Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Then I found a position with a charity that funded field hospitals in South America. They needed someone with medical experience to keep an eye on how their money was being spent. Corruption was a problem in some countries and it would be easy for someone to siphon off funds by overcharging for drugs or supplies. There’d even been cases where doctors, nurses or even whole medical centers had been found not to exist.
The phone interview went well and I was asked to Phoenix to visit the charity’s office there. It turned out I was a good fit: I’d been responsible for supplies at the hospital and at the prison, so I knew my way around an inventory. The job paid even less than the prison, but at least I’d be doing some good.
There was only one problem. My potential new boss explained that while most of the job was about sifting through accounts, the only way to really check one of these places out was in person. I’d need to visit each field hospital every six months or so: just a quick forty-eight-hour trip, to meet the doctors and check it was all above board. And one of the hospitals was due its check in just a couple of weeks.
“Where is it?” I asked.
He leaned back in his chair. “Ecuador.”
My stomach knotted. I didn’t know much about Ecuador but I remembered hearing about political unrest and government corruption. And maybe it wasn’t Colombia or Mexico, but there’d been drug cartel violence there, too. It sounded dangerous…and very far away. I’d lived almost my entire life in Arizona. I’d only left the US twice. I am not cut out for this. I started working out how to tell him no.
Then Gabriel’s hazel eyes gleamed in my mind. He’d been all over the world. He wouldn’t be scared of this. He’d just waltz in there, cocky and confident, and get the job done.
Maybe I needed to start taking a few chances.
I took a deep breath. “I'll do it,” I said, and shook my new boss’s hand.
I got my immunizations, started a course of anti-malaria pills, bought a pair of sturdy boots and, three weeks later I was gazing open-mouthed out of the window of a plane as we descended towards Quito. Towering, snow-capped mountains loomed ahead of us. To one side, they sloped down towards flawless golden beaches and a sparkling blue sea. On the other side, they dropped away towards a rolling emerald carpet draped with mist: the rainforest. I’d had no idea Ecuador was like this.
The airport was modern and gleaming. I grabbed my bag and hurried through the terminal: one of the doctors was meant to be meeting my flight and I didn’t want to keep him waiting. But as soon as I hit a flight of stairs, I started breathing fast, and by the time I was at the top, I was panting. I didn’t realize I was this out of shape.
In the arrivals area, I glimpsed a handwritten sign that said Dr. Truesdale. The man holding it wasn’t at all what I expected. He looked to be about my age, with faded jeans, a black leather jacket, and a mop of thick, curly black hair. He saw me looking and dipped his head so that he could look at me over the top of his aviator sunglasses. “Dr. Truesdale?”
His voice was low and warm, and it had a playful energy to it. I nodded.
He shook my hand and took my bag. “I’m Marcos Rojas. I run the hospital along with Dr. Guzman.” He beamed at me, a wide, honest grin, and I found myself smiling as well. He slung my bag over one broad shoulder. “Come, come, I’m parked outside. Good flight? How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I lied, still out of breath. I was sweating, too.
Marcos stopped, cocked his head to one side and nudged down his aviators, looking at my dripping forehead. “It’s the altitude,” he said immediately. “It’ll take you a few days to adapt. Try not to rush around too much and tell me if you go light-headed. Let’s go!”
He set off towards the parking lot, talking non-stop about the hospital, the local wildlife I might see and the food I should try while I was there. He was laid back and friendly and his enthusiasm was infectious: I decided I liked him. He showed me to a dust-covered Toyota Landcruiser and gave me a huge bottle of water. “Drink this,” he told me. “It’ll help.”
As we sped away from the airport, a police pick-up roared past us, siren wailing. The cops in the back looked more like soldiers, with black balaclavas and machine guns. Marcos saw me looking and sighed. “Ecuador’s peaceful but Colombia’s right next door and the cartels move drugs through our ports. And sometimes through the forest.” He gave me a reassuring grin. “They’ve never bothered doctors, though. Certainly not foreigners.”