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One hundred ten degrees.
I summon the strength to walk towards the hole. This hole is surrounded by dried mud walls. The hole is full of animated rice, some kind of colony of small white worms. One hundred ten degrees.
I squat over the hole, with beads of sweat rolling down my face and into my eyes. Red dust brutally swirls in the air and sticks to my face. My throat is sore from breathing the dust. One hundred ten degrees.
I have to stomp my feet to keep the cockroaches from running up the hole and up my legs. I try to concentrate while beggars come through the front gate, and so close to me, and shout for food in a language I don't understand. One hundred ten degrees.
Flies swarm around my asshole. In staccato trumpet-like bursts, I squirt out fiery diarrhea. I stomp my feet again to keep the cockroaches at bay. One hundred ten degrees.
This is an experience. This is Africa.
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