My last 5 days in Colombia, I stayed in scenic Cartagena de Indias.
Cartagena is known as one of the most coveted colonial fortresses in Latin America. Immense amounts of wealth passed through its harbors; hoards of pirates attempted to break into the walled city at every turn.
In today’s Cartagena, the wealth continues to flow--though it's not coming from pirates, the sugar trade, or Spanish expat nobility.
Instead, Cartagena has maintained its wealth thanks to its status as a truly unironic, slightly-dilapidated ~Caribbean vacation destination.~ It is filled to the brim with many, many, many very affluent Brazilian/Argentine tourists that deeply enjoy the city's array of resort-life attractions, such as: dillipidated horse-drawn carriage rides! Third-degree sunburns contracted while basking next to rooftop pools! And, of course, the delectable fare at Hard Rock Cafe Cartagena!
Evidently the Hard Rock enterprise is not, in fact, bankrupt. The 90s really are back, y'all.
Unfortunately when I myself think of Cartagena, I will remember neither its pirate-fighting past nor its lovably-skeezy-resort-town present.
Instead, I will forever connect Cartagena with that one time my life almost came to an early and abrupt end. Sad but true: Like many a Spanish colonizer before me, within 48 hours of landing in Cartagena, I came down with a very severe tropical virus.
Instead, I will forever connect Cartagena with that one time my life almost came to an early and abrupt end. Sad but true: Like many a Spanish colonizer before me, within 48 hours of landing in Cartagena, I came down with a very severe tropical virus.
I spent my last 4 days in Colombia quaking in my bed, sweating/bleeding/hallucinating/vomming/crying with a 103-degree fever; unable to feel my hands or feet; skin peeling off to reveal a large, spotted rash; physically unable to go to a pharmacy/doctor and get medicine… aaaand 100% alone. With no idea whatsoever what my ailment was or how to treat it.
I could turn this post into a large litany about illness abroad; travelling alone; viral infections of the tropics; etc etc. This is true.
But I cannot under-emphasize this point: I came back from the BRINK, friends - so I’m taking a different route.
... I’m taking a route of glory-jesus-HALLELUJAH.
.... I’m taking the route of HELLLLL-YUS-I-AM-ALIVE-LET-US-TAKE-IT-TO-THE-STREETS
.... I’m taking the route of THANK YOU DEITIES ABOVE, because I am feeling the spirit of #YOLO like Drake himself never could believe. Testify & believe.
Below, I list out the many bright stars of sunshine that pulled me through the Plague of Cartagena.
I could turn this post into a large litany about illness abroad; travelling alone; viral infections of the tropics; etc etc. This is true.
But I cannot under-emphasize this point: I came back from the BRINK, friends - so I’m taking a different route.
... I’m taking a route of glory-jesus-HALLELUJAH.
.... I’m taking the route of HELLLLL-YUS-I-AM-ALIVE-LET-US-TAKE-IT-TO-THE-STREETS
.... I’m taking the route of THANK YOU DEITIES ABOVE, because I am feeling the spirit of #YOLO like Drake himself never could believe. Testify & believe.
Below, I list out the many bright stars of sunshine that pulled me through the Plague of Cartagena.
Gracias a ti, Allure Chocolate
My illness began on my third day at the Allure Chocolate; as the moniker suggests, a chocolate-themed hotel. (Not to be confused with the “Bon Bon”-themed hotel next door.)
Hashtag resort lifeeee.
There was very little actual chocolate to be had at Allure Chocolat, most disappointingly. They did, however, pump chocolate-scented perfume into the air vents. Thus, a faint but notably awful sugary smell lingered everywhere.
Allure Chocolate redeemed itself thanks to their rooftop pool, which 1) did not smell like chocolate, thank jesus, 2) overlooked the beautiful Caribbean port of Cartagena, 3) was open 24/7 because ~pool safety ain’t no thang~ in a resort town.
When my fever temporarily broke on day 2 around 2 AM (before roaring back with a fury on day 3), I gloriously was able to jump into a swimming pool! 7 stories above the harbor! Overlooking the glittering late-evening skies of Cartagena!!
After sweltering in fever-sweat for 48 hours - there was simply no purer sense of relief than a glorious dip in a pool at 2 am.
I cried heartily and openly and without regret, I assure you. THANK YOU ALLURE CHOCOLAT.
