In my last post about Montevideo, I left out two of the most important parts: futbol and an Uruguayan hospital!
Wednesday, we were extremely lucky to attend a local Uruguay soccer game against a local Ecuador team. As much as I would LOVE to go to a Boca Jr. game in Buenos Aires, it's just not safe. It's recommended to go with a guided group, and finding one has proven difficult. It's a very aggressive team. Uruguay in general is smaller and less aggressive than Argentina, plus it was a local game. Regardless, it was crazy! It was like college football on steroids. Speaking of college football, Peñarol, Uruguay's team, was black and yellow. We felt right at home amidst a sea of Mizzou colors. Fifteen thousand fans roared chants, played on drum lines, and lit flares in their hands. Enormous banners filled the stadium announcing one's undying passion for the team. There were even fireworks. Even though we got to the game at halftime, we managed to meet up with Anna and her boyfriend. In my opinion, this was pretty much miraculous. They were sitting on the side of Ecuador's goal and got to see up close Peñarol score on a corner kick. The crowd went wild. Yes, that means looking at the person on either side of you cheering and hugging and high-fiving, but at a South American soccer game, going wild means the entire stadium simultaneously jumps up and down making the crowd look like a giant ocean. It was ridiculous. I got the feeling the old man sitting next to me was pretty disappointed he was sitting next to a bunch of white girls because every time something important happened, he would turn to talk to me, realize who I was, then just give up. I felt bad. In my defense, I at least caught on to some of the cheers fast enough to chant along!
Win or lose, we had a feeling we should get out of the stadium a few minutes early. Lose, and the crowd would be leaving in a fury; that's no good. Once we knew they were going to win, the best case scenario still involved fifteen thousand people flooding out into the streets all at once. We calmly exited a few minutes before the game was over making our way towards the main streets to catch a taxi. Busses lined the streets for a mile or two just waiting to take all the crazed fans back home. As we headed away from the chaos, it quickly caught up to us. People were sprinting toward busses and taxis like they would be onto Noah's ark before the flood came. Being blessed with good luck once again, we found not one, but two taxis to get us home in a timely manner.
Afterward, we headed to a resto-bar recommended by someone at the hostel, The Manchester. It was there that the intolerable itching began. I had noticed the previous couple days the tiny, annoying, red bumps popping up on my skin, but there weren't that many bumps and numerous logical explanations. Considering sunburn and sand irritation, I didn't think it was anything to worry about. Until that night. I was COVERED in itchy, painful bumps and could barely sit still. As we recounted the possible explanations, I realized I had stupidly been using the body wash at the hostel. Doesn't seem like a big deal right? My brain completely registered "free" when I saw it, not "You have the most allergy-sensitive skin in the world. It's probably better to use your own." I apparently had an allergic reaction to the glycerin in the soap and broke out in head-to-toe hives. It took all I had not to cry. After a night of restlessly tossing back and forth with no relief, I finally got out of bed at 5 a.m. to research available doctors in the area. The only option was the Hospital Británnico emergency room. My school insurance is supposed to cover all doctors visits while abroad, but of course, insurance is never that simple. I had to pay almost US$300 upfront, and insurance will hopefully reimburse me.
The insurance site said my doctor would be bilingual, but he wasn't in yet. I have never been so grateful for my level of Spanish or I guess being strategical enough to practice what I was going to say before I got there. The visit started off by getting my temperature taken. Normal enough. Except it was using the stick thermometer under my armpit. It brought back memories of being in the nurse's office in elementary school. I described my conditions to four or five different nurses and/or doctors. They gave me a couple ivs and told me to wait a while to make sure the steroids worked. An hour later, nothing had changed. They gave me another two doses, and that finally seemed to do the trick. The itching was still almost unbearable, but the redness and swelling had gone down significantly. A couple hours later, I walked out with a prescription for the same exact medicine I take every day for allergies. This made no sense to me since I told them that's what I take daily, and it had done nothing to help. It was even the same dose. At least they gave me an anti-inflammatory steroid. All in all, it felt like a huge waste of time and money. I felt very prejudiced leaving because I couldn't help but to think that had I gone to a hospital in America, I would have walked out feeling great. Who knows? I spent the rest of the day relaxing in the hostel watching movies. As people came and went, I felt so lazy spending the entire day (on vacation, mind you) inside doing nothing. At least a couple of our hostel friends kept me company watching Into the Wild (traveling appropriate, right?) and agreed it was better not to be in the hot, sticky sun.
Even though it was nothing serious, I hope that was my first and last trip to a South American hospital.
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