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Published: December 7th 2012
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We wake early, with the sunrise, and unfortunately, my injury has morphed into something seeming more eggplant-like than foot-like overnight. I can only move by doing a series of leaps from one piece of sturdy furniture to another, and by lunchtime I have invented several new walking techniques. There is the club foot swagger, for when I am trying to move quickly, and the pogo-stick shuffle for when my foot is in extra pain and cannot handle any pressure at all. And so Sunday passes, with me lying low in the casita, and Brian going out into the world to explore a bit (but mostly just to pick up some ibuprofen). But the sun is shining and the breeze cool, and the water is perfect for dangling your feet into, and so in spite of my lack of mobility, we revel in our luck and laze the day away....
By Monday we are itching to get up and go, and the foot is still not cooperating, so we take the boat into Pana to visit the Pharmacia, in hopes of acquiring heavy duty pain meds to help me tough it out. Instead, the pharmacist directs me into the back, which
seems to be equal parts car garage and doctors office, and presses on my foot until he shakes his head and says we ought to go to the hospital in the next town over for an x-ray. It is probably broken and xrays are free if you are willing to wait for many hours. He wishes us luck and charges us nothing and sends us on our way. But instead of heading for hospital hill, we decide to try another tactic. We take a tuk-tuk (motorbike taxi) back to the dock, and head for San Marcos, a little lake town just around the bend from Santa Cruz, known for its new-agey ways and alternative medicines.
San Marcos lives up to the legend. Everywhere we turn we see massage rooms, tarot card readings, crystal shops, and organic cafes selling carrot juice and sprouted burgers. Tall tan men with rope sandals, parachute pants, and ponytailed hair walk down the cobblestoned streets as Mayan women sell chocolate and sweet breads from their baskets on the dirt pathways that criss-cross through town. As a hobble down the street, barefoot, because it feels better, someone yells "Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation!!" Thanks, man.
Then we stop at the little bamboo tourist center to get our bearings, and start to tell our story. A woman on a computer in the back overhears, and comes to take a look. She tells us she has a good friend, Luis, an 8th generation bone setter, who can come take a look at my foot for about four dollars. She says he fixed her leg, and it was more painful than childbirth, but it worked. We say okay, lets give the man a chance, and within ten minutes he appears. I expect an ancient, wrinkly, medicine man type, with a thin white pony tail and wise, tired eyes. Instead, Luis is a short and muscalur guy of maybe twenty two. His hair is bleached and buzzed short, and he is wearing dark blue Tommy Hillfiger jeans and skateboarding shoes. But someone walks by, and says "Luis is the man! Its gonna hurt like hell, but hes been doing this since he was eight!" By this time a crowd has formed around me and Brian and Luis and there is no turning back. He tells me in Spanish, this will hurt a little, but to breathe, relax, breathe. First he feels the energy around my foot and then gently starts to pry around the bones. Okay, I think, not so bad. Then he tightens his grip, aligns his fingers just so, and says to hang on, and holymotherofallthingspainful he does something to my foot and there are cracks and pops and then a white circle forms in the center of the bruise, where it was most painful, then slowly ebbs out toward the edges of my foot. Its okay now, he says. Dont walk for three days. Rest and herbs he says, and points Brian in the direction of the holistic medicine cooperative, where he is instructed to buy Arnica salve and pick some Comfrey out of the garden in the back and make a poultice for my foot. A waitress appears from who knows where with a icy glass of water for me and the kids and the dogs and the tourists who have been watching the whole show start to disperse.
Next, we are advised to walk down a little dirt trail to get some acupuncture. While I am getting needled by a a big bearded man named James who says I have eyes the color of the lake, Brian is shuttled to another room for a traditional Mayan massage from a hairy-legged, but still quite pretty, hippie named Mariu, who spends ten minutes syncronizing her breath and heartbeat and aligning her spirit with Brians. She is the giver, he the receiver, she says serenely. They must become one. In the other room, James has placed several needles my calf, and now my leg is so heavy I can hardly lift it. He also takes a tool that looks like a fairy-sized spear, and proceeds to begin a blood-letting ceremony from my ear, supposedly from the spot in my earlobe that corresponds with my foot. This should alleviate the swelling and bruising he says.
Surprisingly, I leave the room feeling little pain; I am giddy, footloose and fancy free. Not so surprisingly, Brian too, is experiencing a similar joy, and bounds out of the room smelling like lemongrass and patchouli. Has the new-age aura of San Marcos messed with our minds? Or am I truly cured?! We head back to Santa Cruz as the sun is setting, still spinning from the days events.
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Joani
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This made me laugh out loud. Sorry for your pain though, Jessie.