The rule in Latin America if you don’t feel well is to see a pharmacist. If you’ve been coughing and spluttering for a week, feeling congested and unable to sleep you don’t go to the doctor. Gringo tourists go to the doctor but they are not used to the local way of doing things.
Our first attempt at seeking powerful medicine didn’t go well last Tuesday. Layne came out shaking her head saying she didn’t get a good hit off the pharmacist, she didn’t seem like a bright spark. Sure enough we took the powders she sold us, felt better for a day and relapsed.
Friday I was too sick to drive, which tells you how ill I felt as I will drive anywhere anytime. Saturday we tried a different pharmacy and the young woman, possibly my granddaughter if I had one, handed us spluttering old timers a box for our “gripa.”
We went home and I gingerly drank my 20 milliliters of pink goop which tasted of flavorless syrup and made my tongue feel numb, and yet miraculously I slept last night, quite deeply too, which is why this post is appearing late in the morning.
It is cold outside, winter cold, every day even under the sun the air is cold, no autumnal relief. Maria José is back from Argentina, Adrián was smiling this morning as he took a load of firewood into his house and we were supposed to have been taking off today. If the young pharmacist got it right we want to be driving away by Tuesday. Rusty loves it here so he will be disappointed I fear but we will do our best for him on the road to Bolivia.
He stayed out till ten last night refusing to come in enjoying the cold night air. I need a fur coat. I’ve graduated from my woolen Mexican poncho to a puffy jacket and gloves. The chill is real and we need to get north.
No comments:
Post a Comment