Does My Face Look Fat in This?

I was trying not to be a baby.  I didn’t want to complain (again) as it seemed I’d been dealing with various physical ailments since arriving in Salvador on June 29th.

But, damn, my face hurt!  It felt like someone had punched both sides of my face, and I was left with the painful bruises as reminders.

I chalked it up to TMJ (perhaps I`d been clenching my jaw tightly the previous night?), popped some Aleve, and hopped on an overnight bus with Naseef, a fellow from Scotland I`d befriended earlier in the week.  We were headed to Lencòis, a diamond-mining town six hours west of Salvador to do some trekking and laid-back exploring.  We both agreed that Salvador was a bit of a disappoinment and were looking forward to spending a couple of days in chilled-out Lencòis, where the pousadas were famous for their fabulous breakfast spreads!

But on Saturday morning, once we woke from a few hours of sleep following the journey, my face hurt even more and felt swollen to the touch.

One look from Naseef confirming that it was indeed puffy and then one brief, horrifying look in the mirror, and I was both worried and frightened.

When a phone call to my parents yielded no information (it was habit to consult my father, a physician, and my mother, a nurse, when I experienced symptoms I couldn`t self-diagnose), I allowed Diego, a boy who worked at the pousada to take me to the hospital.

At this point, it hurt to talk, and I could barely open my mouth.  Diego was kind and jovial and managed to make me laugh a couple of time, but that, too, hurt, and I was scared of my imminent diagnosis.

Coxumba, the doctor at the clean but spare clinic announced and then hastily filled out a prescription for what turned out to be mostly nonsense: Tylenol, basically and anti-inflammatory pills.

My friends on Facebook  quickly informed me that coxumba was mumps as Diego, who spoke English fairly well, hadn`t been able to translate.

Vaccinated with MMR as a child and then re-vaccinated on April 10, 2009, I was one of the unlucky few who contracted the virus, regardless of immunization.

During the first few hours after my diagnosis, I felt ok.  I was exhausted and bummed that I had been ordered to stay in bed, for the little bit I’d seen of Lencòis had me wanting to see more, but bummed is the strongest word I`d use to describe my state of mind early morning, July 4th.  I`d read about various day treks and gotten Naseef on board; the last thing I wanted to do was stay in bed!

But as the day went on, the swelling worsened, and each time I looked at myself in the mirror, I knew there was no way I was going on a trek, much less leaving the cozy pousada or the confines of the room.  Make no mistake; I looked monstrous.

Naseef, fearful of getting infected, switched to another room but made sure I was well looked after, bringing me coconut water and offering to stay in town with me until I was well enough to travel.   Changing our bus tickets and asking if there was anyone he could call or write for me, Naseef was my only friend in the world.

The long, arduous night of July 4th, 2009, I wrote a will in my head, noting my desire to be cremated, the songs I wanted played at my funeral, messages for my sister to relay to my parents, Eileen, my Grandma Seliga.  I woke every hour in a fit of sweats, wrestling with the sheets, and then wrapping tightly the wool blanket around my limbs, chilled to the core.  I longed to hold my sister’s soft, little hands and have her lull me back to sleep.

Not one to turn to prayer, I prayed like I’ve never prayed before, but mostly, I felt like giving up.  This was the end for me.  I was sure of it. Although I knew there were those who had suffered (and who were suffering) far worse than me,  I could not bear it.

Because my face and throat were so swollen by this point (in the end, I deleted the few hideous self-portraits), finding a comfortable sleeping position proved elusive.  If I tried sleeping on my back, my face, the muscles and glands sliding back on the pillow, throbbed.  It felt like someone had beaten my face to a bloody pulp, yet there was no blood, no pulp.  Sleeping on one cheek was sometimes possible, but first I`d have to allow for a period of adjusting to the pressure and pain asserted on the chosen side.

