After 7 some years together, I’ve learned to never question my husband when it comes to healing methods, medicine or the likes. Nor should I question his friends or friends of friends or mother or cousin or his uncle’s neighbor’s plumber’s priest’s father. They know what’s up, and I, my friends, am just a silly American who has no faith.
My first brush with Mexican medicine came several years ago, when a family member called us in the US to inform us that my husband had a severe lung condition and was on the brink of death. Of course it was true, a psychic told them so. In order to be cured, he spent countless hours on the phone writing down a prayer (or chant or whatever you call it) as it was dictated to him word for word. (If you’ve ever heard my husband trying to give a wire transfer confirmation number over the phone, you’d understand that this was a tedious process.) He then sent me on a hunt for mason jars that had to be a specific size and a certain type of cotton swab. I protested, of course, but eventually gave in and hit up about 5 different Goodwill stores in the Phoenix area before I found what he was looking for.
He carefully labeled one of the jars “Sobar” and the other “Tomar.” They were each filled with purified water which was blessed over the phone by the psychic or witch-doctor or whoever. I then had to soak the special cotton things in the Sobar water and rub it all over my husband’s back (remember, we’re curing lung disease here people,) while he drank from the Tomar jar and chanted his little diddy. He was, of course, miraculously cured and the family rejoiced. I think you all know I’m not much of introvert and I wear my heart, and common sense, on my sleeve. I voiced my opinions from the get go and was told stories about cancer being cured and crippled people walking again. I was forced to listen to countless horror stories of what can happen when you don’t believe.
I’ve since learned to bite my tongue.
So when we went on our little treasure hunt for that alcohol de caña, I didn’t say a word in protest. I know he’s tried my whole Western medicine route for the last couple of months and is still in pain, so what can I really say? He’s getting desperate. When a friend at the maquila told him about this magic potion, he just couldn’t resist. This man was apparently bed-ridden for God knows how long before he had a couple of drops of this stuff and POOF, good as new! Again, it’s alcohol de caña, red onion, lime and garlic that is left to ferment for 15 days. The fermentation process is coming to a close and I’m really trying to keep my thoughts to myself but would you just look at this shit:
My poor husband is going to drink that. And he thinks it’s going to help him. In fact, he believes it so much that I think it just might work. You see, although I don’t think putting a feverish baby in a bath full of lettuce does diddly squat, I do believe in the power of positive thinking and the power that one’s faith can give them. There are countless little health tricks (que?) of Mexico that make absolutely no sense to me but I’m no medicine man. Putting Vick’s Vapor Rub between your toes when you have the flu? Wearing sandals in the shower to prevent getting sick? Rubbing an egg on your belly when you have a stomach ache and then cracking it and if the yolk’s black the sickness is gone? Seriously, has anyone ever seen this result in a black yolk?
At the end of the day, all I can do is smile, hope we don’t end up getting his stomach pumped in IMSS Urgencias, and thank God that my husband believes that tequila and lime cures the common cold. Salud.