Days 23-39: A Game of Beds and Meds

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The trip from Tena back to Cuenca was pretty much the polar opposite of getting to Tena. Friday morning I make for the bus station, dragging my bandaged foot down dusty, broken sidewalks, saying mental goodbyes to the chickens and road dogs. Luckily the bus station was only about five blocks away. Fortunately, apart from the slight limp of the foot, I feel fine. Peaceful from the Tena stay. Relaxed as if there's really nothing worth hurrying for.

On the bus, riding towards Puyo, a 37 year old woman sits next to me and quickly strikes up a conversation despite her lack of any English and my bumbling, stumbling Spanish. She's cute but trending towards a middle-aged look instead of holding on to any hope of youth. Her name is Rosa. After about five comical minutes of trying to make each other understand what we're saying (and not doing so bad at that), she asks if I like her. The bell rings in my head. "Sure, I like you." But she's starting to put on that coy look, eyes squinting a bit, neck bending slightly to the side, the smile a bit too wicked. Now, I know I'm an amazing conversationalist, but five minutes of language barrier-ed conversation probably doesn't generate a legitimate interest in anyone (unless it's a 2am at a club after seven drinks), so, pretty quickly I get the idea where this is heading. I'll make it simple and just say she's propositioning me (for a payment). A quick draw of a finger across the lip, some comical drawing of squares and circles in the air...yep, I know what's she's trying to say. The joy of the language barrier though lets me play semi-dumb gringo though. I keep my responses vague enough where I don't think she's convinced I'm understanding. Which turns out to be great because then we just break into more regular conversation. I learn about her two kids, her husband (not a horrible looking man from the ID picture), her job selling perfumes and colognes. We talk about sections of Ecuador travelled, my Tena adventures and end up laughing a lot. Every once in a while she tries to turn the talk back to, ah, "dancing" but it's also as easily abandoned. She wants me to get off the bus with her in Puyo, which of course sounds like a really brilliant decision. She's really sweet though - gives me a honey flavored candy and later on a free sample of the cologne she sells. At one point I ask her if she's hot, meaning to open the window wider, but she jokes back "Si, Rosa es caliente!" By the time of her stop, it's all humorous and friendly. We say our goodbyes and I count it as a good bus ride.

Until we get stopped at some random checkpoint so the military can escort everyone off the bus and then search the bags of only the women. Weird. But ultimately quick and painless. Four hours into the trip we reach Banos and I'm dreaming of a massage, a good meal and sleep. Familiar with Banos after my previous stay I decide to walk to an art hotel I read about and see if they have vacancies. Three blocks from the place, in the middle of a playground, I start to feel woozy and stop for a minute to gather myself. The remaining blocks are a slow crawl, something out a Western desert walk, but I'm not aware yet of how slow I'm moving. Check in to the art hotel, get up to the room (with great abstract paintings of gods in the hallway and a cool green grasshopper painted on my wall and a view of the waterfall from my window) and realize I'm not doing well. Crawl into bed under the sheets and start shivering madly for about 20 minutes. Fuck. Start hoping this isn't a sign of infection. Go to bathroom and turn the hot water on high and stand there as the steam builds (my standard go to every time I've got the chills). Feels good but I'm little worried about fainting. Head back to bed, pull the covers over me and sleep for 30 minutes. Wake up without chills but really tired and weak. It takes me 90 minutes to motivate myself to go get food downstairs...because it truly feels like an epic undertaking at this point but I haven't eaten yet today and I need the fuel.

Make it downstairs and start over-ordering as I realize I'm not going to make it out for another meal with the sickness coming on. The onion soup is terrible. The house special sandwich - chicken, tomato, avocado, lettuce on dark toast with a small pile of mozzarella cheese slightly cooked into the top layer of break (never seen that before) - is pretty tasty. Though full, I muscle down the chocolate cake and ice-cream with strawberries and bananas and red drizzled sauce (yum), and crawl back to bed with a borrowed pitcher full of water. Sleep a few hours, wake up in the middle of the night for a few hours to stare out at the outside, all quiet except for the waterfall.

