Health: A nasty disease you could catch in Belize: Austin Hunt knew he was in trouble when the fevers began. But what had he picked up in the jungles of Central America?

IT WAS ONLY 5am but I was wide awake and feeling lousy. My temperature had rocketed and the bedclothes were soaked with sweat. I'd had malaria before.

Shivering uncontrollably, I resigned myself to my fate: a begrudging host for an invading army of parasites. I pulled on some clothes and shakily made my way to the local casualty department, 10 minutes from my flat.

I explained to the weary house officer that I had just returned from Belize in Central America, where I had spent six weeks trekking through mangrove swamps along the River Temash in search of sandflies for a medical school project. He thought malaria the most likely diagnosis and ordered a blood-smear test to see if the micro- organisms were present in my blood.

They weren't, but he admitted me for observation. I was put in a single room on a general medical ward with notes marked 'presumed infectious'.

I felt worse with every minute. Over the next few days I endured a cycle of night fevers, followed by cold, drenching, sweats, one memorable attack of rigour - a fit of shivering so severe that the bed shook. My temperature soared to 103F every time the effects of paracetamol wore off; the light hurt my eyes. As a medical student, a little bit of knowledge was a very dangerous thing. With every hour I imagined even more exotic causes of my fever. I dismissed malaria, hepatitis A, and typhoid as much too trivial. I was convinced I had, at the very least, dengue fever or yellow fever.

Probably both. I decided which treatments I would or would not be given; a lumbar puncture - draining of some spinal fluid - was out. I even argued with the nurse about the dose of paracetamol.

A barrage of tests failed to shed any light on my illness, so they transferred me to the infectious diseases unit at Coppett's Wood Hospital in north London.

I managed to dress, packed my few belongings, and waited patiently for transport (almost five hours). I noticed two comical figures prowling around at the end of my corridor. I decided they were medical students in fancy dress. They were wearing plastic jumpsuits tucked into wellingtons, with gloves and plastic hoods. Their faces were covered by visors. Not an inch of flesh was exposed. And these spacemen were heading in my direction.

Ignoring my protestations that I could walk to the car park they made me lie on a trolley, strapped me to it and wheeled me out. I put the blanket over my head. These men knew something I didn't. I was as good as dead.

I remembered that dog I'd stroked in a bar in Belize city; had it been frothing a little at the mouth. Did I have rabies? The men in the suits were friendly and remarkably relaxed; 'Don't worry,' said one. 'I've transported hundreds of people with suspected Lassa fever (a dangerous viral infection that originated in west Africa) and only one ever turned out to have it.' I told myself that it was now only a matter of time.

It was not until the next morning that I discovered the spacemen had taken me back in time. All that was missing were TB patients in wheelchairs, or disfigured RAF pilots flirting with nurses.

Coppett's Wood started life as a fever hospital at the turn of the century and then was used to treat TB patients. The verandas where convalescents took the air have been bricked-over, but the sleepy, atmosphere of another time prevailed.

The hospital now has 30 beds in two acute-admissions wards, one medium-secure unit for infections such as Lassa fever or rabies and a high secure unit for the confirmed cases of rarer and more horrific diseases such as Ebola or green monkey disease. It is a strange combination of pre-NHS and hi-tech. I was in a cubicle on an acute-admissions ward. It was basic, but comfortable. My only luxury was a tiny black and white portable television but the food was suprisingly good.

The tests began again, including one for Chagas' disease (sleeping sickness spread by insects known as 'assassin bugs'). I was still having night sweats and sleeping for most of the day. Malaria remained a possibility because it does not always show up on screening. I was given high doses of quinine and within hours my temperature had dropped to normal but the side-effects were unpleasant - ringing in the ears, vivid nightmares - and they had to reduce the dose. By now a purplish rash had appeared on my legs. It intrigued the doctors but failed to solve the mystery.

I had few visitors. I was worried about my health, but my family was hysterical - on their own accounts, not mine. One sister and a cousin who took the plunge paled slightly when handed the plastic aprons to put on before entering the cubicle, and asked to wash their hands before leaving.

By day three I felt a bit stronger and I decided to explore the grounds. A fellow patient joined me on a bench. She was a pretty woman in her late twenties and we chatted aimlessly for a while. I asked her why she was there. 'Oh, I've been here for months. I've got a really rare form of TB.' I suddenly remembered an important call I had to make.

The turning point was an episode of amazing diarrhoea which appeared to clear my gut of everything. When I woke the next morning I knew that, whatever 'it' was, it had gone. The consultant agreed and discharged me.

Three weeks on and I am still waiting for the results of virology tests but it is unlikely they will reveal anything. I had a lucky escape. I have learnt that our photographer on the trip developed a revolting maggot-oozing wound on his leg, the result, apparently, of an encounter with a botfly in a mangrove swamp.

(Photograph omitted)