Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11
I hadn’t slept well the night before, so I can only imagine what the older woman who owned the bed-and-breakfast thought when I stumbled down the stairs, bleary eyed and short on speech.
Two other guests, a man and a woman in their mid-twenties who were traveling from Germany, were already sitting at the kitchen table where the owner had prepared breakfast. Spooning out a thick black bean swamp onto under-cooked rice, I looked at the young, smiling couple who shared in acknowledging that the old woman was doing her best. Afterward finishing half of the meal, we said our farewells and I went out to find antibiotics for my infected foot.
I spoke Spanish well enough to get by. It shouldn’t be difficult for me to find a pharmacy. I’d pop in, grab my medicine, and go on about my day, enjoying Esteli for all the what it offered.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present:
It was only a couple of blocks before I reached the pharmacy, the sound of yapping dogs getting louder, then overshadowed by a sense of urgency and the brilliant teeth of the smiling woman behind the counter. It didn’t look especially different than any of the other stores, walled in but for metal bars, no windows to speak of, a slightly rusty “Pharmacia” sign the only thing to inform any casual passersby of the treasures hidden within.
The treasures, of course, not simply being the muscle-relaxers, pain-killers, etc. that lined the walls and shelves behind her, but Hello Kitty tool-kits, slippers that look like feet, and X-Men cologne.
Nah, but, for real.
I looked through the wares, the woman behind the counter eventually approaching, still smiling, but with eyes ready for the worst.
“Buenos dias!”
I smiled back, returning the greeting.
“Como puedo ayudarte?”
Well, this was a pharmacy and I needed antibiotics for a foot infection. I'd been to several other countries that didn't care about selling far more serious drugs over the counter. So I kept it easy and told her flat out.
“Necessito antibioticos porque mi pie es infectado.”
She immediately shook her head.
“No. No aqui.”
At that point, a chihuahua darted out from behind the counter, barking at me under eyes both vacant and invasive.
“What do you mean, ‘No aqui?!’ You’re standing in front of a tidal wave of medicine, ya crazy quack! The sign outside says ‘Pharmacia!’ Walk your happy ass three feet to the antibiotics and hand me the two pills a day I need to take for a week to continue my fucking journey!”
But what I said out loud was “No intiendo. El signo dice ‘Pharmacia.’”
She asked a question that was filled with words whose context eluded me.
“Lo siento, pero mi espanol no es muy fuerte.” She already knew my Spanish wasn't very strong, but I felt it important to point out.
She tilted her head and her eyes began to widen, along with her smile, which slowly became more of a gesture of baring her teeth than it was a greeting.
And with this, she began doing what any Nicaraguan would when speaking with someone who wasn’t as experienced with Spanish as they should have been when traveling to a Hispanic country. She began speaking faster, with what may very well have been perfect five-paragraph-form, given how many times she had to take a breath before finishing.
“Por favor, solo necessito antibioticos para mi pie. Es infectado.”
“No! No aqui!”
I pointed to a bottle of Amoxicillin and replied “No esta ahi?”
“No! Disculpe, no!”
“No. Disculpe.”
Angry apologies aside, it was a pity. I was gonna buy that X-Men cologne...
I kept walking, looking for a doctor’s office that was open and would take walk-ins.
After three hours of eagerness dashed, I decided to get some food and I pint of Tona at Luna, the hostel/co-op that I had been to the day before. It was crowded this time, a group of men taking up three tables to sing with one another while one played the guitar and another thrummed on a set of congas. I took some clandestine video, given how unique the opportunity was. Unfortunately, due to the crazy cell phone case I had bought, the audio is poor, but here you go:
And of course, me being me, this happened twenty minutes later.
Best rendition of Take a Picture by Filter you’ll ever hear.
After this, and filled with positive energy, I walked back to the street to continue my quest for the missing antibiotics. Biting the bullet, I decided to hail a cab and just go to a hospital. The wait would be worth it, given the alternative. I didn’t want to call my trip short for something as innocuous as a foot infection. So I waited for roughly 30 seconds and hailed the first cab that came by.
Quick and easy.
I hopped in, said my greeting to the cab driver, then waited for him to ask me where I was going.
“Necessito ver un doctor general.”
“Es Pascua. (It’s Easter)”
“Claro.”
The cabby sighed to himself, rolled his eyes at the world, then leaned back and looked at me.
“Cual? Cual doctor?”
“El doctor es no importante. Mi pie es infectado. Un hospital es bueno. O un doctor general o para familia.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. In times like these, given the potential of me actually being what many would call “crazy,” I second guess myself out of habit. And I instantly give whoever I’m speaking with the benefit of the doubt.
“Disculpe. Mi espanol es malo.”
So he did what any Nicaraguan would do when someone doesn’t speak the native tongue because they’re stupid and entitled. He spoke faster, the sonofabitch. And the only adjective to describe his method was “unabridged.”
Mania had begun to claw its way up my soul and into the functional portions of my brain.