----
Bless you, Emilio.
The hotel staff of the Allure Chocolat was 90% male, 95% non-English-speaking, 100%-thrilled to hit up any single lady they encountered.
The hotel's bartender, Emilio, was my #1 fan among the staff. Let it be noted, that, prior to falling ill, I spent exactly one hour at Emilio's bar. And yet that fleeting interaction was all Emilio needed to fuel his endless amor for the elusive “ElizabeTT de Nueva York.”
Thus: Even bedridden in my deepest days of illness, I encountered Emilio 7-8 times a day; each and every day.
You see, Emilio would use his all-access hotel-room key to enter my room without knocking while I was sleeping. ////No.
Then, while in my room, he would “re-stock the minibar” while reciting love poems of various Colombian poets under his breath. ////Nonono.
Finally, he would always pause before exiting, to pose one final question--a hail-mary sort of query that was supposed to attract me back to his alcohol-filled fiefdom: “Quiere coctel ElizabeTT? Sera un regalito para ti, cuandoquiera vuelvas….” (“Elizabeth, would you like a cocktail? It will be a gift, whenever you choose to return...”).
That’s right - 7-8 times a day, Emilio would turn to inquire if my infectious disease had abated to the point that caipirinhas were a bit more palatable / I would not literally vomit blood if I consumed one.
//////NONONONO/////
//////NONONONO/////
... But you know what? Real talk: Despite his endless creepin’, clearly deeply-effed-up motivations, and strangely-persistent dedication to hitting up ElizabeTT, his ailing amor norteamericana: Emilio, I must thank him.
You see, Deeply-misguided Emilio was my main form of human contact for my first 3 days of feverish hell.
His endless heterosexual-male tendency towards illogical-sexual hope somehow empowered me to develop my own brand of hope: a hope that I WOULD SURVIVE and live to tell the tale of his insane, insane, insane creeping. And hope--even hope of future anecdotal hilarity--is really what I needed more than anything else.
+ Emilio also restocked the minibar with Gatorade, aka my fiebre-lifeblood. Props, dude.
On that note:
-----
Passion fruit Gatorade - my savior.
Fun fact - when one has a virus, there is no medicine that will cure you. To cope/recover, you pretty much can take a tiny bit of Tylenol (gotta be careful, lest your liver is failing) and down mad, mad fluids.
That said - Since I was consuming 0 foodstuffs, I could not consume just any old beverage to stay alive. Gotta keep those sodium/potassium pumps going!
Consequently, I lived on 100% passion fruit Gatorade for the last 5 days of my trip.
I lost 12 pounds within 3 days on this “diet” of pure red sugar drank.
I lost 12 pounds within 3 days on this “diet” of pure red sugar drank.
MmmmMMMmmmm. US Gatorade flavors (i.e. "red" "blue" and the like. Pffft.) bow down!
Lest you - like my female co-workers - congratulate me on the drastic results of my newfound-sugary-juice-diet success, I assure you all this weight came out of my muscles; which were shriveling down to nothing thanks to lack of movement/nutrients/hope. This dreamlifeeee I lead.
That said: If I had to only subsist on one beverage for a very long period of time while deeply ill and suffering the worst abdominal pain of my flowery youth--I cannot lie.
Colombian passion-fruit-flavored Gatorade. is. DELICIOUS.
Colombian passion-fruit-flavored Gatorade. is. DELICIOUS.
---
The Internet - holla #back.
Travelling alone and suffering deeply, I attempted a few times to self-diagnose my ailment.
Since my 100%-Ukrainian genome previously had no familiarity with the viruses of Latin America, I struggled with what action I should take to keep death from my hotel room door: Should I take one of the many questionable antibiotics random pharmacists doled out to me like candy? Should I just continue pumping passion-fruit Gatorade into my system and hope to sweat it out old-world style? Orrrr did I need to enter a hospital ASAP lest my liver be on the brink of complete shutdown?
Since my 100%-Ukrainian genome previously had no familiarity with the viruses of Latin America, I struggled with what action I should take to keep death from my hotel room door: Should I take one of the many questionable antibiotics random pharmacists doled out to me like candy? Should I just continue pumping passion-fruit Gatorade into my system and hope to sweat it out old-world style? Orrrr did I need to enter a hospital ASAP lest my liver be on the brink of complete shutdown?
