‘HOLIDAY
HASSLES’I’m lying on a sun-drenched beach in Barbados. The sparkling turquoise sea gently laps, and my rose-tinted Gucci sunglasses cunningly disguise my cellulite (from my view at least). My two sons, tanned and laughing, frolic enchantingly, and my partner, red but gorgeous, strides from the ocean, dripping in water and testosterone sensuality. I’m so immersed in holiday euphoria that even the mange-infested dog that sidles up to us seems magical and Disney cute. That is, until it bites my son (who runs screaming down the beach, with deranged Kujo in vicious pursuit) and then bites me. Holiday heaven hurtles back to the bleak reality of being an HIV positive person in a foreign country with inadequate travel insurance. And cellulite that’s creeping menacingly down my thighs.
Let’s talk about the good old pre-positive days. Do you remember when holidays were a simple affair? You could book anywhere you fancied, assured of a warm welcome, take any vaccinations that were necessary and only have to worry about packing enough condoms in case you got really lucky. But now, holidays need to be planned with military precision and drug-trafficking cunning.
There’s
the ridiculous rule of some countries that HIV positive people aren’t
welcome, particularly in the Land of the Free, good ole U S of A. You are suddenly
deemed an inadmissible alien, less welcome than a convicted paedophilic Nazi
war criminal.
It isn’t so difficult for HIV positive people not on medication. You
could simply refrain from declaring your status. However for people with medication
it’s much more problematic. You could be immediately deported if caught
with your meds, so many people who risk going to the USA choose to post their
pills ahead before flying. Not so great for a spontaneous care-free holiday.
I’m banned, having been diagnosed and scrutinised in America. However
to be honest, do I really want to go to the country that’s responsible
for producing the George Bushes and the Akey-Breaky-Heart line dance? Fuck
America, I say (actually that’s how I became positive, so I wouldn’t
recommend it in the literal sense...).
The day before I went to Barbados, I realised I wasn’t sure of its policy with regards to letting in people living with HIV. The last time I went I hadn’t yet started medication so it wasn’t such an issue. I should have checked beforehand, or at least have got a letter from my doctor stating that the drugs were for a chronic medical condition and for my personal use. But hey, I had more important things to do, like pack 10 pairs of shoes and boast to anyone who’d listen that I was off to the destination favoured by coke-addicted supermodels and minor royals. I therefore travelled with my pills with the guilty demeanour of a drug-mule. I did consider swallowing my pills in a condom or shoving them up my vagina in Kinder Surprise eggs. However my muscle control isn’t so good after giving birth to a 10lb baby, so they’d likely cascade to the floor. Luckily I got through without incidence, or Kinder Egg induced thrush.
The next HIV holiday hassle is the whole time-change pill-taking drama. I attempted to be sensible, gradually changing the time I took my medication in order to be in sync with the seven-hour time difference. However, I realised upon arrival that it was actually only a four-hour difference and my shambolic mathematical skills led to me taking my pills at wildly erratic times. Mutant drug resistance here I come.
The dog bite incident led to me, and my effusively weeping son, being driven to a Bajan hospital in a dilapidated rust-encrusted taxi. I only had bruising and didn’t need treatment. My son, despite having an impressive gash on his back was young enough for his baby tetanus vaccine to still be valid. He hasn’t started foaming at the mouth yet, so I imagine rabies won’t set in. However sitting in the crowded casualty ward, with “Absolutely No Credit!” ominously emblazoned on the wall, I realised how lucky I was to be HIV positive and British. I realised that my cavalier attitude to taking my pills and my petty holiday gripes were obscene, when compared to the grim reality that so many people, in countries where I holiday, die because they can’t afford anti-HIV medication.
The BA flight home, jarring with home counties accents, was strangely comforting, as I hurtled across the Atlantic, away from my conscience. I’m back home now, futilely flashing my tanned tits to disinterested gay men and only looking at my thighs in muted warm lighting. Cellulite, what cellulite?
