my body hates me

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Adventure is made up of small bumps which, at the time, feel like nothing more than a continuation of all of one´s previous moments. Adventure is only so called in retrospect, and so being laid up in a cheap hostel in Bariloche, on the western edge of Argentina, with an inner left thigh that decided suddenly to swell to uncomfortable proportions on the bus ride from Buenos Aires will one day be seen as a small adventure, but today it hurts like hell. Though I am a proponent of universal public healthcare, one must also be realistic and, if a country is to go that route, very vigilant. A trip to the free public hospital yesterday administered a stiff slap in the face in the form of long lines everywhere, with seemingly no order being imposed by nurses. The smell of hospital cafeteria food permeated the central part of the crumbling building, and all the workers at the hospital had very tired and blaise expressions on their faces, like seeing one more person in pain was like looking at one more dirty window. After being directed to no less than 3 places so that someone could look at my leg, I was finally led, limping and in no small amount of pain, to the emergency room, if that is what one could call it, and found yet another line of perhaps 20 people sitting on the bare wood benches, or on the floor if there was no room. The door that led, presumably, into the actual ER was shut, and everyone looked as if they had been camping out for at least a few hours, maybe more. An old man in the corner was moaning every now and then as his friend rubbed his back and spoke some quiet words into his ear. Frank, my Peruvian friend from the hostel who was serving as my translator, then told me that there was a private hospital elsewhere in the town, and that maybe we should try it. I deliberated. I don´t like the feelings of escape that money can bring, and I knew that everyone here had come because they obviously couldn´t afford better. But pain is a strong persuader, and knowing I would be sitting on this dusty floor for several hours waiting to see a doctor who may or may not be able to help me, I nodded and limped out. A short taxi ride brought us to a red brick two-story in slightly less disagreeable repair, and in 10 minutes I had paid 40 pesos (about $14 U.S) and was lying on an exam table with my pants around my ankles while a tanned and younger version of Dick van Dyke poked and prodded my groin, took my temperature and blood pressure, and talked to Frank about Peru (he had a friend in Lima). It was an inflamation. Fluid build-up. He wrote two prescriptions, one for an anti-inflammatory, and one for some 800mg horsepills of ibuprofen. Don´t walk, ice it, and it should clear up in a few days. Bueno. Mucho gusto and that was it. The whole ordeal, including taxi fare, prescription, and the price, in advance, of a few beers for Frank as payment for his help, was about $65.
So today i find myself in the ironic position of having come to a place renowned for it´s plethora of outdoor activites, only to be confined to about a 2 block radius from my hostel. But on the bright side, my Spanish is improving. More to come...

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