I am having an off day. My ear is aching from a freak infection. It still hurts to pee (have I captured this ailment yet in my little daily writings? The other morning I sneezed while peeing and tore something in my urinary tract, effectively giving myself an instant UTI) so today began with some lovely crepes and a trip to the nearby town to go to see a doctor.
When travelling in Central America, the list of things that the average traveller looks forward to might include indigenous cuisine, chatting up the locals, purchasing intriguing items from markets and street vendors, taking photos of all of the magnificent flashy painted buildings, hiking to a pristine vista, catching some surf. Going to a medical clinic in a developing country when the language of that nation is something you have yet to master is not on that list.
Let's be honest- I hate going to the doctor in my own town, let alone here. I am one of "those" people who automatically assume that doctors are out to get me. I've had a few harrowing experiences regarding misdiagnosis that have left me a little, how shall I say it...sceptical.
Lucky though I am, I had The First Frenchie I Ever Loved with me to translate and provide general comfort. The clinic was small and dark (I am told that electricity is very expensive here- maybe it's just a heat thing). The chairs were the plastic bucket type that were popular in hospital emergency rooms and Greyhound Stations in the decade before I was born.
I paid $9 upfront for a consultation with the doctor, a sturdy macho man with a bright gold wedding band and a professional frown. We were never offered his name but decided later it must have been Carlos.
I immediately felt like home from the moment that Carlos opened his mouth. Just like Canadian doctors, I had absolutely no idea what he was saying.
Marjo translated question after question of my medical history, patiently holding my hand through the entire appointment. When the doctor found the inside of my ear interesting, he though Marjo might like to have a look too. Apparently this is very common in Central America, for the doctor to thoroughly share the experience with all gathered, sort of a family fun time. Marjo told me that on her last trip to the dentist, she was even given one of those small bendy mirrors for her very own. The last time I went to the dentist, I got a lecture about flossing regularly and a bill as long as my arm.
Central America: 1 North America: 0
The doctor's office was a story all on it's own. I'm not sure what I expected, but I assure you I was completely floored. I would have giggled outrageously, but I didn't want to offend the man who possessed the key to the future health of my plumbing. On the walls, pictures of five different children, head shots, all larger than life. Sears Portrait studio-type pics. Along one wall, a few shelves containing an extensive collection of drinking glasses. On the desk, hundreds of knic knacks, including but not limited to a small army of shiny silver pens in various cups, a twelve year supply of note pads and pencils, a pair of glass dolphins a foot long captured in joyful frolicking, and the cream of the crop, the piece de resistance: a lava lamp.
A fucking lava lamp.
Central America: 2 North America: 0
Later over lunch quite a discussion arose about whether this prize piece was indicative of the quality of his medical services, or if maybe the guy just had a wild side. The debate is yet to be resolved. Whatever the truth, this dude's office would have been amazing stoned.
Unfortunately, I was very, very sober.
As the clinic was closing at noon (Marjo said to me, “On a Monday? Come on!” otherwise, I would have thought this is just the way things were done around these parts) the doctor did not have time to actually diagnose me. He instructed us to go to the laboratory up the street tomorrow in the manana, have blood and urine taken, and then bring the results back to him. He did, however, set me up with a prescription for some antibiotics and painkillers.
Doctor's fee: $9.00
Medication: $46.70
Health Travel Insurance: $16
Being able to pee without crippling pain: Priceless.
The most harrowing part of the whole experience was returning to the clinic to use the “toilets”- a row of doors that looked as though they had survived a nuclear holocaust, each stall without electricity, toilet seat or toilet paper. I left the door half open so I could hold onto the frame for support and cried softly to myself while I squatted my way through an unhappy burning pee.
Sneezing. Fuck me. At all costs, boys and girls, never sneeze while you pee! This should be more diligently taught in schools. It should be something that parents threaten their children with, "If you don't finish your supper, you're going to sneeze while you pee!" It really is very serious.