I made it through that brutal night, of course, and drafted a will to Stephanie via e-mail.  Fearful of my own reflection, I stopped looking in the mirror.  Because I couldn’t open my mouth more than the width of a finger (with the help of a finger, no less), I barely ate.  Managing a few bites of soft breakfast cake, I forced some substance into my body for fear of starving.

I slept on Sunday, the following day.  All day and fitfully.  Naseef informed me that the hostel owner, Olivia Taylor, an unembracing, cold British woman,  thought it best that I move to a vacant house down the street.

Olivia, who wouldn’t come within twenty feet of me, had stocked the empty, house with water and laid out a mattress on the cold, hard floor.  I’d been crying quietly nearly all day, but as I surveyed the room in which I was banished, my tears grew louder, my sobs impossible to ignore.  Olivia looked past me, like a man who is uncomfortable or embarrassed by a woman`s tears, and although I knew I should be grateful to her for giving me this place to rest my head, I hated her.

Naseef, a genuinely kind-hearted man and good friend in only six days time,  sat with me  and let me cry.  Offering positive words of encouragement and soothing me as best he could, he promised to see me in the morning.  (Olivia, via Naseef, forbid me from going inside the pousada’s domain.)

On Monday, I experienced somewhat of a miraculous–to me, at least, the change in how I felt was nothing short of miraculous–recovery, and I was no longer imagining who was going to be at my funeral.  I had little pain, and the swelling had gone down a great deal; I could show my face without catching looks of fear and/or disgust from those whose eyes I met on the street.  Mentally, I had regained strength as well and thought how far I`d come as I killed two cockroaches, each the size of my heel, with one lone pot in the vacant house.  It was time to remove myself from quarantine, I thought as I nervously shot glances around the bathroom, waiting on the edge of my seat, er, toilet, for another roach to appear.

A day later, on our bus ride back to Salvador, I turned to Naseef and asked, Can you believe how fat my face was?

Our laughter turned into a blog-brainstorming session, and it is Naseef who must be credited with the title of this post.

It`s a bit of a clichè to say it, of course, but my experience living through the mumps in a developing country by myself, save for a recent friend in Naseef, makes me feel like I can conquer all future obstacles on this trip.  Nothing will pose a greater challenge than surviving the mumps in Brazil.

Minor scrapes and bruises

Although Marcelo had arranged for a car to take me to the bus station, where I was confident I could pick up my pre-purchased ticket and board the correct bus to Arraial do Cabo, a beach town a few hours from Rio de Janeiro, when the driver arrived, he expected to be told where to go.

“Omnibus…” I said.  Then, “Estacion?”  He seemed to understand omnibus (bus), but instead of driving along, he pointed to the right hand lane where the city buses were lining up and making stops.  Clearly, he hadn’t understood.  In a panic and not wanting to miss my bus–for how to explain in extremely limited Portuguese that I ought to be able to use my ticket for a later bus–I furiously whipped out the few pages on Portuguese phrases I’d torn from Lonely Planet and tried again to explain where I needed to go.  Smart driver, he stopped outside of a hotel and found someone who spoke English to assist us, and we were on our way.

My bus station experience was simple, and I boarded the correct bus at the right time.  I had a dorm bed booked in Arraial do Cabo, and I was anxious to find my way to the hostel from the station in Arraial do Cabo as I knew it was only about a ten minute walk.

Unfortunately, I stepped off the bus too soon, and because things are not clearly marked in Brazil, I didn’t see any signs indicating that I was actually in Cabo Frio and not Arraial do Cabo.

Several friendly cab drivers, despite their not speaking English, informed me of my mistake.  One man, Luiz, spoke English however, and when he started to tell me that I’d have to pay another R$26 to take a bus to my desired destination, I felt my eyes well up and my throat tighten.  I knew I was close to where I wanted to be and couldn’t justify spending the same money for a twenty minute ride as I’d just paid for nearly three hours on the bus.  And, besides, I’d asked the bus driver, “Arraial do Cabo?” when I’d gotten off the bus, and I could swear he’d nodded.  I should get the ride for free, I thought indignantly.

