Where is AAA when you need them?

About a week ago, I was sitting on the curb next to my health center chatting to a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer on my cell phone when our ambulance suddenly arrived. Sensing something dramatic was happening, I ended my call and strolled over to the truck as my health team assembled.

Me: “So, what exactly is going on?”

Paola (the 5-year old daughter of one of the nurse technicians: “They’re all dead!!!”

Me: “…come again?”

Doctor Nahul: “Drunk guy got in an accident, flipped his car over a cliff in the next town over. Want to come?”

Me: “Uh…I mean, is there room for me in the ambulance? If this is an emergency won’t you need space for the patient?”

Doctor Angela: “Naw, it’ll be fun! Hop on in! Plenty of space.”

Me: “…you realize I’m not a medical professional, right?”

Doctor Angela: “Exactly, which is why you get to take the photos. Bring your camera.”

Fast forward to 15 min. later. I’m standing on the edge of a ravine, looking down at the shattered remains of a pick-up truck. The driver had obviously misjudged the curve of the road, skidded, and gone plummeting over the side of the cliff. The swan song of the truck was evident: like an earth-bound rocket, the car had dug a deep trench down the side of the ravine, uprooting shrubs and cacti and flinging earth everywhere. At the end of its trajectory, the truck, which really was little more than a metal frame, four tires, and a wooden pick-up bed, exploded. Planks of wood were strewn around the car like some sort of demolished picket fence, and the twisted remains of the rest of the car were hardly recognizable. The driver of said vehicle had bailed at the last minute and was sitting on the side of the road, a blubbering drunken mess but otherwise unharmed.

Feeling like the situation was a little anti-climatic, the doctors loaded the frightened driver into the ambulance bed. I, on the other hand, was on photo duty and had to climb down the cliff to inspect the car. When I got to the bottom and saw the truck, the first thought that came to my mind was, “metal pancake.” I photographed the truck, hiked back up, and promised to deliver the photos to the police station and to the medical office for their reports.

I should have taken that incident as a sign, some sort of premonition of the transportation problems that I would soon be facing. But, heedless of fate’s warning, I failed to take notice and also ignored the rumors that the rain had seriously worsened road conditions.

A couple of days later, I was approached by my doctor again. Every month they have to drive the ambulance to Tantará to deliver their monthly reports to its health center. Doctor Nahul wanted to ask if I was interested in traveling with them. I had very little to do, and the idea of meeting the Tantará health team was appealing. Plus, Tantará is Jeannie’s site, so I was looking forward to a good-ol’-fashioned American sleep over. That upcoming weekend I was scheduled to travel to Lima for the Community Health Program’s Early In-Service Training, but it was only Tuesday and we were only going to spend one night in Tantará. To me, it seemed like I had plenty of time to kill. So, I packed my overnight bag and hopped in the back of the ambulance.

I should have remembered that there’s no AAA in Peru.

As we were traveling to Tantará, I realized just how muddy the roads were. We only have dirt roads here, and due to all of the rain they had been converted to slop. About an hour in, we came across a small construction project. Two guys were digging a trench to drain rainwater off the mountainside. Since it was a mountain road, we couldn’t exactly go around them. We had a rock wall on one side of the road, a ravine on the other. Thankfully, the guys were nice and temporarily covered the trench with rocks, building a makeshift bridge to let us pass. We all got out of the ambulance and watched as Doctor Nahul tentatively drove over the rock-bridge and over to the other side. Unfortunately, none of us accounted for the fact that the mud on this side of the trench was significantly softer. We all watched with horror as the entire right side of the ambulance, in slow-motion fashion, sank into the mire.

We were screwed.

As the doctor called Tantará to ask for help, we tried in vain to free our ambulance. We dug pathways for the wheels. We shoved rocks under the tires to create stable ground. We tried everything…for four hours. And of course, it rained the whole time. I should also not that, because we thought we’d be getting into Tantará around 2:00, no one besides me had eaten any lunch. By the time the ambulance from Tantará finally came, we were all cold, wet, and hungry. Then the Tantará ambulance tried and tried to pull our car out of the mud to no avail. Finally, after two more hours, we decided to call it quits and abandoned our ambulance.