Searching WebMD was a bad choice - my symptoms suggested I had a beautiful array of illnesses… ebola! yellow fever! cholera! tyhpus! hepatitis! Death was at my door no matter how I swung it on WebMD.
"The Year You Finally Lose Weight" because all you can consume is passion fruit Gatorade + your hotel's incessant scent of chocolate had discouraged you from ever ever ever eating food again.
For those of my medically-inclined friends trembling in anger at my aversion to utilizing the Colombian medical system: trust me, I did try to pull myself out of my stupor to get to proper medication.
The first time, the pharmacist chatted with me for 3 seconds. Hearing that I was 1) American, 2) ill, she handed me a random antibiotic and sent me on my way. Within 30 seconds of researching pharmacist #1’s medicine on la Red: I discovered she had offered me the no-longer-prescribed-in-the-US gastrointestinal antibiotic Flagyl.
Flagyl is now so very ineffective that is actually is known to cause bacterial infections that are virtually impossible to get rid of with further antibiotic use. I actually participated in a study at UChicago (read: made $1500 off of being sick, tax free!) about Flagyl, and therefore am acutely aware of why NO ONE SHOULD EVER TAKE IT.
Flagyl is now so very ineffective that is actually is known to cause bacterial infections that are virtually impossible to get rid of with further antibiotic use. I actually participated in a study at UChicago (read: made $1500 off of being sick, tax free!) about Flagyl, and therefore am acutely aware of why NO ONE SHOULD EVER TAKE IT.
And yet, in my time of dire need, it was the only medicine at my disposal. Pharmaceutical success numero uno. /// FUN////
Two days of medicinal-gatorade-not-offering-actual-pain-relief later, I tried again to go to a pharmacy. This time, I “leaned in” like an infectious, Spanish-speaking Sheryl Sandberg; demanding the pharmacist listen to my laundry list of symptoms.
She calmly handed me a painkiller with the extremely mysterious active ingredient “N-butil Bromuro de Hioscina.”
Minimal googling later (<3 internet <3 <3), I discovered that the active ingredient in N-butil Bromuro de Hioscina is Scopolamine; an obscure Colombian barbiturate banned in US and most of Europe.
Why banned, you ask? WELL. Quoth Wikipedia, “While it is occasionally used recreationally for its hallucinogenic properties, the experiences are often mentally and physically extremely unpleasant, and frequently physically dangerous, so repeated use is rare.”
Also notable - Due to how extremely effective/potent/unpleasant is, Scopolamine is a favorite choice as a date rape drug in Colombia.
Actual top Google image results for "Scopolamine." Jesussssssssss.
No words; no words at all.
On this day - typing this from a computer in the USA and not dying in a back-alley in the Caribbean: I kowtow with the utmost reverence to worldwide web. BLESSED INTERNET.
On this day - typing this from a computer in the USA and not dying in a back-alley in the Caribbean: I kowtow with the utmost reverence to worldwide web. BLESSED INTERNET.
(Dear everyone:
BEFORE YOU TRAVEL ANYWHERE, READ THE CDC COUNTRY PAGE!! Some of us bitches learned this too late / the hard way.
Love, your mom / future generations of your gene pool that would like to be born.)
BEFORE YOU TRAVEL ANYWHERE, READ THE CDC COUNTRY PAGE!! Some of us bitches learned this too late / the hard way.
Love, your mom / future generations of your gene pool that would like to be born.)
---
Daniel Bedingfield
Finally, I would also like to extend a gracious, loving embrace to late 90s electro-wunderkind Daniel Bedingfield.
If you do not remember dear Daniel by his name alone, perhaps you recall his #1 pop hit “I Gotta Get Through This.” from your local church’s 6th grade dance playlist.
During my illness, somehow - from the deepest reaches of my subconscious - this song emerged.
During my illness, somehow - from the deepest reaches of my subconscious - this song emerged.
“I gotta get through this" became my own personal om; a motto of alliterative, Slavic Warrior Princess defiance that I repeated to myself, day in and day out, through the deepest and darkest caves of pain.
"I gotta get through this" most recent creepy love poem recited by Emilio.
"I gotta get through this" diet of pure Gatorade despite the fact that I am literally starving myself in the land of arepas and granadillas.
And, of course: "I gotta get through this" two-connection flight back home to a gloriously scopolamine-free medical system.
