A reawakening has occurred in South America. Disillusioned primary health care users have turned to primitive solutions, trusting the science and logic of ancient panaceas. Machi medicine, in which the acting physician often resembles Jack Sparrow with stretch marks, has reeled in many a victim of Western corporate medicine. If you are a bloated American who has always been aroused by the thought of tribal grunting, ritualistic gutting of Lorikeet beaks, and gonad rubbings, we implore you to listen closely. This further applies if you often nd yourself in the pews of Ted Cruz’s popular, “Revive Jesus: Send ObamaCare to Purgatory” sermons.

When you arrive at Tía Yolanda’s Corner Cathouse in the ghettos of Léon, Nicaragua, do not be deterred by a few false red flags. More than likely, the first thing you will see is a towering Norwegian blonde leaning out of one of the windows with a loincloth covering her front fascia. No need to fear, compadre, for this beautiful woman will soon show you the stuffed giant tortoises with which she munificently blesses homeless toddlers. All you must do is nod, wink, and tickle her right earlobe to summon the revered Machi.

Out of respect, you must grace her with at least two minutes of silence, so she can brush the loose pieces of broken beer bottles from her leotard and grapple with the condoms glued to her jungle of hair from the previous night’s festivities. If you pay her this courtesy, she then will bless you with the gaze of a wild snowy owl – very intense, but very difficult to read – and welcome you to her practice. After twenty minutes of waiting, Yolanda likely will emerge not from the cathouse storefront as you had expected, but from the looming trash disposal abutting the neighboring whorehouse.

Hand in hand, you will both then climb the steps of children’s backs and pass by the kindly Northern European. Yolanda will then ask you to sit by her fire pit and lower your zipper. She hands you four glasses of water that you are told to gulp down. Trust that she is the female equivalent of a eunuch and has no lascivious intentions. It will be overwhelmingly clear that, because there is a sausage-sized hole in your stool, the penal benediction will occur there. At this moment, it is vital that you let your spirit be free.

Your task complete, Yolanda will then remove the teapot from below the stool and place it in the ames of the already-roaring fire before you. The whistle signals tea time, she will tell you, but only for herself. She will pour her cup and, like any experienced wine enthusiast, will let the aromas speak for a time before she sips. A drawn-out diagnosis of you will follow as she savors the oak, smokiness and acidity of her amber drink.

If she finds that you have a dysfunctional love life, do not try to convince her that your hand size tells her nothing about your manhood. She knows all and, unfortunately, probably did sneak a peek as you warmed her teapot. Take her advice and your tortoise courtesy of the North European and wait for a week until your next scheduled visit; she will need the time to devise a cure. She will likely have taken it upon herself to arrange that you stay across the street in the changing room of the whorehouse.