Hospital in the Dark February 2, 2022
Forgive the lateness of this dispatch, but I was delayed.
On the 2nd of February, while I was readying myself for a flight to the Salt Lake City, in order to say hello to my new grandson Theo, but also to beat the expiration date of my latest tourist visa, I suffered from a gastrointestinal ailment that would keep me grounded for the coming days. These distresses are not unusual here in San Cristobal, where it seems that norovirus, salmonella, typhus, and other microbes are a more common affliction even than covid19. The leftovers from the Rainbow Gathering have only made the situation worse.
When dehydration began to take hold, I realized I was not going anywhere. What I needed was an intravenous drip, preferably with a cocktail of antibiotics and nausea suppressants. Here is where my anonymous source—let us call her Vanessa—came to the rescue. She found us a taxi in the the middle of the night, which brought us to a small, recently constructed hospital, called HOSCEM, on the far southern edge of the city.
Despite the late hour, San Cristobal was erupting with explosive jubilations for the tamales fiestas anticipated since Day of the Kings. I doubted that I would be the only one sick by morning, as my prior experience with old-fashioned tamales in this city have left me weak in the knees, most particularly, one chicken tamale that was stuffed with an entire chicken heart. To discover such an organ in tame cornmeal mash only made me grateful the thing was not still beating. And if this description triggers your gag reflex, remember that we have not yet arrived at the hospital.
HOSCEM nudges against the wooded hills at the south of the valley. It is only fifteen minutes from home, although one definitely feels on the margins of civilization upon arrival. This neighborhood of Sanctuario is mostly under new construction and part of the reason the limestone quarries above are being carved like scoops of ice cream. The final streets we pass are deserted. Fortunately, the driver knows where the hospital is, and he drops us off, at a cost of 50 pesos.
The place is almost completely dark, and the emergency room door is locked. We bang on the door until a dozing security guard allows us in. There is also someone on duty to take a cash deposit, as healthcare in a private hospital is not something readily affordable to Chiapanecos. When people get sick here, they tend to call a friend of a friend with medical training, or else they wait in line on the sidewalk with the Maya at the public hospitals. I much preferred paying 150 USD for a private hospital room, but our dark reception made me question that decision.
The nurse was a boy, maybe 18, but I doubt that old. He was fairly adept with the IV drip. Then Doctor Alejandro Leonel López Pérez arrived with his stethoscope and barely concealed yawn. One thing I noticed was that his polished leather shoes were far too big for his feet, as if he were dressing up in his father’s medical uniform. The phlebotomist was a young woman with excessive makeup and nervous eyes. After the first few false attempts, it grew obvious that she was not yet up to the task of drawing a blood sample, although the teenager was happy to help, perhaps even excited. As Vanessa remarked, “They are like children playing hospital.”
By midmorning, we were home again, and I was already on the mend. Some subsequent inquiries revealed that our landlady’s son is a skilled adult nurse; but, like most here, they work either independently or in association with a pharmacy. The hospital positions are just too political and anything but meritocratic. This makes sense in hindsight, because the small staff at HOSCEM looked more like the children of professionals than the real thing. It is indeed all about whom you know, and clearly I do not know nearly enough.