yesterday i made my first visit to a buenairense hospital. one can learn a great deal about any campo, county, capital or country from the waiting room of its public health facilities - and not only based on services rendered (or lack thereof). as any astute observer will remark, hospitals betray a remarkable trove of socio-political orientation. indeed, they're a demographic portrait of a given class or society frozen in a single frame: economically, ethnically, aesthetically. we all have an image of the american waiting room - however different its urban, suburban, outer-sprawl or rural variants may prove. (in two words - sadness and obesity - if we're being honest.) though i've yet to studiously wile away the afternoon in a recoleta plastic surgery clinic, one has little trouble picturing their clientèle, either (if not cosmo, perhaps they'll have the new yorker?). to begin with, i made the mistake of seeking medical attention during the mid-morning rush; not that things were hectic - on the contrary - they were almost too calm, considering the number of people seeking care for gunshot wounds and paco overdoses at 10am on a brisk monday in july (ok, bad joke). without trying to speak for the sub-altern, i must say that everyone there seemed to carry themselves with an uncanny dignity; silent without being morose, reserved without being dejected, they diligently waited their turn. from the 'guardia' bureau where you receive your initial slip, you advance to the preliminary line (ventanilla) - whence they schedule you the fatal appointment, often within the same day. luckily enough, i lived within 8-9 stone's throws away and went home to lay in bed, drink mate and pity my poor condition before returning for an afternoon bout with the general practitioner.
a friend from sau paulo visited last week and made a number of interesting remarks about the city i'd only subliminally noted at best. any number of stereotypical balloons are bound to be popped when trading in reputations as inflationary as menem's sense of propriety - and buenos aires is no exception. hailed as the 'paris of the south' or latin america's 'greenwich village,' among other geo-cultural impertinences, some are disappointed when they arrive in the city of good airs only to discover that it neither rains women nor sprouts t-bones from the cracks of the sidewalk pavement (at least my fare saint louis only has to live up to a fervent obsession with baseball, toasted ravioli, frozen custard, blues and high murder rates). that is not to say it isn't sublime, upon slightly deeper reflection, for in many respects it is. judging by the surface, however, is a more delicate affair. for one, as my dear friend remarked, the bustling metropolis is full of old folk. tis true, Bs As must have the highest median age of any capital outside of moscow and minsk - for reasons i've thus far failed to grasp. perhaps it's because the kirchner government reinstated government-backed pensions; maybe it was the junta's systematic near-liquidation of an entire generation in the late 1970's and their would-be 20 somethings that were sterilized or never born - one can only surmise. there was an article in the times a few weeks back focusing on the city's efforts to render itself more senior-friendly (slow news cycle, anyone?). the mayor's spokesman said they were extending the 'go' sign at crosswalks by a full four seconds (and yet the germans still don't take them up on the offer when the blinking red men rears his head) - the rest of the details slip my mind (why not enlarge the numbers on the lotto tickets for those with poor sight - an alternative countermeasure to republican repeals of the death tax, anyone?).
the point of all this is that Bs As is older, quieter and more tranquil than it's often made out to be in popular northamerican and european imagination. some of this is the winter talking. or the fact that i've lacked for either fortune or health for the better part of my stay (which need not be a bad thing, either, if one can learn to properly reflect upon such states of being. read orwell's down and out in paris and london in case you're looking for inspiration). the fact is, for all the politicization of public life and vitriolic memory, the argies are a kind and gentle bunch. racist, yes. authoritarian at times - from what i've heard. arrogant, perhaps a tad in Bs As (though nothing compared to what they've been made out to be. they couldn't hold a candle to parisians if they tried). on the whole, however, at least from the perspective of a young, white, northern male, they're as welcoming as a lukewarm pint on a autumn evening's park bench overlooking the city. that's to say, more friendly, kind and helpful than not. just don't mention your leftist-guerrilla research project in the northern dives. you might just get a reaction.
back to the hospital. a plethora of almost-middle-aged women and their late-adolescent daughters filled the corridors. do men simply not get sick? tis difficult to dictate symptoms, though it has been done (a 'western' female friend of mine once paid a visit to the doc in india, accompanied by a male companion, as is customary in certain places; before she could explain her condition, however, the doctor made very clear that he would only address his male counterpart, giving way to her first three-party, uni-lingual information transfer at point blank.) a low murmor drifted through the air, the rhythmic hullabaloo of which paled in comparison to the average playground chatter of two american joes. i'm always in awe of people that can simply go about their business - or lack thereof - in what appears to be clear and present resignation. is there a thought-attainment brain state to which we mind-fidgeters are not privy? in any case, half the room was in line while the other half conscious-slumbered in the waiting chairs, awaiting their eventual go at the state-ordained healer.
