Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [48]
He turned to a counter covered with large bottles of unmarked pills, located one containing blue pills, unscrewed the lid, counted out eight, and dropped them into an envelope. Then he found another containing pink pills and counted out eight more. He handed David the blue pills—presumably because he was a boy—and me the pink ones, because I was a girl. He instructed us to take one every day for the next eight days. Neither David nor I had any confidence in the medication. Instead we decided not to eat anything and to give our stomachs a rest. But it was Easter Sunday and, as a surprise, Morad had arranged for us to celebrate with his wife, daughter, and extended family.
Morad welcomed us into his home, where we met the family, and we moved into the dining area. We had never seen so much food. Platters were piled two feet high with kabobs, pilaf, a ham, Easter eggs, and countless holiday specialties. The last thing we felt like doing was eating, but we were guests and didn’t want to hurt our hosts’ feelings. The feasting lasted from noon to midnight, and by the time we’d finished we felt like we would explode.
When we returned to the hotel, the Sudanese swimmer hurried over to talk with me. They had forgotten to tell us that all the swimmers in the race were supposed to participate in a demonstration race. While we were out, everyone else had completed the race, and then the swimmers had been taken through the streets of Cairo in open horse-drawn carriages. Thousands of cheering spectators had lined the parade course to get a glimpse of them, throw flowers and streamers, and shout good wishes.
When the parade finished, the race organizers had tried to find me for television interviews; when they couldn’t, they’d had a swimmer from the Netherlands impersonate me on the air. It seemed very bizarre. But Dave and I were beginning to understand that we had entered a very different culture, and we weren’t sure how to handle it.
The Sudanese swimmer was very angry, too. He said that the journalist who had been following me around had written a very bad story about me, and it had been on the front page of the Cairo paper. The gist of the story was that Dave and I had been out partying all night long and had been ever since we arrived in Egypt. The reporter was waiting in the lobby for me, so I went with the Sudanese swimmer and we talked. The reporter said that he was sorry but he’d had to make up a story to explain why I wasn’t available for the parade and the interviews. I explained to him that I understood, and I would not be speaking to him ever again.
For the next seven days I trained in the swimming pool at the Gizara Club. Both David and I grew increasingly ill. In an attempt to replace all the body fluids we were losing, we drank large amounts of bottled water. One morning, though, I discovered a waiter in the hallway standing over a sink, refilling the bottles with tap water and resealing them. The water wasn’t purified, and it no doubt was contributing to our problem.
Two days before the race, the Egyptian team and all the guest swimmers were bused out to a restaurant near the Pyramids for dinner. Monir was sitting with a friend on the bus, and I managed to get a seat behind him with Dave.
Monir was a pharmacy student at Cairo University. He said that he understood that we were both sick. Dave explained the symptoms, and Monir diagnosed the problem as dysentery. When Dave showed him our pills, Monir shook his head in disbelief. They were placebos, just sugar pills. Dave told him that we had been given them from the Egyptian Swimming Federation doctor. Monir grimaced with disgust. He said he had friends at the university who were physicians and he would get some real medication for us.
“How quickly do you think it will work?” I asked.
“It depends upon your condition, the strength of the medication, and how fast your body responds. It could take effect within twenty-four hours,” he added optimistically.
“That would be great,” I said, hoping it would be soon enough.
A Sahara wind was gusting