If I was back in the US, I’d have gone to the emergency room immediately, but here, I was afraid to even use tap water to clean the wound. So I cleaned the deep angry gash with bottled water, put some Neosporin under a few cotton balls and wrapped it up in gauze that the hotel gave me.
It seemed like a fun idea when I booked the bike tour to remote villages across the river from the city. You know, the whole off-the-beaten-path thing. What I didn’t take into account was I’ve never been the most confident bicyclist and truth is, I never even learned how to ride one until just before starting high school.
But there I was with our guide and two Australian brothers riding on broken cement paths a yardstick wide, lined with giddy children who liked to high five but they were really just jabs at me since I was terrified to take one hand off the bars to slap their tiny hands.
I veered trying to miss one little girl, her hands on her hips wearing an I-dare-you sneer. It didn’t take much for my front tire to go over the edge and I landed in tall weeds, my legs still wearing the cycle. The jagged peddle had lodged itself deep into my ankle then let go of its bite. My legs were also covered in black oily mud. A few people came running to help me up.
Like they say about horses, I hopped back on the bike, caught up to my crew and rode for three more tortuous hours. As if it all weren’t bad enough, a monsoon rain started when we got off the boat on the mainland, soaking me. If only there was a wet t-shirt contest to enter.
I even went to my chosen bar last night, the Pirate, tucked in a dark alley as all good bars should be. Had a few tall Tiger beers, then headed back to the hotel to bed.
The throbbing pain shooting up my leg was my alarm clock. I checked the bandage, soaked in blood, then went downstairs to have breakfast. Mark, an impeccably tailored man with a wit as sharp as his suit who runs the hotel advised me to go see a western doctor at a nearby hospital, then made the call to alert the doctor I was on my way and packed me into a taxi.
When Dr. Caltin uncovered the wound, he quickly said, “This is quite infected. Today, it’s here,” making a chop motion toward the bottom of my calf, “And tomorrow, would be here then the next day, here.” At that point, his hand was at my upper thigh.
Things happened quickly. Mya Mya put an antibiotic IV drip in my hand, gave me a tetanus shot right in the middle of my tattoo on my butt, which made her giggle and tease, then soothed me while the doctor properly cleaned the wound.
I’m now on an aggressive antibiotic course. I have about 24 hours of travel ahead of me, most of it on a comfy bed from Hong Kong to Newark, and as soon as I return, I’ll go to urgent care near my apartment to have it sewn up. Or not. I just might have this gaping wound for the rest of my life, ruining my second career as a foot model.
Oh, and when I fell, my favorite pair of Oakleys went missing. So, while I loved visiting Burma, it will always be the land of infection and the place that stole my sunglasses.
WRITTEN 07/03/2017
Cabin in the woods 
The path we rode on 
My bike mates 
Hospital care 
Open wound 
Room with my view