The sunlight from the afternoon’s worth of walking, coupled with the crazy last few days, had turned my brain into a conflagration of competing ideas, one trying to be more valid than the next, with no other way of discernment than my own historical inclination and social understanding. Add to this that I thought I was making perfect sense to a cabby that was beginning to become frustrated and you have a very confused, very angry Robert.
“Cual? Which? Which doctor?!”
I remember thinking “Yeah, a witch doctor, you fucking asshole.”
However, sanity’s grip was sharp enough to hold fast and I kept my mouth shut for a few seconds before realizing that, between my brain and Easter, this wasn’t going anywhere.
I told the cab driver to let me out, paid him for our inconvenience, and walked back to the bed-and-breakfast to collect myself before trying again to find a doctor. The old woman greeted me with a smile and a hug, asking me how my day was. I told her about the guys at Luna, then we laughed as I tried to explain how difficult it had been for me to find a doctor.
“Oooooh. No, no, no. Es Pascua.”
I smiled at her, given that was my only option.
Then she patted my shoulders, raised her eyebrows doubtfully, and said she would make a phone call. A few minutes later, she came to my room and told me that she knew a doctor that would look at my foot the next day.
She smiled again with concerned eyes, then left me alone for the night, probably to retire so that she could prepare herself for sainthood without knowing it.
I walked outside to greet the flower, smoke a cigarette and tally up the pros and cons of continuing my travels with a slowly rotting foot.
In the previous few weeks, I’d come to terms with my own nature, which was tested in the purest way, met friends I’d never forget, ate local cuisine, and had rebuilt an appreciation for some of the things I’d left in the United States.
As good, Esteli had held up her part, even though I couldn’t do any of their scenic tours.
But I wanted to go to sleep to howler monkeys, damnit.
I wanted to surf down a volcano.
So the next morning, when I spoke with the sweet grandmother proprietor, I was once again enthusiastic about seeing a doctor. She gave me that concerned smile, then pointed me toward the pharmacy I had gone to the day before.
I smiled back at her, almost feeling sorry for this poor woman’s ignorance at not knowing the same pharmacy had denied me.
But she told me they were waiting.
Unconvinced, I raised an eyebrow, touched my hand to my heart, thanked her, and half-heartedly chuckled to myself for the two blocks before the “Pharmacia del Infierno.”
The same woman was behind the counter, drowning out the background noise of random dogs barking and vehicles of various size and station whizzing past. She was smiling and devoid of empathy, as though the portal for her emotions had been sealed water-tight.
I thought this was her realizing that I, in fact, did need the very medicine she had denied me less than 24 hours prior.
In retrospect, however, maybe she thought her smile would betray the hilarity of what was happening.
She gestured behind the counter and to the back of the establishment, leading me to an office with doors on both sides, one where I entered, the other where the doctor would eventually enter. The room itself was a casual office, random pictures on the wall and a desk where the doctor sat when she asked me what the problem was.
“Mi pie es infectado. Necessito antibioticos.”
She told me to take my boot and sock off, then asked me simple questions. When did this happen? What insect do you think it was? Are you allergic to anything? Do you wear other shoes? What other medicines do you take?
No problem.
Then she asked me a question filled with words to which I couldn’t provide a context. I can only blame myself.
“Disculpe. Mi espanol que falta.”
And she did what any Nicaraguan would do when some shithead gringo pulls you from your holiday to get basic medicine because he didn’t think to pack it himself. She spoke with words fired from a minigun, each carrying its own important ring and flying past before the intended target even knew to pay attention.
It was... humbling.
And then the chihuahua I'd forgotten about began licking my foot.
Breaking from the moment, I said in crisp English "You know there's a dog in here, right?"
The doctor's assistant rolled her eyes and walked through the door to the doctor's actual office.
That's when the cacophony of barking spiked and I saw the steel operating table I had become familiar with from my time-
Shit.
From my time volunteering at a veterinary clinic when I was in my mid-teens.
And then the full sentence formed in my head.
“You went to a veterinarian in Nicaragua to take care of your infected foot.”
I had to have turned beet red. I can’t imagine any other outcome.
After ten more minutes of questioning, I was prescribed 2 kinds of pills, one to take every four hours, the other to take every six. For seven days. Also a spray to apply randomly, followed by a cream at night.
After I'd paid for the mountain of medicine, I returned to the balcony of the bed-and breakfast, with its ashtray and flower, I realized how much I missed America. I missed hamburgers that didn’t guarantee dysentery, water I could confidently drink from the tap, the ability to legally know my place, casual conversations, the softness of my girlfriend’s skin, my dog…
I missed America. The one where I don’t have to explain “which America” I meant.
So I bought a couple of nights at a hotel in Managua, along with a flight home.
And I went to sleep with a promise: If I ever meet someone in the United States that’s from Nicaragua, doesn’t speak English, and is lost, I’m going to passionately explain to them why Batman is cooler than Superman, as though our undying souls were dependent on their being convinced.