A yellow fever

In true Asian fashion, the parasite turned me yellow- in the face, in the toilet, on the floor of the shower of the union boss's 2-bedroom balay. In the mirror I saw myself turn yellow, my skin, my hair, the light made the whites of my eyes the color of the inside of a pineapple. What came out was yellow. And when it was done my body still tried to send more, more of my insides out to the open.

"Yellow fever," I said in a heave, right before I heard a knock at the door. The mother peeked in and saw the blood in the toilet, on her bathroom floor.

"You should have woken me," she said. On the way to the hospital the usually chatty Filipinos were silent. They whispered words like 'Americano' and 'tubig' (water). It was not the water, it was the coconut milk. If it was not the coconut milk it was the open sewage pit I'd visited that afternoon. Everyone else is wearing sandals, I'll be fine.

"But we're yellow," the guide said with a laugh, when I complained I was the only one sweating.

And so am I. A different shade of yellow- a yellow that means death for those under three and a yellow that can be killed with 100 USD. And some time. Days later my throat stays red to remind me what has happened and my mouth tastes like metal from the anti-biotics I consume.

I smile when the workers offer me bananas and corn soup. I wear boots when I go to the fields.