Our journey to Tantará was hell. In addition to the five people who had traveled with me from Aurahua, seven more had arrived from Tantará to help us. And we all had to fit in one ambulance. As we opened the bay doors, I was horrified to find four bicycles stored in the back. We had to fit eleven people and four bikes into a space not much bigger than a pick-up truck bed. And then we had to travel for two more hours to arrive in Tantará. Of course, these are mountain roads, meaning they’re riddled with potholes and rocks. Trust me, I felt every single one because every time we’d dip and jolt, I had a bicycle thrown in my face. When I finally got to Jeannie’s house, it was 10:30 PM, I hadn’t eaten since noon, and I was soaked to the bone. To say I was miserable was an understatement.

The next day I went to the Tantará health center to hang out with Jeannie, who is also a Peace Corps Volunteer, and wait for my ambulance to be pulled from the mud. It never came. No one was able to pull it out. In addition, because the road was so bad no one would be traveling that way up to Aurahua, meaning we couldn’t hitch a ride back home. We were all stuck in Tantará for another night.

During day #3, we searched frantically for someone, anyone who would be going to Aurahua. Unfortunately, after our accident no one was going to go up that road. Our only hope was to free our ambulance. At this point, I was worried. It was now Thursday morning and I needed to be home packing a suitcase for Lima. I watched with great disappointment as both Jeannie and Nathan hopped on the bus and mournfully waved me goodbye. They were heading to Ica to meet up and have fun with our friends in the Peace Corps Water and Sanitation Program, who we hadn’t seen in three months, before heading to Lima as well. I, on the other hand, was still stranded in Tantará.

Then a miracle happened. At 4:30 on the dot, our ambulance, battered and bruised, rolled to a stop in front of the Tantará health center. We all got in, happy to finally get the hell out of there. There was just one catch. Due to a virus, a good portion of our data had been wiped from our computer. As a result, my health center wasn’t able to finish all of its monthly reports. So, the doctor had to take the computer to Chincha to retrieve the information. Now we had a conflict of interests: several of the staff members and I needed and desperately wanted to go back to Aurahua, while Doctor Nahul and our obstetrician needed to go to Chincha to fix the computer. Surprisingly, the solution was simple. We would drive the ambulance as far as Palca. Those who needed to continue to Aurahua would get off and wait for the public bus, which was coming from Chincha and due to arrive at 6:30 PM. This bus would head straight to Aurahua via a different and safer road. The ambulance would then be free to continue on to Chincha. It was a beautiful plan.

Of course it didn’t work out.

Right when I started to hope, we came across yet another obstacle. It was another construction project. Now, construction projects here in Peru aren’t like those in the US. In the States, there are nice, friendly people in safety hats and neon jackets that direct traffic. The workers work for a while and then these nice, friendly people hold up a sign to let 10-15 cars pass. Then the workers work. Then the cars pass. It’s a very reasonable trade-off. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way here in Peru. Here, cars have to wait until the project is done or until the workers feel like it’s time for a lunch break. I watched as 30 minutes ticked by. Then 40. Then 45.

“Dr. Nahul, when did you say that bus would be coming through Palca?”

“6:30.”

I looked at my watch. It was 6:21. “Don’t worry, Lyndsey, we’ll make it. We’ll make it.” When the construction workers finally let us through, we sped down the mountain as fast as we could. I was just starting to hope again (always a bad mistake) when the ambulance suddenly slammed on the breaks. Wondering what was going on, we all got out of the car. That’s when we saw it.

There was a huge flash river raging across the road.

We just stared at it in utter despair. We were too shocked and miserable to say anything for a long, long time. I honestly had no idea what we were going to do. There was nothing for us in Tantará, and the road connecting Tantará to Aurahua was too dangerous to use. The only way home was forward, and there was a massive, impassable river blocking our way.

“So…now what?”

The doctor turned to me and, with a deadpan face, said, “We wait for the water level to go down.”

I looked back at the river. It looked like something you’d see in one of those white water rafting videos. “‘Wait for the water to go down’? ‘WAIT FOR THE WATER TO GO DOWN’??? Do you SEE that river?! That thing’s huge! How long is it going to take for the water to go down??” I practically screamed. The doctor just shrugged. Turns out you need THREE HOURS for a raging river to get calm enough to cross. During that time, I mostly sat perched on top of a rock, watching Homeland until my laptop battery died, doing my best to radiate an aura of hate and unhappiness.

