Crash

For over two years we’ve been riding our bikes through the streets of Rivas. We learned early on that it very important to stay alert during these excursions, mainly because no one else is. We watch as cars routinely screech to a halt in the middle of the road, either so the driver can chat with a nearby pedestrian, or so a passenger can disembark if the vehicle happens to be a taxi. We’ve observed motorcycles carving swathes through the traffic, slicing between cars both stationary and in motion, and seen any number of clipped bumpers and whacked side mirrors. This on occasion results in a shout or a honk, but on the whole, passes unpunished. Other bicyclists seem to believe that from the moment they assume the saddle, they are given supernatural powers, including invisibility, hyperspeed, and a sort of impenetrable force field off of which other, larger vehicles will helplessly bounce. The riders, however, maintain an iota of doubt in said powers, resulting in frequent sudden braking, abrupt swerving, and a fair amount of fist shaking after disappearing bumpers. In any case, we have learned to both take some necessary risks required to actually get anywhere, while remaining cautious and very aware. But you can’t account for everything, and a few days ago, I met the unexpected. A taxi had just pulled into a line up of taxis, parked under some trees for their lunchtime snooze. I managed to avoid his sudden maneuver into the spot, but when his door flew open, I had no choice but to meet it head on. I flew! Just for a second, before the ground rose up and slammed me in the chin. Moment of blackness, then pain and confusion and blood. A lot of blood. From my chin, which Pat took one look at, blanched, and said, “Oh shit.” Not exactly the words of comfort one hopes to hear while lying on the street surrounded by concerned and curious taxi drivers and a smattering of fruit vendors. “Your chin’s split. It looks deep. Needs stitches. Let’s go.” He handed me a clean handkerchief which I pressed to the wound and he helped me to my feet. The taxi driver was hovering, apologizing, and offered to drive us to the hospital. Around this time I began to notice other bits of me hurt as well. A good sized piece of my inner right knee appeared to have been left on the pavement, along with other bits from other unfortunate appendages. I couldn’t move my jaw very well, although I could talk. I think the first thing I said was, “No hospital! Take us to the new clinic!” Though I expect it sounded more like “NO ostital! Ooh kinik!”

I found I was clutching my still mostly frozen bottle of water, and held it to the various parts that seemed most likely to bruise. This required moving the bottle around a great deal, which was painful in itself, but kept me distracted from my chin and the sodden, no longer white handkerchief jammed there. We arrived at the clinic, recently built by the Sandinistas supposedly to give the poor equal opportunity for healthcare. The emergency room reception girls took one look at me and herded me into the exam room, in spite of some protests from people already waiting. I think I heard them saying, “The Gringita’s bleeding! We’ll be right with you!” And felt guilt at being helped first, relief at being helped first, and touched by being called “Gringita”, a sort of affectionate form of “Gringa”. The nurse made me remove the soggy rag and peered down. She didn’t wince, which I thought a good sign, merely told me in order to clean it effectively she would have to give me a local anesthetic. That hurt as well, but paled in comparison with everything else. Meanwhile, two other nurses were working on my assorted abrasions, covering my knees, elbows, and palms with betadine. Once the anesthetic took effect, I felt the rasping of the gauze as she diligently removed the section of road I carried with me. Once cleaned to her satisfaction, she told me I would need at least three stitches. This may astound some readers, but these are the first non-surgical stitches I’ve ever had. So actually, I was kind of excited about it. She promised to make them very neat so I wouldn’t have much of a scar. I said (tried to say), “Oh good, because I wouldn’t want to give up my dream of being a supermodel.” She smiled at me as one smiles at a particularly retarded dog, one to whom ‘paper-trained’ means putting just one’s front paws on the paper…

It was over quickly. I asked where I should pay and was told there was no charge for emergencies. Something Ortega passed last year, to mixed results. Obviously, in the cases of real emergencies, it is a very good thing. However, as there remain charges of between $10-$20 for regular visits, many people show up at the ER’s for routine checkups or other non-threatening conditions. Depending on how busy they are, the ER’s can decide to treat them, or to send them down the hall to the regular clinic.

