In Praise of Papaya
To me, papaya tastes like dirt, even when doused in lime, whose tartness is supposed to bring out its sweetness. But when I got vicious attacked by a sea urchin, the papaya grew in my estimation – even if only as an herbal remedy.
Swimming in Zanzibar’s uniquely brilliant blue water, murky with waves, its temperature refreshingly warm, I put my left foot down and withdrew sharply, hobbled to the beach and got a trunkload of sand while popping a sliver of something out of the ball of my big toe. It calloused almost immediately and I had thoughts of suddenly emitting a death gurgle as some weird fish-related poison took affect and I slipped below the turquoise sea and floated paralyzed or worse toward Mozambique.
Instead, I walked back into the water and bobbed for another hour or so, drifting with the current. I put the same big toe down on something sharp, like the jagged edge of a conch, then seconds later, ran into a spiny urchin who lashed out with the temperament of a surly porcupine. I swam away like an injured dog, howling, then lifted my right foot above the surf and had Emily pluck out an inch-long spike from my insole. Three black specks, immoveable by tweezers, and two slashes embedded so far under the skin they were only shadows, bore witness to the utter savagery of the attack. (Not to be too dramatic about it.) I hobbled once more up to the beach, then up to our banda, where I broke out the scissors, tweezers and some needles in a fruitless attempt to get rid of the creature’s little gifts. There was only one thing to do: I hobbled down to the bar.
Emily chatted up the locals, who suggested coating the spikes with papaya milk. Neither of us knew papaya had milk, but local small boys were dispatched and arrived about 15 minutes later with two small papaya. With my Swiss Army knife, one of the boys nicked the papaya half a dozen times, causing blisters of milk to form on the surface, then smeared the fruit against my foot. Nothing happened. No burning, stinging or itching and my foot didn’t fall off at the ankle. He nicked some more and then some more, creating a thick paste on my foot. He collected a rather hefty fee – $3 for the papaya and the delicate application; health services here ain’t cheap – and scampered away. I ate some octopus as revenge against the sea, then went to bed for a couple hours and awoke to see that all that remained were two pink marks on my foot.
A Christmas miracle.
Swimming in Zanzibar’s uniquely brilliant blue water, murky with waves, its temperature refreshingly warm, I put my left foot down and withdrew sharply, hobbled to the beach and got a trunkload of sand while popping a sliver of something out of the ball of my big toe. It calloused almost immediately and I had thoughts of suddenly emitting a death gurgle as some weird fish-related poison took affect and I slipped below the turquoise sea and floated paralyzed or worse toward Mozambique.
Instead, I walked back into the water and bobbed for another hour or so, drifting with the current. I put the same big toe down on something sharp, like the jagged edge of a conch, then seconds later, ran into a spiny urchin who lashed out with the temperament of a surly porcupine. I swam away like an injured dog, howling, then lifted my right foot above the surf and had Emily pluck out an inch-long spike from my insole. Three black specks, immoveable by tweezers, and two slashes embedded so far under the skin they were only shadows, bore witness to the utter savagery of the attack. (Not to be too dramatic about it.) I hobbled once more up to the beach, then up to our banda, where I broke out the scissors, tweezers and some needles in a fruitless attempt to get rid of the creature’s little gifts. There was only one thing to do: I hobbled down to the bar.
Emily chatted up the locals, who suggested coating the spikes with papaya milk. Neither of us knew papaya had milk, but local small boys were dispatched and arrived about 15 minutes later with two small papaya. With my Swiss Army knife, one of the boys nicked the papaya half a dozen times, causing blisters of milk to form on the surface, then smeared the fruit against my foot. Nothing happened. No burning, stinging or itching and my foot didn’t fall off at the ankle. He nicked some more and then some more, creating a thick paste on my foot. He collected a rather hefty fee – $3 for the papaya and the delicate application; health services here ain’t cheap – and scampered away. I ate some octopus as revenge against the sea, then went to bed for a couple hours and awoke to see that all that remained were two pink marks on my foot.
A Christmas miracle.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 3:55 AM
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