We’ve lived in a muddy, ugly construction zone for a month now, which is now becoming psychological torture. Constant loud noises are known torture techniques. So is a lack of privacy. We still have no door on our bedroom or bathroom. Every time I hear the high pitched circular saw, which is about a hundred times per day; I have to tell myself, "Go to your happy place." The workers start at about 5:30am and work till about 6:00pm. The rainy season has started. Sticky red clay gets tracked all over the house because the landscaper who we contacted two weeks ago is so busy that he can’t plant any erosion control for another three weeks. Mud about an inch thick gets caked onto shoes.
To top it off, there has been no escape. Our car has been in the shop for the last five days. I’m not going into the car problems we’ve had. Just that the Costa Rican way of car repair seem to be leave your car with mechanic for an unspecified amount of time and they will try to fix it. They really don’t know what’s wrong with your car, but if you leave it with them for long enough, eventually they are bound to fix the right thing. All of course while they are charging you everything they touch. Never mind that you have things to do. Never mind a taxi cost $10 every time you leave the mountain. Cost of the repairs? They don’t know. They can’t provide an estimate. They will just let you know when they prepare the final bill. Payment is in cash only, so if the bill is large enough you’re, certainly going to spend more time in the bank lines. Such easy targets, these gringos.
Bill has also been very sick for about two weeks. On Sunday morning, thankfully before the car was taken in for disrepair, he woke me up at 12:45 am gasping for air. Scary stuff. I call 911 to find out where the nearest 24-hour emergency clinic is. It’s about 45 minutes away down the Costanera highway. We have a gothic and nearly morbid experience as I’m speeding along the blacktop in the middle of the night with steam and mist rising from the damp and rainy road. We arrive in Cortez and find this expansive one-story complex surrounded on all sides by a hurricane fence topped with razor wire.
"Is this it?" I asked. "It could be the clinic."
"Or the prison." Bill replies.
With no signs or indication what kind of complex it was, it obviously fooled us. The only clue was a guy hanging out by the fence in dress in white. "Where is the Cortez emergency clinic?" I timidly asked. It turns out it was the hospital and emergency clinic, not the prison.
The word that summarizes the treatment Bill received there is interesting. The ratio of medical personnel to patients was Bill and the whole emergency staff, about 20. They very efficiently checked him in with a typewriter. He saw the doctor who was quite put out that we’d shown up at night instead of the day. Sorry, my husband couldn’t breath tonight. It was just a little impossible to have anticipated this during the day.
After a dose of oxygen, a shot in the arm, a shot in the butt and three allergy medications, we we’re released. No cultures. No diagnosis. Just treating the symptoms. Like the car, I guess if they throw enough medicine at a body, they’re bound to fix what ails it.
It’s Friday. Bill is not well yet. He still has scary moments of gasping for air. During the middle of the week we saw another doctor. The latest diagnosis is a bacterial infection. Bill is just thrilled with the treatment prescribed by the second doctor. Not one, but three antibiotic shots in the ass. One shot per day for three days. You did catch the fact that we have NO CAR yet. It’s been since Monday. A trip down and up the mountain is $20 and the shots are $40 each.
Aren’t prisoners in US jails treated better than this? To close on a positive note, prisoners don’t have the views we do.
There have been moments of fun. Here is Bill and I at my birthday celebration dinner.
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