Fuck-a-doodle youuuu, roosters!

The first time I had malaria, I recovered by sleeping an inordinate amount of time over the course the next week. This time, I recovered from malaria only to suffer from an unprecedented bout of insomnia.

In my real life, I am chronically fatigued, but this semester, 10 hours per night has been pretty standard. For the first time, I have nothing better to do; I don't have homework and I usually can't go out at night.

Wah, wah, one little week of poor sleep--I know, you're probably all thinking I shouldn't complain. But there's an inertia to sleep. If you're in the habit of undersleeping, your body adjusts; if you're in the habit of sleeping a lot, a bad night makes the following day miserable. I really needed to work on a paper last week, but instead, I spent the whole week feeling like baggy-eyed shit, wondering how I've survived so many semesters at Macalester.

The most important conclusion I reached is that roosters should be made extinct. Seriously. I think it would make the quality of life better all over the world. So I'm advocating that scientists devote more time figuring out how to make chickens capable of reproducing asexually so that the world no longer needs roosters.

I had always believed that roosters crow at dawn; the alarm that predates clocks. If that's not total urban myth, then it's at least only true of North American roosters.

African roosters start crowing at precisely 1:30 a.m. and don't shut up all day. It's fucking obnoxious.

Oh, and the whole cock-a-doodle doo thing? Bullshit. Roosters sound like broken car horns crying for help.

***

On the bright side, because I knew that I wouldn't sleep anyway, I stayed out later on Saturday night than I've stayed up since leaving the United States.

A few of us went to a party at the Marines' house. My friends thought it was awkward, but I had fun because I looked hotter than I've looked in months (I never make an effort here, and had to borrow a hot little dress from Natalie to pull myself together for one special occasion), met some guys with southern accents, (I have been so homesick for southern accents that I watched NASCAR on ESPN recently. NASCAR!) and a gay guy with whom I geeked out about journalism, ate Doritos, and drank (a lot) for free.

Men have paid more attention to me in the past five months they had in 20 years, but it's been an unwelcome sort of attention. The sort that United States law calls sexual harassment. In the same five-month span, I have missed male company like fat kids miss Ephedra. So I'm not gonna lie, going out and getting "your dress is pretty, so let me tell you about my motorcycle while you drink something I pay for" sort of attention felt like Christmas and a birthday and chocolate ice cream combined.

My friends were ready to go around 11, but rather than inevitably lie in bed growling curses at roosters for several hours, I went with the Marines to Club Safari.

Yes, the same club where I was dance-raped by a terrorist in the midst of icky old white male sex tourists. (See post titled "Sex Tourism is Vile.") But this time, I had a blast.

The fact that my program consists of 14 girls and just one boy has profoundly (read: miserably) affected my experience in Cameroon, so it was a treat to go out with guys for a change--and nice boys who are good dancers at that! I was in public, at night, dancing, and having fun--all at the same time--without fending off harassment.

In real life, the Marines and I wouldn't have enough in common to be friends--for starters, they use the word "fag" and I read queer theory for fun--but in this life, they're a very welcome change in company for me. And for them, Natalie and I are girls who they can get in their hot tub. I'd say it's a fair trade.