Sunday, July 25, 1999

I’m experiencing my first real discomfort since my arrival, and it’s just exacerbated because it’s coming from a quarter that’s been nothing but generous to me. Glen split for the States yesterday, and I’ve moved to the Khozouees’. Looking at my body after my shower this morning, I was covered in red welts, on my chest, my abdomen, legs and hands. Every room of this house is infested with mosquitoes. I’ve been sleeping under a shroud, they fly right into our ears, if you’re lucky enough to catch one between your hands the crushed grey body leaves a 3-inch plume of blood flowing from brown to red. It’s a strange existence to me here, all physical torture and no books. I asked Farhad if he had any, and he pointed to the 40 above the TV, saying that the one on Dr. Muhajir “is not too hard.” (!!!) Instead of going to bed with criticism of black literature by Henry Louis Gates, Jr., like I could at Glen’s with his imposin’ library, here I go to bed just to escape the HBO. To hide under my shroud from the bugs. Rrgh. And still, Farhad is an embarrassingly conscientious host.


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