"I gotta get through this" most recent creepy love poem recited by Emilio.
"I gotta get through this" diet of pure Gatorade despite the fact that I am literally starving myself in the land of arepas and granadillas.
And, of course: "I gotta get through this" two-connection flight back home to a gloriously scopolamine-free medical system.
Picture it, friends: a shriveling, Gatorade-colored Liza laying on the floor of the Bogota airport--flight back to the US delayed 3 hours, body aching like never before; children screaming; old Argentine men yelling - pure chaos.
And yet, in my brain - the only sound I heard was DB’s eerily-wispy male soprano repeating “I gotta get through this / I gotta get through this / I gotta make / gotta make / gotta make it thro-oughhhh."
Over and over. For 3 hours. A new-found state of late-90s zen.
Rational? Nyet.
Critical to my mental survival after 6 days of immune-system-battering illness? You better effing believe.
----
I am now back in the US & like my motherland, have not yet died.
Therefore, in closing I must offer a final few thanks:
-Haruki Murakami, whose novel "Kafka by the Shore" I consumed most voraciously, mostly in the fetal position + on the bathroom floor. It is true that I was/am disturbed that a major plot-point of this novel involved a man eating the hearts of live cats for pleasure, but this horrific image somehow made my own physical hell at the time seem a bit more tolerable. I wish I was kidding. It's all relative, right Haruki?
-My friends Claudio, Kim and Charlotte - all of whom kept in contact with me and wrote me extremely kind correspondence as I lay suffering in the Southern Hemisphere. You the best, frandz.
-Whoever was supposed to sit next to me on my full flight back to the US - I was literally one of 4 people on a ~300 person flight that did not have a seatmate. Admittedly my dank-ass sick body would have been the least pleasant seatmate ever, so perhaps it was everyone else's good fortune to keep their distance...? Let's not over-think it.
-The people of Colombia, who (...other than Emilio....) were extremely, genuinely kind and caring to me in my time of need, even thought I was a total stranger and an infectious, foreign stranger, at that. I got like ~10 hugs my last day from the Allure Chocolat hotel staff; no joke. And I had sweat out at least 20 bottles of Gatorade, so trust and believe I truly smelled like ass. (On this note - in general, Colombians are amazingly gracious and kind.)
-My taxi driver out of JFK - who did not judge me when I broke down sobbing upon entering his cab. And who then drove me straight from the airport to the urgent care center at Brooklyn Methodist Hospital with no questions asked. AMERICA IS FREE Y'ALL
-Ukraine - I mean, do I have to even explain? Survivor status, son.
----
I am now back in the US & like my motherland, have not yet died.
Therefore, in closing I must offer a final few thanks:
-Haruki Murakami, whose novel "Kafka by the Shore" I consumed most voraciously, mostly in the fetal position + on the bathroom floor. It is true that I was/am disturbed that a major plot-point of this novel involved a man eating the hearts of live cats for pleasure, but this horrific image somehow made my own physical hell at the time seem a bit more tolerable. I wish I was kidding. It's all relative, right Haruki?
-My friends Claudio, Kim and Charlotte - all of whom kept in contact with me and wrote me extremely kind correspondence as I lay suffering in the Southern Hemisphere. You the best, frandz.
-Whoever was supposed to sit next to me on my full flight back to the US - I was literally one of 4 people on a ~300 person flight that did not have a seatmate. Admittedly my dank-ass sick body would have been the least pleasant seatmate ever, so perhaps it was everyone else's good fortune to keep their distance...? Let's not over-think it.
-The people of Colombia, who (...other than Emilio....) were extremely, genuinely kind and caring to me in my time of need, even thought I was a total stranger and an infectious, foreign stranger, at that. I got like ~10 hugs my last day from the Allure Chocolat hotel staff; no joke. And I had sweat out at least 20 bottles of Gatorade, so trust and believe I truly smelled like ass. (On this note - in general, Colombians are amazingly gracious and kind.)
-My taxi driver out of JFK - who did not judge me when I broke down sobbing upon entering his cab. And who then drove me straight from the airport to the urgent care center at Brooklyn Methodist Hospital with no questions asked. AMERICA IS FREE Y'ALL
-Ukraine - I mean, do I have to even explain? Survivor status, son.
No comments:
Post a Comment