The next morning I'm feeling well enough to brave the full day of bus rides back to Cuenca instead of recuperating another day in Banos. My foot is swollen enough I can't get it into a sneaker so I have to go with the sandals (thankfully I didn't let them go in the river). Scarf a tasty ham and cheese omelette with bread and tea and find the bus to Ambato. In Ambato, I sit on a street ledge, hiding behind the eight inch wide pillar behind me to get as much sun protection as possible as I wait for the bus, which takes about 90 minutes to get there. The eight and a half hour journey, when tired, sick and hungry, nowhere near as romantically appealing. The only things worth mentioning: the horrid movie Biker Boyz did amaze me by throwing a cast together that included Kid Rock, Larry 'Furious Styles' Fishburne, Kadeem Hardison and Lisa Bonet (A Different World!), Larenz Tate and poor Djimon Hounsou (who is way too good an actor for a bit part in a crap movie). And, while I thought nothing of the speedy bus drivers on the windy, tight, unprotected mountain roads during the day time trip up there, when it's night time with heavy fog and they keep up the same speed around perilous corners, well, my shoulders were tense here and there. Anyway, Sunday night, cab it home and sleep.

The next three days were agony. My foot was 3x normal sized, a monstrous bloated thing that looked like Baron Harkonnen's joint from Lynch's Dune. I can't really walk on it, so I hope around the kitchen trying to make meals from sparse left over ingredients (hey! rice with tobacco sauce! tasty!) and generally spending most of the time propped up on the bed. Definitely painful. I start to miss things about America, especially delivery food and Netflix. As my brain is not focused enough to read at length, and since I exhaust my usual web browsing fairly quickly, I end up turning to the thing I wanted no part of on this trip - the damn tv. It couldn't be helped. Too much time needed as a patient, not enough brain to read for 12 hours a day. I find three English channels. The E channel makes me want to tear my ears off. MTV isn't much better. So the only choice is some channel which reruns those dull procedural shows with the recycled plots and canned quips - all the CSIs, the NCSI and the like. It is what it is.

After three or four days, the foot swelling is down. I'm well enough to grab cabs to the grocery store and load up. Another two days and I try going for short walks, as I'm feeling better and am going a little stir crazy. Make it out to the Inca twice, and it's worth going but even there the foot burns with some irritation at whatever angle I hang it. But at least I'm reading again - I reread Martin's A Storm of Swords and part of the fourth book in anticipation of the fifth arriving this summer, and continue some of the other books I had begun. The maids check on me daily, examining my poor foot and cradling it like surrogate mothers worried about their kid. I even start to consider a trip out of town, but realize the horse riding trip I want probably isn't a good idea yet. Wednesday rolls around and I'm getting sick again, slight chills and fever tag-teaming me at night. The foot is also starting to swell again. Thursday, at the urging of my mother (thanks mom!), I head out to find a doctor because, simple put, I'm feeling like ass and need to also get that foot checked...it's still bleeding regularly and the gap isn't looking too healed. Wander in a fevered daze towards the hospital found in the guidebook and manage an apt with a doctor who knows some English. He quickly confirms the likelihood of infection. Fuck.

At least this guy seems to know his business. A culture ultimately confirms two different kind of germs/bugs/whatever in there and so I've got two sets of antibiotics to worth with. After two days on the first, I'm past my sickness, feeling fine and the swelling is gone on the foot. It'll probably take another 10 days to heal but at least this time I have faith it will heal.

And just in time, cause I'm headed to Quito tomorrow (doctor approved) for a week of sights and tours and my buddy Kimberly is flying in from SF to join the fun.

Not the most exciting entry folks, but it's been a sick bed type of two weeks. Had to fill in the story before the good adventuring starts again. So there you have it. Wish me luck.

-Sir Gimpy

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Comments

[baheart]

Aww...
Poor thing. (That wasn't sarcastic, I swear.) At the first signs of your illness, I was certain the lovely Rosa had drugged you with her honey candy and was using you as a drug mule. I'm grateful that wasn't the case, though it would have made a lovely screenplay or episode of "Locked Up Abroad." Next time your foot is swollen, go to the damn doctor! Love, Your Mother Hen