A love of liberty and unconstrained truth

 

Had a long phone call from a friend in California talking about the new spirit of liberty in the United States and what she called the ‘renewed patriotism without jingoistic belligerence’. We chatted about many things — shoes and ships and sealing wax and whether pigs have wings — and she uttered that old truism: ‘Nobody understands an alcoholic like another alcoholic.’

As she was speaking, a forgotten memory came back to me with the force of a counter-punch. They do, too.

 

About eight or nine years ago I made a trip to Botswana and the Madikwe area of north-eastern South Africa, a work trip. These lonely areas have a harsh and lovely landscape. The trip passed in a blur since I was drinking like a fish. The second day out from Gaberone, heat waves shimmering among the thorn trees, I was suffering a bad hangover and menstrual cramps,  sitting with dark glasses and a wide-brimmed dark blue hat in an open landrover. While others went out to look at wildlife management facilities and crouched in bird hides, I sat alone in the well-equipped landrover and helped myself to gin from the bar fridge at the back. I had some white wine, vodkatinis, a little neat brandy. I filled my tall flask with gin and orange juice and sucked mints. I’m sure this all sounds very familiar.

 

On the way back to the lodge, we had a puncture. No spare tyres. This meant that we all sat for more than an hour  in the blazing desert sun while the puncture was repaired. Everyone else drank copiously from their water flasks. I was scorched with sunburn, my exposed arms reddening, but I dared not touch my flask because almost neat gin and sunstroke do not mix.

Back at the lodge I faced another problem. I had gone off Larium anti-malarial medication in order to drink. And I suspected I had malaria.

 

Because I have grown up in the wilder plains of Africa, I have had malaria more often than I care to recall. It is unpleasant but not often deadly. But this was bad. I finished my gin and drank litres of water, swallowed as much disprin as I dared and went to bed.

When I woke the next morning, I had a killer headache and bad sunburn. But more ominously my teeth were chattering and my urine dark, my temperature raging. We would be leaving for a long day’s drive back to Johannesburg. There wuld be no restrooms, no clinics or hospitals, a long wait at the border post. If I wanted to get medical help I would have to get it before I left the lodge.

So I called the manager, who was annoyed at the inconvenience, but took one look at me and called the nearest doctor. Two hours later he arrived.

 

Dr Xavier P had lived and worked in the bushveld for almost 40 years. He looked thin, jaundiced and tired, but had a quick and intelligent expression. I told him the truth about the drinking. I know what meds can do on top of alcohol withdrawal. He just nodded and then prescribed 48 hours bedrest. I would sweat out the malaria and the hangover  before flying back home. He said flatly that he would not give me any medication that might disgree with further alcohol consumption.

 

I was shocked at this. I had learned my lesson, I explained, and had no intention of drinking again. Dr Xavier looked at me and sighed.

 

‘Did you ever read Lewis Carroll?’ he asked. ‘Alice in Wonderland? What happens when she takes the little bottle labelled “Drink Me”? You drink and you grow enormous within while the outside world shrinks. That is how you manage your painful reality, my dear. You shrink those out there and magnify the tiny inner self. You cannot do without your bottle for very long.’

 

And he was right for a very long time. He understood me perfectly even though I know he was not himself alcoholic.