How I trekked through 'west Africa with cancer eating away at my prostate'

PART 1

The back story: it is October 2019 and we are at the end of a year of preparation for an off-road adventure across west Africa. It’s taken its toll of endless admin and vehicle prep work. But we are kind of done. Only some visas to collect and we are gone in four days. My head has left already.

I pop in for a routine health check. My GP says she doesn’t like the feel of my prostate and sends me for a prostate-specific antigen  (PSA) test. It comes back in the red zone with a 4.5 PSA reading. She says I need to talk to a urologist. I go instantly. Not because of concern, but because we are about to leave and I want to get stuff done. I am running out of time. The urologist does further tests and says, with a seriousness that comes from the depth of 30 years’ experience, that it’s likely I have prostate cancer. He will need me to have a biopsy on my prostate and an MRI scan to confirm his diagnosis and determine how aggressive the cancer is.

I am dumbstruck. Deadened. I stumble over my words a little and manage to say, “I need to give my wife a call” as I exit. He is saying I should schedule the appointments immediately, but I am way beyond hearing that. I wonder into the back of Milpark Hospital, where the boilers are. They are hissing and steaming around me. Feels appropriate. I make a call to my partner and say, “I think I have prostate cancer and he wants me to do further tests”. Her response was swift and forthright: “But we are going on the Troopy trip.”

That’s all I needed to hear. I left the hospital and we never talked about it again. Not once. It’s worse: we shut it down so hard that I suddenly overcame my middle of the night urinal ritual. No more of that routine. Not in the Land Cruiser Troop Carrier (Troopy), where you must wake your partner to leave the rooftop tent to climb out. We fixed what had been a core diagnosis of prostate cancer on the Troopy trip: I overcome needing to go to the toilet one or twice a night. I became normal again. Sleeping right through. Pure bliss.

The back story gets worse. After 27,000km offroad tripping for six months, across 13 west African countries, we are shut down by the coronavirus on the southern border of Mauritania. All land borders north and south are closed. We evacuate from Dakar on the last commercial flight out before the airport closes. Ship the Troopy home magically. End up living in southern Kruger. Not for a moment even remembering my cancer diagnosis for a further 15 months. And then it comes back to bite me. With its own little menu of indicators.

I notice something strange, something odd. Like this has not happened before. My nails on my thumbs and middle finger start cracking. My initial thought is that it could be a sign of a fungal thing I may have picked up in the rivers of west Africa. That’s how far gone I was. Everything was west African-flavoured in my consciousness. Decided to check with my dermatologist. She looks and says: “It doesn’t look fungal. Do a blood test. Something deeper is going on.”  I’m perplexed. Literally. Still not recalling my cancer diagnosis.

Unsurprisingly my blood test turns out fine bar my PSA. It’s shot up to 6.7 in the time since we left for west Africa. That’s a 2.2 PSA movement north in just 21 months. My GP in the Mpumalanga rurals says I have got to see a urologist. Again. This time I’m really listening. Nothing to distract. Not even the Covid-19 pandemic.

That’s the back story of my prostate cancer journey. When my doctor daughter hears this story she shakes her head in dismay: “You two are so irresponsible.” She thinks I need psychological help. I am in denial, she says. Of course, she is probably right. Not least because my particular brand of cancer is an aggressive Gleason 8. Just my luck. Yet there is still a part of me that says, what the f**k. I have no regrets. We did this life-changing adventure across west Africa with cancer eating away at my prostate. I never thought of it once.

The road and the markets and the people occupied my undivided attention. Captured me with their humble, poor and full lives. Taught me lessons on how to live light on the earth. Helped me reset my innate prejudice and know west Africa is accepting and doable. It is off my to do list for now. Corona rudely stopped me, isolated me and focused me to face my cancer the second time round.

Feels like destiny got me. Like the universe aligned somehow to say 'Now is your time'. Made me stop and look at myself anew. Inside and out. No turning back.

• This is the first story in a new feature called First Person. If you have written a personal story and you want to share it email karrasa@arena.africa