The morning had started off uneventfully enough. It was our second morning in Sihanoukville, the premier backpacker's beach town on the Cambodian coast. I'd woken up earlier than Meghna and decided to hit the beach while the prime beach chairs and umbrellas were still relatively abundant.
Armed with my Kindle and a vat of newly purchased SPF 50 sunscreen, I slipped out of the hotel and headed out onto the white sands. It had been about 5 days since my bike ride in Kep left my arms hopelessly burned. After a few days of restless nights and painful massages, I thought I was finally in the clear. My arms had darkened to a deep amber brown, and I was feeling pretty satisfied with the tan I was cultivating. Not to tempt fate, however, I settled down under the safety of a bright blue umbrella, lathered on the sunscreen for good measure, and eased into the comfy brown wicker beach chair. The plan was get some reading in before Meghna joined me, and then spend the rest of the day exploring the coastline and perhaps heading toward Sihanoukville's less trafficked beaches for some more peaceful scenery.
I should have known better than to expect things to go as planned.
About 20 minutes into my lounging, I got a craving for a smoothie to relieve the heat.
Hmm, maybe I'll order a mango smoothie. I wonder where the server is. Maybe I should raise my hand to get his atten.......What the?!?!
I sat up with a start, my whole body rigid, and stared in horror at my right arm. From knuckle to shoulder, it was mysteriously and suddenly covered in an explosion of water blisters: big, small, and every size in between. I jerked my other arm over to run my fingers along the scaly bumps, only to discover in horror that my other arm was suddenly covered with identical patterns of water blisters, as well.
Oh my god, I am a monster.
I wasn't really thinking clearly, only to the extent that I knew I had to get inside as quickly as possible. My reptile arms grabbed up my effects and I started bolting for the street.
As I made my escape from the evil outdoors, the restaurant manager, who owned the chair I'd been using, ran out of his building and started chasing me. "You didn't buy anything! You use my chair you must buy!"
I was not in the mood to contribute to Cambodia's economy in that moment. In a dramatic flair, I brandished my bubbly arms in his direction and said, "Look at what has happened to me!" The manager's face contorted into a disgusted expression of horror, and he waved me on.
To get that reaction from someone who works on a beach and probably sees sunburns all time...not all that comforting, I thought to myself as I scurried back to the hotel. Maybe someone else will have seen this kind of a situation before and will know what to do.
Nope. My pitiful appendages got the same reaction from Meghna and from the hotel manager.
"What should I do?" I asked the hotel manager, feeling increasingly helpless--both in regards to what was happening to my body, and how to treat it in a completely foreign context.
"Go to the hospital, they might know. I will get you a tuk-tuk." They might know? You're not exactly giving me a vote of confidence, buddy.
So, anyway, that brings me to where we began, in the back of a tuk-tuk, with exploding arms, headed for one of Cambodia's public hospitals.
I'm never venturing into the light of day again, I vowed to myself as we turned the last corner toward the hospital.
We rolled up to what looked like an auto repair shop, a small building with an open-air front that was partitioned into two sections. The first was labeled "Recovery Room" and was filled with rows of cots, the majority of which were occupied by patients hooked up to various pieces of equipment and in various stages of consciousness.
So much for privacy.
The second area was sectioned off into a series of private "consultation rooms." Given my hunch that consultation preceded recovery, I headed over to that section of the building and was greeted by three women sporting large badges that read "Pharmacy. We Can Help You." Sounded like a good place to start."I have a sunburn. I need to know what to do." I extended my arms. Cue the same disgusted and confused looks. This was beginning to be a pattern.
"You need to see a doctor. Please have a seat in the waiting room and he will come to you."
The waiting room turned out to be populated entirely by foreigners, all with various injuries sustained from various activities the night before. Sihanoukville has a reputation for sporting a pretty big party scene, and the nights can be fairly unkind to travelers who are in a strange place and have had one too many Angkor Beers.
I settled down between a woman with a terribly swollen ankle and a young man with a bandage wrapped around his calf.
Let the battle wound comparisons begin.
Turns out the woman missed a step while stumbling home from the bars the night before, had taken a nasty tumble, and was now probably facing a broken ankle. The man had been bitten "by some animal" while he was partying on the beach in the dark. Even though he couldn't see exactly what bit him, the general consensus around the waiting room was that it was probably a dog. Rabies was, of course, a concern. But, my affliction took the cake. Unlike a creature bite or a drunken tumble, my exploding arms defied logic. Excellent, I have the dubious honor of "Weirdest Injury at the Sihanoukville Public Hospital."
As much as I enjoyed the attention from my fellow Sihanoukville victims, I was relieved finally to be summoned into the consultation room for a meeting with the doctor. I evaluated the main man's certifications and accolades, which were ceremoniously fastened to the walls with Hello Kitty hooks and Smiley Face pins.
After a suitable amount of waiting, the doctor entered with his entourage of pharmacists. Brandishing a flash light, he had me lay down on the examination table. Shining the flashlight across my bumps (a somewhat unnecessary move by my measures, as the room was flooded with natural light), he referenced a sheet of paper densely packed with Khmer writing, and said triumphantly, "It's a burn!"
Hmm...yes, yes it is.
"Okay, that will be $20."
....
Flush with my Andrew Jackson, the doctor prescribed a French cream called Biafine and told me that it was very rare and I would have to go to a special pharmacy to retrieve it.
"How do I get there?"
"Go to the Big Monkey." With those cryptic instructions, the doctor did an about-turn and headed back out into the waiting room to summon his next patient. (Hopefully it was the possible rabies victim, that one seemed pretty serious).
Not at all sure where this "Big Monkey" was hanging out, or even whether it was a real monkey, or a building, or a statue, or just a figure of speech, I was once again left to the good graces of my tuk-tuk driver to take me to salvation. As is generally the case with my interactions with locals while traveling, my tuk-tuk driver did right by me. He took me on an additional 15 minute ride, at no extra cost, to retrieve my special cream and delivered me back to my hotel, where I carefully applied my French miracle cream and hoped for the best.
Long story short, every day, for about 5 days, without fail, my arms would erupt into a patch of water blisters from my knuckles to my shoulders. Then, every night, the blisters would fade away. It was like some strange reverse werewolf transformation.
I'm not too sure if my venture out to the Public Hospital was helpful in the end, but it certainly did give me peace of mind to know that I was checked out by someone better versed in physical reactions that I am. Even if those certifications are encased in Hello Kitty frames.
(I contemplated including a picture of my arms for illustration's sake, but, in the end, figured it was more appropriate for me to leave it to the imagination).
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