I would like to take this moment to thank the internet. Immediately after returning to the hotel I researched the drugs I was prescribed to cross reference potential side effects, etc., etc. Turns out they are better antibiotics than I would be able to get in Canada. And cheaper. Go figure. Same for the pain killers. Apparently this is the good shit.
(I feel it important to note that upon returning home, my follow-up doctor disagreed with the internet on this point, but what do doctors know, anyway?)
While we waited for Moyo to pick us up in the van, we found a lovely corner of park in the shade. Sitting helped my anxiety a lot. I am a creature accustomed to a slow pace of life. My people do not sprint, we meander. My village is very small, with wide streets and no cars. A person could conceivably walk with their eyes closed from one end to the other during the slow season without stubbing a toe. If you accidentally bumped into someone, they would likely consider it their own fault, “Oops, sorry dude! There yah go...yup, liquor store is thatta way....”
I am not accustomed to jostling, and I find the sights and sounds and smells of this beautiful land absolutely overwhelming. It seemed though, that as soon as I was able to take it at a slower pace, it became less hostile.
In all fairness, the jostling really unnerved me in Belfast, too, which was the first place my little Canadian body had ever been forcefully moved by a stranger sana apology. In Belfast, I found that buying a bigger purse and jostling back was a perfect remedy. No hard feelings! Just total elbow freedom. This solution did not seem appropriate in La Libertad.
It didn't help that my infected ear is generally not impressed with loud noise, so the men shouting “Taxitaxitaxi!” and, “One dolla! One dolla!” for various wares upset me more than they normally would have.
Who knew? For one dolla, you can buy a purse. Or some shoes. Maybe a bra? 4 tubes of toothpaste? How about a few baggies of juice? A hundred boxes of gum? Or five of the little spiny red berry fruits that Marjo and Oli eat like candy.
The outside of these fruits resemble a tiny red sea urchin- the inside is gooey and slimy, sort of like a peeled grape if it was more gelatinous. They remind me of Japanese fruit jellies, and are eaten the same way: just peel off the top, and turn the container inside out in your mouth. Mind the pit, though. The seed in the middle is strangely like the pit of a plum, and Marjo sucks happily on them long after the fruit jelly is gone.
If I had been offered one of these fruits without a proper introduction, I probably would have cupped it in my palm and waited to see if it would pee in my hand. They look like little critters. They are a truly wonderful fruit. How did North American food become so boring?
The bra ladies are my favourite. They strut through the market and the park, a large assortment of ladies under garments strung from their arms, displaying them for potential customers. Every shape, every size, every colour. They look exactly like the bras that I found in the “3 for $5” bin at La Senza the last time I was in the mall. At that time, another feisty lady had been willing to fight to the death over the A cups with me. It was a very intense shopping experience.
But these bra ladies of El Salvador are by far the calmest of the merchants and so endear themselves to me. Marjo asked me with a grin if I might like to try a bra? I immediately had ideas that the light blue ones tasted like bubble gum, and the pink ones like cotton candy. But no, apparently women will try the bras on over their clothes before buying to ensure a good fit. In public. The exhibitionist in me adores this.
I asked Marjo how horrified the lady might be if I asked to try a few and gently nibbled them instead. “Mmm...the blue is tasty, but I prefer the lacy green.....”
So my ear hurts. A lot. And my peeing hurts less than it did yesterday, thank God. And I have paid $50 of my vacation budget towards the authentic Latin American medical experience. I can no longer swim or surf because of my ear, and I am trying to remain cheery, but the drugs make me sloooowwwww.
The sun is still beautiful. The salt air feels amazing, and I am surrounded by truly kind, patient people. I also have access to books and writing materials and plenty of free time, so life, in general, ain't all that bad.
The truth of it all is: I am sick for home. My friends here are lovely, the hotel is beautiful, the food is amazing, but I find myself searching for the scent of snow in the air and the familiar siren call of Starbucks. What is it about not feeling well that makes you want your own bed, your own village and your own barista wielding your tall americano?
I wonder how Dave is getting on in Oz.....
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