Indignation led to frustrated tears and Luiz asked me in clear English why I was crying.

Why was I crying?  I wasn’t scared.  I trusted the cab drivers.  People were trying to help me.  The first two men had found the only English speaking driver to talk to me, and now this kind man was offering to save me the trouble of purchasing another bus ticket or attempting to find my way on a local city bus.

But, I was displeased with myself.  All I’d wanted to do was make an independent move, find my way, get it done.  On my own.  If I couldn’t get to where I needed to be this time without any hassle or snags–a short trip compared to the ones in my future–how was I ever going to make it to around South America by myself?

Wiping my face, telling Luiz I was just tired, and inwardly blaming my (over)reaction on hormones, I talked Luiz into taking me directly to the hostel for R$15 instead of the R$25 he’d suggested.  He agreed, and twenty minutes later I was taking a hot shower and minding the not-so-small red ants who occupied the space with me.

In the end, I made it to where I wanted to be, and I also learned a valuable lesson (one of many more to come, I’m sure):  just because everyone else is getting off the bus, it doesn’t mean it’s the last stop or my stop!

Solo and female!

I’ve had quite the easy time so far: ride from the airport in Sao Paolo, maid service upon arrival, my own bedroom and private bathroom, the father of my couchsurfing host refusing to accept any money for shipping my laptop to NYC, ride from the bus station in Rio with help from friendly Brazilian I met while en route to Rio, assistance from current couchsurfing host, Marcelo, with purchasing bus tickets, booking accommodations and offering pleasant company for various things to do and see (read: everything).

I haven’t had any truly challenging days (unless you consider underestimating the strength of the bottomless caipirinha while on a boat in the middle of the sea a challenge), only a couple of snags along the way, but as a foreign female traveling by herself, I think I may even be at an advantage at times.  Recently, my friend Paula sent me an excellent (and brief) link to both the male and female perspective on the solo female traveler: does she have it easier than the solo male?

As Paula and I once backpacked together through Greece, Italy, and Spain for five weeks the summer after we graduated college (yes, we were overnight ferrying it to the pristine but festive island of Mykonos while the majority of our friends became acquainted with the cubicle), I can attest to the luxury of leaving my bag with a friend while I hopped on over to the restroom before the train’s (or ferry’s) departure.

However, safety and, ahem, pee issues aside, I think traveling alone is empowering, liberating, and thrilling.  While I don’t know if I’m ready after only a week and a half to conclude that we solo ladies have it easier than the solo guys, I am happy to share a couple of my positive solo travel experiences.  Social interaction, for example, Dave’s (aka the male perspective’s) first point, is not difficult for the woman by her lonesome; I’ve found myself bonding easily with foreign women who don’t speak a word of my language.  It’s not the kind of  bonding that leads to a best friendship, mind you, but it’s the small connection that warms the soul and reminds me that words aren’t always necessary.  (And, of course, it’s not all that hard following a little eye contact to make friends of the opposite sex either!)

Nilda (prnounced New-duh), the maid in the Patrick household, took a liking to me and I to her.  Though verbal communication was difficult, we had our moments.  One evening when I was leaving the townhouse, Nilda rushed to the door to ask me if I was staying for dinner.  I understood as  much from her gesturing towards the set table and the smells of food cooking in the kitchen.  What I wasn’t sure was how to ask her what time dinner was so that I could make an informed decision.  I struggled with trying to get her to uderstand me, and eventually I just took out my watch and pointed to the time (7 PM), which is when Nilda said “oito” for 8 PM.

“Ate mais tarde (see you later)”, I said, and when I returned with a bottle of wine and showed it to Nilda, she nodded, opened it and placed it on the table with the other dinner beverages.

In the afternoons, unable to tear myself away from my twice-daily caffeine habit, I’d timidly (still completely unaccustomed to havig a live-in maid) seek Nilda’s help with making the coffee.  Each time, she seemed to do it happily but not without looking at me in my tank top and bare arms and asking me if I was cold (frio?).  Once I put a sweater on, Nilda seemed content.

