Don't have a hernia, it's not appendicitis

After Havana I'd had quite enough of shady hospitals, thank you very much.

The first time it was probably around 3 a.m., after a night out in Habana Viejo, about 45 minutes from where we lived. It had been another spectacular, humid Cuban night, and we'd decided to walk - but in the darkness (they're not big on street lights in many parts of the city) and the mess of narrow street and rubble that is Centro Habana we lost our bearings. Finally we'd given up and were attempting to steer ourselves in the direction of the Malecon. The houses were blue where the man attacked - with such force that he was able to rip my friend's bag from where it was slung across her body, tearing the handle in half. The lone guy who was with us immediately took off after him, flying around the corner into the darkness in hot pursuit - out of our sight, leaving me scared for a friend's life for the first time ever. (Apparently he chased the guy into a house and up the stairs where he disappeared, possibly out the window, leaving my friend standing there alone - much to the bemusement of those living in the house.)

Usually there is a Policeman standing on every corner in Havana, but they can be made to temporarily disappear when asked in the right way. Clearly by the time the Police finally showed there was no chance of catching the guy. Instead they insisted on taking us to get our friend's shoulder checked at the "hospital" - a cavernous ruin of a building, with dizzyingly tall and narrow doors. It was nearly three years ago so now I only have the impression of a single electric light bulb dangling on a wire disappearing into blackness, the ceiling so high the light couldn't reach it. A bare examination table directly beneath the light, a single folding chair in the corner. Blue walls again, peeling paint. Our footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Darkness and silence everywhere else. Fortunately she was alright - we beat feet out of there as fast as possible.

The second time was after I'd sprained my ankle. Those who know me will know I do tend to do this, but this sprain in particular was a doozy, probably the worst I've ever done. My ankle had swollen to the size of my cat (and he's a fat cat) and turned black before my Cuban family were able to convince me I had to go to the hospital.

This time it wasn't so bad - mostly because they were with me, it was daylight, and unlike the other place, this hospital cheerfully blazed the word "hospital" across its front doors. Telling me to keep quiet so they could pretend I was Cuban (this was back when I actually could speak Spanish but did have a telling American accent) they managed to smuggle me through the pesos door instead of through the foreigners' area (dollars rule there - I would've happily just paid the dollars but by this point was in too much pain to speak up). The examination room was again blue, but this time reminded me more of a Police interrogation room than a torture chamber, and the doctor again sat on a scuffed and torn folding chair to examine me at the wooden table. Unfortunately for me, he told my Cuban parents that I had to stay off the ankle completely for two weeks - instructions they promptly followed to the letter, maintaining a watchful vigil and barely allowing me to get out of bed to hobble to the bathroom. (I felt like I couldn't fight them on it as they'd also gone to great lengths to get me some medicine on the black market which they promised would provide some sort of miracle cure - and turned out to be Bayer aspirin.)

What's the point of all this, when we're now in Mendoza? The point is that when we walked through the doors of the hospital this morning, concerned after we'd both (mistakenly, it turns out) diagnosed Becca's continuing pain as appendicitis, on first glance I was relieved. It was no KEMH, but it was also no blue-walled Cuban ruin either. That was before we were sent downstairs to the emergency room - where the first person we saw was a ragged, sagging man wandering aimlessly around the grimy hall with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his entire head and some sort of fluid dried and cracked all down his dirt smeared clothes. We promptly both did an about-face to leave but for some reason (the threat of her appendix rupturing outside on the street) decided to press on. The waiting room, reminiscent of a large, old communal shower, didn't encourage us; nor did the guys at reception, who peered at us suspiciously through blackened glass with large cracks running all through it and asked for Becca's passport before anything else. (Could Arnaldo have infiltrated the Mendoza hospital too?)

As in Cuba, it turned out alright. The doctor didn't speak English but all of a sudden we could speak Spanish again (apparently when the pressure's on, it's there - if only everyone else would give us a chance to speak it now instead of speaking English to us all the time) According to him she did not have appendicitis - fortunate as she'd sworn as we entered the hospital that if she needed to get it out, she was not getting it out in Argentina, despite my attempts to point out that when your apendix is about to rupture you can't wait a week and a half until you're back in the States to get it out. We left with a prescription for some painkiller we'd never heard of before and a feeling of immense relief.

Unfortunately now we're stuck in Mendoza, the outdoor activities town, with Becca unable to walk more than a few blocks. The border to Chile is still closed tomorrow and now there's about a thousand vehicles waiting to make the crossing. Even if it did open up on Saturday it doesn't sound like the smartest idea anymore, particularly since it could close again at any moment and Becca does have a flight to catch next week out of Buenos Aires. They did show Cheaper by the Dozen again on the bus last night (that makes the fourth time we've seen it in two weeks - they showed it twice, back to back, on the way to Buenos Aires from Mendoza last time) and Owen, Island Girl's favourite bunk buddy, is still at Campo Base (I nearly swallowed my toothbrush when he walked into the bathroom. He's been there for weeks now. What is he doing there? Does he live there? Even college backpackers don't stay in the same hostel for weeks at a time and he's at least in his late 40s. Does he not have a job? I'm dying to find out this guy's story).

In short, between this and Boca our karma has fallen apart since you left, Robby. Now it's actually getting cloudy in Mendoza. We would pick the one week in the entire year where this desert region actually gets rain.

But she could've had appendicitis! It could always be worse. Thank goodness it's not!