We finally arrive at the hotel and as I give my name to the front desk, a man besides me reaches out and offers me his hand.
“Hi, I’m Jasper.” He’s got ruddy skin, reminiscent of old acne scars, and he looks dry and tired. He’s not exactly glowing with health, but he sure looks better than that man on the train.
We make our introductions and decide to meet in a few hours to share a taxi to the clinic. I watch Jasper as he walks away. He is average height, shorter than me, his shirt frayed at the collar. He seems to have no luggage, but obviously has just arrived. It’s kind of an intimate thing, getting hookworms from someone. The larvae I receive tomorrow have parents, sucking on Jasper, right now!
This is just bizarre.
Karsten and I go to our room. The hotel is fancy – the staff so eager to please, the pool stretched out across the courtyard, tempting with its smooth blue waters. The bellhop shows us how to work the TV, the coffeemaker, the lights. I tip him and collapse onto the bed. I have made it! My first trip to Mexico. I feel some trepidation – what if I get something different? I should have demanded the pathogen paperwork on Jasper. He is called a “reservoir donor” in laboratory terms. The reservoir donor should be tested every few months for transmissible viruses, bacteria. Why didn’t I see this? How do I know I won’t get AIDS, hepatitis, elephantitis from Jasper’s initial foray into Africa? What if this whole thing is a sham and I’ve given $7,800 of my hard earned credit card, and I’ll return with nothing but a wet band-aid, caught by charlatans like my father said?
I watch Spanish commercials, my heart racing, until we shuffle out to the lobby to meet our hookwormed host.
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