This is the Story of My Red Right Ankle

January 29, 2010

It rained the day after my birthday. I spent the morning shucking leaves from the branches of a tree my host brother had cut down, so that the branches could become firewood and the leaves could become compost for my garden, which I went and weeded after it was done raining. As I was doing this, I realized two things: first, that there was a sprout growing in my garden that wasn’t a weed! I had planted a lab-lab seed, which is a nitrogen-fixing flowering plant and was given to me (and everyone else in our group) by Stephen the USAID representative at one of our last charla sessions, and surely enough, it had sprouted a little plant that was clearly distinct from the weeds around it. This led me to my second realization, which was that my soil was quite possibly ready to be planted. So I brought my newly-acquired spinach seedlings and some wood ash (to kill bacteria in the soil) out to my garden, and planted a couple rows. It made me pretty happy.

Then, things got ridiculous. I went and got the ingredients I needed to make veggie lasagna, and brought them back to my house. I needed to go to the ciber to look up a recipe, since I had never made lasagna before. I decided to take my bike, as I usually do since the ciber is on the other side of town from me. This means opening one door, one big gate, and one little gate, and then guiding my bike down the one step from my house to the ground. In concentrating on guiding my bike through the tiny space afforded by the last gate, I forgot about the step, and fell with all of my weight onto my right ankle at a strange angle. I heard bones crunch. I didn’t cry out, but the sound of me hitting the ground was enough to get my family’s attention. They helped me up; I cleaned up a little cut on my hand, and limped back to my bike and went to the ciber, where I found recipes that all called for at least three cheeses, none of which I had. When I came back, and my family asked if my ankle still hurt, which I said it did, they insisted I needed to go to Gaspar, so that he could “fix it.” Figuring it would be rude to say no, and possibly detrimental to my ankle to say no, I relented, and let my host brother drive me to the other side of town.

Gaspar ended up being an old man that was the spitting image of the old guy in “Up,” just a little taller and with less kempt hair. He told me to take off my shoe and sock, and in doing so I realized my ankle was already about twice the size that it should have been. He proceeded to rub some kind of ointment on it, and then spend the better part of an hour massaging, twisting, and pulling my ankle in different directions “to loosen up the tendons” and “find where the pain is.” It was not hard to find, as just about any way he jerked my ankle caused me a considerable amount of pain. I felt very much like Meursault, trapped in a ridiculous situation which I had no say in being able to end. I tried my best to take the existentialist’s perspective on it, and own my pain, knowing that it was a passing feeling. Finally, he finished, wrapped it in a cloth that looked like it was ripped from an old pillowcase, and told me to hobble on it, but to hobble without flapping my arms. I begrudgingly paid him a dollar for torturing me for an hour and giving me part of his pillowcase, and went home, where I decided I didn’t really feel like cooking after all.

I found that I could bike the next day, which was good, because I couldn’t really walk. I limped around like an old man, but I still had to go to school to attend the mandatory planning session my teachers had (where they spent 5 hours copying the curriculum by hand out of poorly translated manuals; another existential moment for me), and then went out to El Carbón to teach my community class, which was again a bright shining spot in my day. The lesson was “what do you like to do?” and answering with “I like to…” and then everyday activities. I drew pictures of each activity on the board, and then had the kids do motions to act out each one, before kind of playing Simon Says. They especially loved my version of “dancing,” which involved me pointing my two pointer fingers at the sky and shaking my hips. It was pretty fantastic, I’ve got to say.

I went home and spent two and a half hours making my lasagna with my host mom, in a stock pot, without a recipe, in an oven that had no temperature control. It came out a little watery and tasting a little too much like quesillo, which is a cheese somewhat similar to mozzarella, but otherwise was glorious, and pretty good for my first try at it.

Saturday I spent with my ankle up all day, doing paperwork for the Peace Corps. It was actually probably pretty good to catch up on all that stuff, and to have an excuse to do so. Today, it’s still tender, but the swelling’s gone down, and it’ll probably be just fine by the end of next week. Hopefully.