Well, by the time we finally crossed the river (an extremely frightening experience that I wont’ go into), the public bus was long gone and my hopes of returning to Aurahua that night along with it. The nearest and last town before Chincha with any sort of civilization was San Juan, which is normally a quiet, peaceful little town with plenty of places to stay and eat. Of course, when we arrived all but two of the hotel rooms were booked and nearly all of the restaurants were closed. Trying to make the best of our situation, I tried to form some sort of alternate plan for getting home. After asking everyone I could find with a private car if they could drive us to Aurahua, I finally met a man who agreed to take us in his truck early the next morning. Praise Jesus! I was going home at last! Happy and content, I scarffed down my dinner only to see my driver come in a couple of minutes later with a forlorn look on his face. “I’m sorry miss, but there seems to be some sort of problem with my tires. I don’t think I can take you to Aurahua after all.” At that point, I was too exhausted and too used to failure to care much. I just carried myself to the hotel, curled up, and went to sleep.

The next day (day #4 on this trip of hell), we found ourselves with barely any money, no clean clothes, and out of patience. I woke up at the crack of dawn to try to find a ride for us, but had no luck. Finally later that morning, our original driver came back and had pity on us. He said he could take us as far as Palca and from there we could either take the public bus or try to catch an earlier ride. Feeling like this was a step in the right direction, we took him up on his offer. When we got to Palca, which is nothing more than a cluster of farms and one general store, we sat around and did nothing for four hours. I did a lot of reading and drowned my sorrows in cheap packaged cookies from the general store. I also tried to steal avocados from a nearby tree with some of the medical staff, but we got caught by a farmer and had to make a hasty retreat.

Then a miracle happened.

At long last, a police car drove through Palca, saw us, and said that it could take us to Arma, a much bigger and more comfortable town three hours away from Aurahua. We got in the car and nearly cried from happiness. When we got to Arma, we were able to eat dinner at the police station and played a police officers vs. health team volleyball game. At 8:30 PM we heard the honk of the bus, which to me sounded like a choir of heavenly angels. I got on and practically kissed the driver as I took my seat. There was only one scare: when we were five minutes away from Aurahua we found that the road was blocked by a small landslide. Thankfully, our bus was able to drive over the pile of dirt and rocks without any problems. As a result, I got home, at long last, at 10:30 PM. I was three days late, but better late than never.

That night, I got to sleep in my own bed, tucked under my own covers, and wearing a fresh set of pajamas. It was a euphoric experience. However, before going to sleep I did manage to pack my suitcase for Lima. The next morning, I got on a bus and was able to travel to Ica to spend one day with all of my Peace Corps friends*. Then Jeannie, Nate, and I went to Lima for our training and, thank God, my bad luck came to an end.

When I finally came back to Aurahua, my doctor asked me with a smirk on his face, “So Lyndsey, you think you’ll ever go with us again to Tantará?” I thought long and hard. “Well, of course I would, but only AFTER the rainy season. Until then, you guys on your own.”

*Side story: My bad luck wasn’t quite over at this point. Because school was about to start, lots of people in my town wanted to sell sheep in the Chincha market in order to have money to buy school supplies and uniforms. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough room in the underbelly of the bus to stuff the 20+ sheep (yes, you read that right…normally during my trips to Chincha the bottom cargo area of the bus is stuffed with farm animals instead of luggage). Solution? Why, you tie them to the roof of the bus instead, of course! During the drive to Chincha, the bus always passes through a dusty, blazing hot dessert. Since there’s no air conditioning on the bus, I always fling the window open and practically stick my head out like a dog. As we were going through the dessert, I suddenly felt this sprinkling on my arm and face. That’s weird, I thought, rain in the dessert? No, no…it wasn’t rain. One of those poor sheep tied to the roof of the bus couldn’t hold it any longer, lost control of it’s bladder, and began to pee. That’s right. I was peed on by a sheep. I swear karma really had it in for me that day.