i returned for my scheduled appointment at 4:40, five minutes ahead of schedule. both brain and body had taken a lackadaisically unpleasant beating the two previous weeks and i'd figured i give antibiotics a go. you needn't a prescription for this sort of thing down south, but i couldn't surmise any reasonable dosage upon request and the pharmacist sent me packing to get one from the doc. when i returned to the hospital that afternoon things had quieted down quite a bit. there was a security guard with a sign-in desk posted at the front entrance, to whom i smiled and nodded before contining upstairs to the assigned room on the appointment stub. the second floor hallway was well illuminated by the afternoon sun, and for a moment i was almost glad to be there. in fits of extended fever, one's memory and perceptive abilities have a way of dislodging positive and negative connotations; was this warm, sun-light hallway reminiscent of bouts through the hallowed halls of brittany woods middle school? the nurses' trailer at summer camp in southern missouri? the central prefect's detox station from that one night in paris with ultan the irishman? none of the aforementioned proffer particularly illuminating encounters; why they come to mind, you'll have to ask my psychoanalyst (they say Bs As has got the second most per capita in the world after parigi.) nonetheless, it was not an unwelcoming sight. miniature card board signs protruded from the doors at horizontal angles, indicating each room's number. when i got to mine, the top half of the door, which disconnected from the bottom, was propped open, such that an observer of 3 or more feet could lean into the office to announce his arrival. within in a number of seconds, a small, bearded man approached and asked me for my stub.
"and where are you from?" (he asks in spanish). "the united states," i respond in kind. he writes down my nationality and completes the form. a full 28 seconds later, he grins and offers: "ahh! uniiiiiited staaaates! yes, yes, united states!" "why, yes, sir, that's correct - the united states," i muster, trying not to chuckle. "united staaaates!" he reminds me as he gives me a wink. "vas a seguir por alla - hasta la sala 145.. eeet is, yes.. that way! united states!" i amble 40 feet down the hall to the aforementioned room and look around for a seat. the man follows, this time downright beaming. "vos tenes que tocar a la puerta - like diss! bop bop! you see? pero vos hablas castellano - porque te estoy hablando en ingles? jajaja i do not know! why do we do what we do? solo dios sabe!" he enters, momentarily converses with the doctor before coming back out. "sentate, sentate - just one moment please!" i sit down and pull out my paper as he hurries off back down the hall. before i get a paragraph into the article, he's back with a vengeance in english: "you like to read?" - "why, yes, i tell him." "ah! very good!" and he scurries off toward the doctor's office, some 15 feet to my right. i debate whether or not to look up as he passes me on is way back. i crack. "reading very good!" he assures me, as we meet eyes, and goes back to his office. 46 seconds later, he emerges again, sitting next to me. "where you from?" - "st. louis," i tell him, with an unconvincing plea - how will i ever get this one across? "you know, like, tom sawyer and huckleberry finn? mark twain, paddling down the mississippi?" pronouncing each character's name with the argiest of accents i can muster. "ah, writers!" he shrieks in excitement. "why, yes, we've a few of them where i'm from in the states - t.s. eliot, tennessee williams (mi colegio! mi colegio! i keep repeating)." - "yes, yes, now i see, very, very good!" as he pats me on the knee and takes off for the doctor's office once again. on his way back, we exchange yet another cosmological glance. "cortazar! borges!" he offers. "sabato?" i meekly respond. "sabato! yes! sabato!" as he passes me by. before reaching the door he turns to me with a mischievous grin, as though concealing an eternal secret. "and wah wehminh!" i hesitate, feigning comprehension and solidarity with whatever just came out of his mouth. he doesn't take the bait, however mastered it's become. "walt whiiitman!" he repeats, this time radiating. "oh, i don't know, buddy - i think he's ours!" i reply in kind as the man chuckles and scuttles off down the hall.
when i did finally get around to seeing the doctor that day, he recommended that i boil salt in water, add mint leaves and breathe the vapor with a towel over my head. apart from sexual proverbs and an urban guerrilla tactic or two, that was the first thing my roommate nico had taught me in Bs As. "yes, that's been working, but is there any chance you could tell me the suggested amount of antibiotics a person of my age and weight might require? that's really all i need," i beseeched the portly gentleman. "afraid i can't my son - tisn't my specialty. you'll have to see the ear, throat and nose doc for that." - "can i see him this afternoon by any chance?" - "no, twill have to been first thing in the morn.' come by at 6am and you should be ok." dejected, i gathered my possessions, thanked the man and walked across the street. he'd given me a prescription for a decongestant, just as the sinus was getting better and the head throbs worse. "would you like anything else?" the woman behind the desk politely asked. "uuh, why yes, how about a pack of skittles and some penicillin." - "what dosage?" - "oh, you know, something a growing boy of my size would be able to handle," i proffered in return. moments later i clamored out the door, fenoximetilpenicilina potasica in hand, and wandered into the setting evening sun, mate, medicine and medialunas on my mind...
No comments:
Post a Comment