On the road to Tunja -- possibly more than you want to know

What! Not enough gory details in this little travelogue for you so far?!! OK, then here it comes...

But, first, let's talk about the lovely Bucaramanga. We wake up on Thursday in this nice little, bustling Colombian city on the road to Bogota. Low-key but active and certainly not intrusive. Just right for these city slickers craving for some quaintness but with a little civilized diversions on the side.

We find a nice restaurant for breakfast on a side street. I think at this point after yesterday's long journey, cardboard would have tasted good. But, the eggs and arepas are really delicious! We walk around and discover a very interesting town with very good vibes. Alas, we decide that we have another long bus ride ahead so we don't linger here long. We could hop in a taxi to the bus terminal for four dollars but we spend a little extra time to rub elbows with the locals and find our way to a collectivo and hop on the bus to Tunja.

And, thus benignly begins the bloody tale. It's a nice bus. The scenery is beautiful. The movie on the bus monitor is Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker -- there's a lot of evil to be fought in the US; how fortunate that we have all these kung fu masters saving our skins. It's a long drive. After several days of this, we're getting used to the bus swerving along the two-lane road passing slower vehicles even around blind curves. The solid yellow line has no meaning here. There've been a few close calls but we're at the point now where we're not sucking air every time we pass a long row of big trucks.

Just after I stand up the bus swerves and then (something new) the driver slams on the brakes. I lose my handhold and go flying to the front of the bus. Not very graceful but I'm fine. Suddenly Alisa is screaming that we need to get to a hospital. Oh, dear! Did the bus hit someone? I quickly get up. There's nothing wrong with me although I did crunch the back of my shoulder a little. Oh, no! Alisa has bloody tissues in her hands. Is she hurt? She hadn't gone flying through the air. But, I'm no dummy. It doesn't take me that long to connect the dots. That's my blood coming out the back of my head. The bus has now pulled over the side of the road. My head doesn't hurt; I didn't lose consciousness. But, all that blood. All I could think is how I'm so glad it was me not Alisa because I would have been a basket case if it had been she gushing blood like a geyser. But, she's fierce; she doesn't lose her nerve and competently attends to my care.

Meanwhile, I try to focus my thoughts on relaxing, breathing, closing the gash. There's a doctor on board. The blood flow is stemmed; antiseptic is applied and I'm bandaged up. We stop at a nearby town where there's a doctor at a clinic. Apparently, the passengers agree that the bus can wait while I get patched up.

I'm totally lucid, not feeling any pain and my Spanish is good enough to get a chuckle when someone asks Alisa if I am her sister. My poor baby! This incident has temporarily put some years on her. When the nurse puts my head on a silver platter, I motion to Alisa to get a photo of this. The staff had escorted her out to get her calmed down. But, she goes beyond the call of duty and documents the whole process (which you really don't need to see).

So, short story shorter -- I get about 10 stitches and a tetanus shot. The bus company picks up the $10 charge and we're back on our way. I feel so embarrassed to have delayed all of the passengers. But, everyone is so nice. An American on the bus and the doctor have words of advice for my care.

I double check with the travel doctor at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. I'm so glad that he gave us his e-mail address. He countered some of the advice I had been given. We were able to pick up some ice while we were in Tunjas and Bogota so the big lump on the back of my head is much smaller.

I know if this happened in the US, I would have a big shaved, bald spot on the back of my head. Instead, the doctor patiently worked around my hair so that I could preserve some dignity. Plus, the doctor was able to suture without putting me under. She was a little chagrined as she noted that the US doctor who has to pull out the stitches will think that Colombia is such a backwards country because it doesn't use staples or dissolvable stitches. But, what a bargain at $10!

A big thank you to everyone who played a role in this drama. Especially, to Alisa who ably took charge, translated and daily checked on the status of my wound. (Hey, I know it's a gruesome task but if my baby, the neuroscience/psychology double major, can perform experiments on the brains of mice, she can surely check to make sure that my stitches aren't getting infected.) To the concerned passengers on the bus. To the doctor, nurse and staff at the little clinic on the way from Bucaramanga and Tunja. To Wiki and WebMD for providing instant access to information about concussions and the care of sutures. To Dr. Simon Tsiouris at Columbia Presbyterian for responding speedily to my e-mail queries. Muchas gracias!