S.S. San Eduardo

Before leaving for our trip to San Eduardo, the group discussed extensively the potential for “digestive distress”. Apparently when you mix 600 sick patients, suspect dedication to hygiene and a single public bathroom, bad things happen. In fact, these are conditions that seem like a ridiculous exaggeration of a public service announcement.  Like.....who the hell is going to invite hundreds of sick patients to a compound where someone keeps stealing the soap from the only bathroom and then invite them all to share the sign of peace in mass later that night. Our American-based alter egos would tell us we were asking to shit ourselves. In fact, we should quit being surprised that people got sick and instead get incredibly suspicious of people like me who didn’t get sick (Apparently staying in your room while pretending to count pills reduces your risk substantially). 

And it wasn’t the first person who went down that worried you, it was the dirge-like three-day roll call of the afflicted that started to get to you. By the morning of our third day it became entirely acceptable to stand on my balcony and shout out an update on my roommate to the group below “she doesn’t have the vomits, just the diarrhea”. This behavior back home would have ended our friendship. 

As the week progressed, person after person went down and you had nowhere to go to try to preserve your digestive tract, nevermind your dignity. It was the tropical equivalent of the “poop cruise”: trapped in unairconditioned accommodations, unreliable plumbing and a group-wide shitfest.  The S.S. San Eduardo. 

But worse than getting sick on day two in San Eduardo was getting sick the night before boarding the bus for the interminable bus ride out of San Eduardo. I don’t remember all my literature studies, but I’m pretty sure when the arrival at a roadside Ecuadorian "bathroom" is the pinnacle of your hopes and dreams, you’ve entered one of Dante’s circles of hell.  And while I know the front seat accommodations were intended to reduce carsickness for our patients, I don’t know if it was helpful to have 25 fellow bus riders shuffle past you after each rest spot with 22 offers of crackers and a few dozen head pats. I don’t know what makes us think a grown adult wants a head pat, but speaking as a patter, it’s practically reflexive. 

Unfortunately, the viral (s)hit parade didn’t end with our departure from San Eduardo. This particular pageant of the Norovirus was like a slow boil through the group even when we got back to civilization. Someone would complain of “rumblings of discontent” and the next thing you know their roommate is asking about zofran suppositories. And it’s not like the hotel we stayed at in Cuenca offered any privacy for you to work through your illness. “La Inca Real Hotel” was 17th century quaint, which is a euphemism for sound-enhancing piazzas.  During the night Thursday, we all heard something that sounded like death paying a visit.   Assuming it was a human making those sounds, we knew someone else had gone down, we just didn’t know who.  Friday morning reflection was a silent vigil as we waited to see who didn’t appear for breakfast so we could send the zofran and the head pats.