¡La Salud!

It was Bolivia and I was feeling weak as it was; high altitude coupling extreme poverty is not easy to ignore in itself; to remain unaffected by the extremes. Tougher still when combined with no real purpose or knowledge about our travels to this quarter of the continent; and our being myself and a small pretty green-eyed blonde named Ashleigh with whom I was travelling and making at the time; and whom attracted long stares and great attention from all sides. Still, the first sightings of Sucre, as our bus roared forth, had me in awe. It proved to be a most beautiful colonial Spanish town: an 18th century urban-sprawl set high in the mountains; awash with white villas and narrow cobblestone streets; streetlamps emitted an incandescent orange glow illuminating manicured parks and water features. For sure, I was a long way from home.

My familiarity of glassy Australian cities, grey of concrete and suits and exhausts, provided such a stark contrast; even the towns of Argentina and Chile that I’d previously ventured didn’t offer much of an education. It was rather a scene I was somehow only familiar with through film, though through movies involving a cast of gun-wielding Americans rather than poverty stricken Bolivians. I explored Sucre as I did any town I visited: with an ‘if it’s good enough for them it’s good enough for me’ mantra. I sought to source out the most popular places you would find locals in Sucre - rather than where the backpackers milled about. There was one food outlet that stood out in particular. It was an eatery off one of the cobblestone roads, across from one of the manicured parks. It served fried chicken. I’d observe night after night the wild queue that would fall out onto the paves of Bolivianos eager for their fix. Night after night I’d say in passing ‘tomorrow night, we’re having dinner there’, usually on the way to the Joy-ride café; the tourist Mecca of the town in which we frequented far too often.

Nights had passed, and one night I was hungry and keen for the local specialty. I said to Ashleigh ‘tonight we’re going to the fried chicken place’. She refused, of course, but agreed to accompany me on my journey anyway. When we got there the chickenshack was in full-swing, as every night, with people pushing about. Spanish flew across the counter along with a few pesos; locals seemed to be delightfully tucking in to their most wonderful chicken. ‘The queues too long’ I decided. I felt overwhelmed. There was too much going on as I stood diffidently, viewing from the street. I was keen on fried chicken but not willing to go through what seemed like an ordering ordeal, so we continued walking. As fortune would have it, it wasn’t a hundred meters down the road before we stumbled upon another chickenshack. This one was almost empty.

Seeing the few scattered customers with their own fried bird, I thought I too might seize the opportunity and dragged Ash inside. ‘Dos de estos’ I told the Boliviana over the counter, pointing to a picture of the pollo on the menu, ‘con papas fritas, por favor’. ‘Diez pesos’ she replied and reached down into an industrial vat-like bucket filled with greasy orange chicken that somehow had missed my eye. It didn’t look so good, I thought, as I was already walking over to a table with my meal. But I’ve got it, I’ve paid for it, I might as well eat it, the damage is done. How wrong I would prove to be!

Ash’s face was one of disgust as I bit into my first piece. The batter was hot enough at least and tasted normal enough too, I told her. So I continued on. It was when I reached the bone that I became slightly concerned. It was red, blood-red; I scraped away at the rest of the batter on the chicken: it was pink; it wasn’t cooked; it was bad. ‘I think I’m done’ I said. Her gaze moved from the chicken to me, in disgust.

Days later and I’m producing my own version of the same blood-red. I had no notional strength left and filled with the desire to just sleep – or pass out – after a day of my body seeking to expel the chicken along with everything else; save for my heart and lungs. Ash somehow managed to find the one Doctor who spoke English in the village - god knows how she did it. And I was shuffling my feet, with her support, up a cobblestone street around the corner from our hostel and knocking on two great wooden doors hidden within the whitewash.

The doctor reminded me of my grandfather and he spoke slowly as if considering his words with great measure; not because he couldn’t find a word but rather he just held a great importance to them. He learnt English after spending some time working in Europe; in hospitals and such. His accent was thick, but his English knowledgeable and fluent. We followed the Doctor through a Spanish style courtyard that sat in the middle of his house, as common as having a kitchen in Sucre, and entered a room kitted decently enough out to look like a doctor’s examination room from the 1970’s: he sat in a rather awkward looking wooden chair; his wooden desk was covered in dusty paper and held a prehistoric typewriter; brown leather couches sat facing each other on wooden floorboards; dusty leather-bound books in bookshelves lined the walls; I lay on a bed located under one of the shelves.

While he looked over me, carefully considering his diagnosis, I lay there trembling. It wasn’t a tremble of fear, of exhaustion, of anything I had experienced before. My body was entering shock. I could do nothing about it as I almost convulsed. I focused on my breathing. In through my nose, and out through my mouth; like I was on the football pitch. I tried to breathe as deep and as slow as possible, to try get my heart-rate down - it was trying to burst out of my chest. Eventually the consideration came to a close. The double edged sword of finding the only English speaking medico in town, especially when it is a second language, is you’re prone to statements like ‘he has only a few hours, we have little time, we have to be fast’ with little or no elaboration following. Ash was in understandable shock.

The days following were a blur of drugs and injections. The doctor spent the first few days with us on an almost 24 hour basis. He cleared his schedule. He was with me when I woke up and with me when I fell asleep. He helped befriend and comfort Ash. Ash was unbelievable. She was there for me the entire time; she was living for my recovery at the expense of herself.

My strength recovered somewhat after a week but never returned close to its original levels. We flew back out to Santiago, Chile where I was hospitalized and then took leave for Australia, via a short stop in Buenos Aires, Argentina where we were able to stay with our incredible friends we’d made in the six months of travel earlier, accompanied with the feeling of unfinished business; that there was so much more to explore and experience.