The taxi driver was still waiting outside, and after placing my bike in the trunk, drove me home as Pat followed on his bike. He apologized at least 30 times, swearing it was an accident, that he’d just forgotten to look… Once in, I popped a strong pain killer from a stash we’ve been hoarding for just this sort of thing, crawled into the hammock, and began roughly 36 hrs of sleeping, interrupted for cleaning the wounds, eating bits of tasty Pat-prepared morsels, drinking a lot, and trying to chat with the parade of visitors who stopped by as word spread. Now, three days later, I am feeling better. I can move my jaw almost normally, and the lesser bruises have diminished considerably (yea, Arnica!) Only the tennis ball-sized abrasion on my inner right knee still hurts like hell (and looks worse), but even it has begun to heal. The stitches come out next Monday. Pat says it will hurt a lot, but I’m assuming he’s just being horrid. Overall, I just keep thinking how lucky I was, and how much worse it could’ve been…knocked out teeth, broken bones, split head, etc. Really, considering the impact, I got off easy. And although we are always cautious, we’ll step it up a notch from here on in, and hope to avoid any repeats. At least for another two years.

Getting the stitches out was even simpler. I rode a few blocks over to the Buenos Aires Centro de Salud where I was cordially greeted by at least six nurses. I was the only patient, the Swine Flu panic of the last few weeks having subsided once everyone realized no one actually had it. They arranged me on a table, and with a few quick, stinging snips, one of them removed the three bits of thread. Another nurse dabbed on some more betadine, while a third gently applied a fresh bandaid. And once again, when I asked where and what to pay, they all just smiled and shook their heads.

On my 2nd night of recuperation I had a bit of a set back. As we settled in to watch a dvd and get to bed early, Pat came in looking perplexed and told me “They’re setting up a large screen in the basketball court.” The court is approximately 50 feet from our door. This was not a promising development. But we went ahead setting up our own tiny cinema in the hopes that the events across the street would be anything other than what they in fact were: a genuine Evangelist free-for-all. Within twenty minutes the court was partially ringed with huge speakers generally associated with Woodstock-like extravaganzas, and a generic Latino man in a shiny suit and shinier hair was prancing determinedly across a gleaming white stage filled with flowers and backed by luminescent curtains that floated from above like the wings of a thousand angels (getting the picture?) He began calmly enough, addressing both the live and remote audiences (which in the case of Buenos Aires consisted of the three guys who set up the screen and a couple glue-sniffers too stoned to crawl away; did I mention that the court is also part of the Central Park, which is bordered along its entire eastern side by the Catholic church?), but before long his gentle inquiries became demanding rants. He shook his fist, clutched the mike forcefully, and strode faster and faster across the heavenly stage. Before long his voice had grown hoarse, but he was just getting started. By now even the glue-sniffers had managed to roll towards home, while all the other houses surrounding the square had done like we had: closed doors and windows as though preparing for a tornado. It didn’t really help as most houses are built to allow the passage of air between the roof and walls, and actual windows are a luxury few can afford, but at least we all presented a united front of refusal. It didn’t help. The barrage continued for 90 minutes, until any “amor” I once had in my “corazon” had been so battered and abused, all that remained was a cold hard nugget of loathing for whatever inconsiderate bastard had wrought this travesty of noise pollution upon us. Pat and I cowered in the back room, headphones in, volume up to 10 (wishing for the elusive ‘11’), trying to focus on the inanity that made up the movie “State of Play” our local bootlegger had recently sold us. By the time the film reached its far-fetched conclusion, the televangelist too had issued forth his ferocious finale. We were all saved, though from what, I cannot say.

Aside from this, we’ve attended a wedding, which was small and lovely. The groom a bilingual tour guide we’ve know a while; his new bride a beautiful, pregnant, graphic designer. It was both casual and formal, the women dressed to the 9’s, but the tables rented plastic and a shortage of booze.

We also took a trip over to Ometepe Island, where Pat is overseeing a cane ceiling being installed in our friend Cindi’s house. On the way back to the port where we needed to catch the last daily ferry, the accelerator cable in the jeep snapped. Pat tried to fix it, but each time we got just a mile before it gave way again. Finally, he found some steel cable in the back, attached it directly to the accelerator in the motor, and drove the rest of the trip controlling the acceleration by pulling on the cable. In addition to shifting gears and steering, he had his hands full (we tried it with me shifting, but it didn’t quite work out.), but as always, he managed with aplomb. We happened to have three hitchhikers with us at the time; two young American women med-students and their local guide. They photographed the whole thing and were thrilled to have had such a ‘uniquely Nica experience’. I think their favorite part was when we approached the bottom of a steep hill. An old man was just dismounting his bike to begin the long trek to the top. Pat said, “Ask him if he wants a ride up.” I did, and he gave me a big toothless smile, hopped up on the running board grasping the door frame with his left hand while hoisting up his bike in his right. We chugged our way up and stopped to let him off. He grinned some more, bobbed his head a few times, and waved us on our way. “Oh my god, that was like the kindest thing I’ve ever seen!” said Anya. Pat just winked at me and we continued our rush for the ferry.