Is there anyone here that speaks English and Spanish?

The second stage of Maslows Hierarchy is security; today on the show so-and-so will be discussing what we need to feel secure. 

I'm about an hour into the five hour bus ride back to Chile and twenty minutes into my podcast; my headphones pinch my ears a bit but not too badly to stop listening to my informal psychology lesson from NPR. The bus comes to a screeching halt.

What is it this time? A flat tire? Squeaky brakes?

Everyone peers forward. searching for answers on why we have made an ungodly stop in the middle of nowhere. Then, they shift their gaze left, my eyes following the movement of the bus.

One motorcycle turned on its side, plastic littering the ground around it.
One motorcyclist on the ground, barely moving.

The bus driver runs out, followed by a man in a brown jacket and then by myself. Perhaps I rose to my feet thinking that my life guarding skills from previous summers had prepared me for what I was now running towards. Perhaps I rose because of my instinctual desire to help. Whatever compelled me into this ditch also released a fearful amount of adrenaline into my bloodstream.

I am a doctor - does anyone here speak English and Spanish?

I do.

Where does it hurt? ¿Dónde le duele?
Can you move your legs? ¿Puedes mover las piernas?
Does your head or neck hurt? ¿Duele la cabeza o el cuello?
Solo mi clavical. Only my collarbone. 

Within minutes that seemed like eternities, the motorcyclists injuries were assessed: likely concussion, broken collar bone, but otherwise okay. The panic and urgency had cooled in the fresh, Patagonian air and we waited for the ambulance. Very quickly we realize how truly isolated we are; the nearest hospital was 100 kilometers in either direction - an hours wait.

I am the only line of connection between the doctor and the motorcyclist and bus driver. The bus needs to continue its course but cannot leave the man in the ditch. The doctor suggests taking the driver on the bus with us.

¿Y el moto?
No me importa el moto.

The next moment we are loading as many of the motorcyclists possessions on the bus, leaving the beat up motor cycle in the ditch. We will meet the ambulance on the road and transfer him from there. He sits in the front, three seats in front of the doctor, six seats in front of me. I cannot help but stare at this man who reminds me of one of my uncles - a little bit skinnier and darker hair, but with the same wire-framed glasses, scruffly beard, and short hair on top. I grew up hearing stories of the wallet that saved Bobby's ass when he fell off his motorcycle.
Who was there to help him?

As I sit back in my seat, I become aware of my racing heartbeat and shaking hands. I was at a loss for words as the other passengers, out of genuine concern and obnoxious curiosity, tapped me on the shoulder one by one wanting details of our new passenger.

Is he okay? What happened? Why did you go out there, are you a paramedic? Where did you learn to speak Spanish? Are we driving him to the hospital? Is he in pain?

I wish they would be quiet, I wish they would stop asking questions. My mind is in shock; words come out but I don't know where they are coming from.

Yes. He was blown off the road by the wind. I know basic first aid, no I am not a paramedic. I study in Argentina. I don't know where we are taking him. Yes.

Twenty minutes later, the bus pulls over again and paramedics board the bus. Yet again, the doctor rises, I follow. A short, translated conversation and the application of a neck brace later, the motorcyclist is on his way to the hospital and I am left stringing together everything that just happened.

Is there anyone here that speaks English and Spanish?