The day before I left, I took out my camera and indicated to Nilda that I wanted to take a picture of us.  Even though she wasn’t pleased with her appearance (something I figured out by her expression and quick removal of her hat) we smiled for the camera.  And when I left, she came over to say goodbye, and I asked Patrick to thank her for me and tell her I enjoyed meeting her.

When I was in China, I had similar bonding experiences in spite of the impossible language barrier.  There was the woman who owned the hostel in Yangshuo who gave me breakfast porridge and laughed when her daughters translated that iId named the kitten that lived with them.  We say together and drank tea, but we did not speak.   And then there was the old and sage Great Wall tour guide who looked out for me as I was the only one among the group traveling by myself.  When I showed her the picture taken of us, she smiled her big, toothless grin again.

Earlier today, an Argentine woman started began speaking to me.  She had somewhat of an ulterior (but harmless) motive, for she was practiing English, doing her homework as she told me.  A lovely woman, she stressed the importance of my safety, told me to be very careful in Argentina.  Certainly, we were in a safe and relaxing environment, on a boat in Arraial do Cabo, a small, sleepy (at this time of year, anyway) beach village a few hours from Rio.  (Next to Sao Paolo and Rio, it felt like an oasis of safety, but I was grateful for her insight.)

There are, undoubtedly, plenty of obstacles I’ll face by myself on my journey, feelings of homesickness notwithstanding, but I hope none of them will be serious or detrimental.  For now, I am mixing it up a little actually and will be traveling with a friend from college for a few weeks in Brazil.  I excaped on my own yesterday to Arraial do Cabo, and not without some minor scrapes and bruises either (story to come), but Erin and I will say goodbye to Marcelo on Monday and bid him billions of thanks for his incredible hospitality before we head to Salvador, which is, according to Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring, *the* place travelers are most likely to get mugged.  They say there’s safety in numbers, so perhaps this junction of my solo travels is best interrupted.

Safe in Sao Paolo

I’ve been in Sao Paolo, Brazil for less than six hours, and I’m alternating between two thoughts: “Oh my God, what on earth am I doing?” and “This is so great.”

I’m confident that the latter thought will win out in just a few days’ time. In spite of a non-working, cumbersome, seventeen inch laptop, a Continental flight attendant who warned me that without proof of onward travel out of Brazil, I may get deported, and several extra hours at Newark International, the trip is off to a great start. My couchsurfing host, Patrick, spotted me immediately and showed no signs of annoyance at having had to wait around the airport.

As we drove to his place, I asked many questions, particularly interested in where I could grab a quick, cheap bite before a bit of rest.

“My maid will make you something,” he said as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and surely, for him, it was. Patrick showed me to my “couch,” which turned out to be his sister’s pretty, pink bedroom complete with attached bathroom. She is traveling in Italy this summer, so the room is all mine for the week.

Not long after Patrick left me to my devices–a hot shower and a nap–I was summoned by the maid, whose name I haven’t quite caught due to her thick accent. She’d laid out a spread big enough for three people, but the only place setting was for me. I greedily dug into the white rice, buttery corn kernels, garlicky chicken cutlets, and tomato and iceburg salad. A tray of condiments was set before me, and I drank peach nectar.

I slept for several hours after eating, and when I rose, I took some pictures of the city from the balcony. On the drive to the apartment, I noticed the slums, the incredibly dirty little shacks, the poverty that is so prevalent in this city, and ahead I saw the skyscrapers, the looming, colorful city.

Patrick’s family lives in Jardin Paulista, a seemingly swanky neighborhood with lots of green trees and fancy shops. I may check out a couchsurfing meeting this evening. It’s at a pub located a few subway stops away. Or I may call, Pablo, a Brazilian I met while traveling in China. I’m still sort of reeling from the idea of what I’m doing, and when I pause to think of the time frame I’ve set up for myself, I get kind of freaked out. One day at a time. One Portuguese phrase at a time.