made a report that would prompt several government agencies and NGOs to enter their virtual sanctum sanctorum is still a mystery to me.

In early 1994, the military announced that they had breached Marag Valley. They had built a road and it was no-man’s-land no more. My chairman at CHR and I were invited to visit the camp they had built in the now liberated area. We rode in on a chopper, there were welcome ceremonies, then lunch was served. It was the usual military fare, locally prepared, topped by a wonderful fresh, crunchy fern salad harvested from the nearby forest.  Before we could eat with our hands, we had to wash them first — all together, soldiers, officers and guests — in a common basin.

Back in Manila a week later, I was in hospital with what the doctor diagnosed as amoebiasis which, I learned, manifests a few days after infection.  It started with the runs that left me weak from dehydration. When I went home after five days, I was some 10 pounds lighter, a virtual scarecrow, given my fighting weight 20 years ago. It took a couple of weeks on a very bland diet and meds that left a metallic aftertaste before I got my health back. The doctor warned that the amoeba would be forever in my system and it could be activated anytime if I was not careful with what I ate.

Well, the other week, I was on a rather slow ride through Pangasinan from Baguio (before speeding through the wonderful new expressway from Carmen to Balintawak), with a friend who insisted on stopping by roadside fruit stalls and filling up the car with bags and baskets of fruits and vegetables. In case you haven’t noticed, the fruits are extra sweet these days, the result of a very hot summer. And they are so difficult to resist.

I got into the spirit of things, bargaining with the good-natured sellers and biting happily into the luscious chicos and siniguelas they held out for us to taste. Four days later, I had the runs that included dizzy spells and near-blackouts. On the second day, I felt faint from dehydration and I knew my old nemesis was back. 

At the ER, they stuck an IV on my left hand and ordered me a room. The doctor put me on the bland BRAT diet of bananas, rice, apples and tea. The upside, I told myself, was I could lose weight quickly like I did the last time.  But three bags of IV fluid and modern medication quickly controlled the situation and, unlike in 1994, I was sent home the next day. After a week, I’m no longer on the BRAT diet and my appetite is back.  So much for losing weight. I’m just happy to be back to normal.

As for this nasty parasite that I am host to for the rest of my life, you shall not affect me again. I’ve learned my lesson well this second time around. But it’s so basic, I’m embarrassed to say it:  wash my hands before I eat, and be careful what I put in my mouth, especially fresh fruits and vegetables. 

As Gary Larsen put it in The Far Side, adios amoebas!