On my second day in Minca, I wake up with itchy red patches on my ankles and calves. They come as a surprise because I have sprayed myself diligently and worn my yoga trousers at night, which fit snugly around my ankles. I wonder if I have inadvertently shared my bed with a spider; I have spotted some magnificent specimens nearby.
In the course of the day, the patches turn into large purple blisters. I count 19 of them. They have no redeeming features at all; they are utterly unlovable. At night, they stay with me under the mosquito net in my hut at Casa Loma (www.casalomaminca.com) and keep me wide awake. The skin on my legs feels like a swearword kind of hot, and shortly after midnight I am so desperate for cooler air that I abandon the protection of the mosquito net to sit outside. I take García Márquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera to distract myself from my predicament, and find myself reading how the (stupid) Europeans on the boat that takes Florentino up the Magdalena river leave their huts at night for the cooler air on the deck, only to meet the morning exhausted and covered in bites. Yep, that’s me.
In the morning, exhausted, I go to the Centro de Salud in Minca. The young local doctor only slightly recoils when she sees my legs, and says it’s a virus. I need to swallow and apply Acyclovir, an anti-viral medication. I pick it up from the pharmacy straight away.
The following night, the skin on my legs feels like the gates of hell; it occurs to me I have not experienced true agony until now (this is delusional, of course). In despair, I raid the fridge in the communal area which is filled with cold bottles of water, and roll them over my skin for what feels like hours, for brief relief.
I wonder if I have the Zika virus, until I look at the piece of paper for the pharmacist and notice that the doctor has scribbled a couple of words at the top: Molluscum Contagiosum. I Google it, of course, and it turns out to be a highly contagious virus picked up through skin contact, shared towels, exercise mats… It can take years to clear.
With horror, I think of all the yoga mats and hammocks I have occupied over the past weeks. And I am staying at Casa Loma which, with its strong communal approach (and shared bathrooms), offers so many opportunities for being contagious! I talk to the staff. When they see my legs, anxiety travels across their faces. When I offer to leave, they don’t protest.
I book a room with private bathroom in a much smaller place outside Minca, to quarantine myself. When my moto-taxi drops me off at the bottom of some long stairs, I feel like I’m in exile; when I get to the top, I find the haven of Sol de Minca.
Sol de Minca is the realization of a family dream to create a Reserva Natural Educativa in harmony with the environment. Six years ago, the family purchased a patch of mountain land which they developed slowly until, four months ago, they were able to open it up to visitors for the first time. The place was designed along the principles of permaculture and bioconstruction, executed with both vision and care. It offers three ‘rooms’, constructed from clay, to visitors; mine is spacious, light and cool. It may have been bad luck that got me here, but I have been lucky to find it.
At Sol de Minca, nobody flinches when they see my blisters. The diagnosis of the health centre in Minca is met with some incredulity: Actually, that doctor does not know very much. At night, an old family friend who is a nurse arrives and inspects the swellings on my leg with a flashlight. She sends some photos to another (more trusted) doctor and he confirms her diagnosis: a severe allergic reaction to bites, with associated infection. The Acyclovir is thrown out, and at 10 pm a moto-taxi runs to the pharmacy in Minca to pick up new medication.
I stay at Sol de Minca for three sweet days punctuated by not-very-sweet leg care. On my last night, I join the family and some of their friends around a camp fire high up on the mountain. Someone has brought a guitar and we sing lighthearted songs in Spanish (well, I hum along). It’s pretty magical, and I am reminded of my first night in Minca, when I sat outside late too, in awe of the sky, the jungle, the view, only vaguely aware (as I am now) of slight pricks on my legs.
That’s when I know, in a flash, that it’s jejenes , or sand flies, that are causing me so much suffering. And that neither insect repellent nor yoga trousers will stop them.
And that, tragically, they have just bitten me again.