To the emergency room

It's funny that right on the heels of my last post lauding the efficiencies of the Chilean private health system, I should find myself back at Clinica Alemana, in the ER. Though I didn't find it particularly funny at the time.

On Sunday afternoon, az left for Paraguay and Maya and I busied ourselves with our various activities. For her, it was watching Playschool until, apparently, she got bored, for suddenly I heard a terrific crash followed by piercing screams that sent my heart racing. I thought perhaps she'd pulled the tv or the bookshelf down. But tearing into the room, I saw she was pinned under a wooden sideboard, which she must have somehow pulled down on top of herself and it had hit her right in the face.

Everything that was on top of the sideboard had gone flying, including an old and heavy ibony Buddha statue and a stained glass lamp, it was very lucky that none of those things had hit her as well.

The offending furniture item, soon to be relegated to the cellar



Blood was pouring out of her nose and mouth and she was absolutely hysterical. It must have been such a shock for her, poor pet, one moment harmlessly reaching for something, the next attacked by a very heavy and unwielding table.

I was terrified that she had a broken nose or a fracture of some sort, or perhaps that she'd damaged her mouth. My heart, previously racing, now seemed to stutter and stop still. I admit I panicked a bit and had no clue what to do. Carrying Maya, I ran for the phone and called az, who was literally walking onto his plane. He calmly told me to call the doctor and then an ambulance. Good advice.

I just knew something like this would happen at some point when az was out of town and I would just not know what to do. Any and all Spanish abandons me in times of crisis. I managed to stop the bleeding, grabbed some clothes etc and left the house to get a taxi to the hospital. There was no way I could drive with Maya clinging to me like a koala in a tree, both of us bloody and both of us teary.

Downstairs, my concierge literally ran out the door and down the street to get us a cab. Maya had calmed down by the time we bundled ourselves in and took off for Clinica Alemana, Urgencia (ER). 

So, this is my plug for Alemana - they were brilliant. And when I'm holding my child who is crying and bleeding, I don't care about anything except getting the best treatment for her. There's a large kids ward right in Urgencia and we were taken straight in. One nurse spoke English and she kept checking on us through the evening and letting me know what was happening. All the doctors spoke English and we moved through the system quite quickly.

Maya had x-rays and saw at least three specialists and they all said she was fine, thank god. No fractures or even bruising. It's amazing how strong kids' bones are. We were really lucky. An hour after we arrived she had recovered her good spirits and was roaming around the ward trying to get into everything. All the other children seemed to lie in their beds quietly and watch tv.   

I'm just so glad she's ok. Incidently, the rest of our furniture (bookcases etc) are being bracketed to the wall this week, as an earthquake-proofing measure. Maya-proofing too, it seems.

Ps. The one thing I couldn't mention in this post at the time was that I was pregnant, in my first trimester. When I saw Maya pinned under the table, bleeding and screaming, pulled her out and held her in my arms, my immediate reaction was to sit down and bawl my eyes out too. Which wouldn't have been very helpful. So, it was a good thing I put the hormones aside and didn't do that... until later, at least.

Sometimes Chile surprises me - hospital efficiencies

Chile, being a country of hypochondriacs, has pharmacias located on every corner. Most medications don't require a prescription so Chileans are firm believers in self-medicating. And if you need to see someone, you can't throw a rock without hitting a medical specialist. It's actually a lot harder to find an ordinary GP.

But that's just Chile.

And how is this country of hypochondriacs supported in their endless thirst for medications? With a booming culture of private health insurance, of course. But who foots that bill? Why, the employers do of course. Chile's labour laws are designed exceptionally in favour of the employee. Go Chile.

So, there are some really good private hospitals in Santiago. And they're surprisingly efficient. Surprising for Chile, that is. For example, I can go onto the hospital website and book an appointment with any of their medical specialists for any time tomorrow, the next day or over the next few weeks. It takes a couple of minutes. How simple is that? At home, if I wanted to see a specialist, I'd have to call and make an appointment with my GP, go and sit in their waiting room for at least an hour, have a consultation and get the doctor to type me out a referral letter, and then call up the specialist's office and book an appointment in 2-3 months time. Is it it any wonder no one bothers?

The other day I went to the laboratorio at Clinica Alemana (the private German hospital though there's nothing very German about it except for the name) for a blood test. The laboratorio is not be confused with the vacunatorio right next door where you get vaccinations (though I did confuse them and waited in both waiting rooms).

At the front of the laboratorio is a ticket machine. Chileans love these ticket machines, almost as much as they love pharmacias and taking their children to paediatricians when they won't eat their vegetables. Ticket machines are everywhere in any place a line may form - banks, pharmacies, deli counters, bakeries, you name it. The purpose of the ticket machine is, of course, to eliminate the need for a person to stand there and direct you to a counter. In Clinica Alemana, they've taken it one step further and have both a machine and a meet-and-greet person. To press one of two buttons on the machine for you. Just to make sure you're getting your money's worth.

I didn't realise this though when I rocked up to the machine and a young fellow with a clipboard stepped forward to speak to me, my hand just poised to press one of the buttons. I wasn't sure if he worked there or was taking donations for the club scouts.

"Blublublublublbublublublublu" he said. This is literally what I caught. Chileans talk so damn fast. My muddled brain has no chance.

I replied with a polite smile and what I always say in Chile when I'm put on the spot - Permiso, yo no hablo espanol (sorry, I don't speak Spanish).

Perhaps it was the fact that I said "I don't speak Spanish" in Spanish but the look he gave me was one of complete blankness. If I had morphed into a giraffe and spoke mandarin, he couldn't have looked more blank. Then, evidently realising our conversation had ended there, he quickly pressed the first button and handed me my ticket. I was going to press that button too.

The system proceeds quickly after that - my number was called and someone processed my information, then I was sent to the caja (cashier) where they always ask if you want to pay quotas o sin quotas? (in installments or one go). Cause this private insurance stuff is not cheap. After that, I waited for my number to be called. Even that wasn't too slow a process (and there were about 60 people waiting) because there's an army of nurses in cubicles behind the waiting room drawing blood faster than a swarm of mosquitos. 

Afterwards, and definitely one of the efficiency highlights of private hospitals in Chile, is that your results are available online. They're not sent to the doctor or anyone else but can only be seen by you, the patient and the one footing the bill. Hell, yeah. I can then email them to my doctor.

First, though, you have to tell the hospital that you want this online option. My doctor had said "they just give you a password", and well, yes, "they" [the hospital] do, if you go to this special counter that's not in the laboratorio, and fill out a form and sign some stuff but it's not simple. 

But that's just Chile. And sometimes, it surprises me.

7 things I miss about... Bali

The Indonesian island of Bali is the most fantastic of places. I know this to be true because az and I really didn't want to go, thinking it to be a tacky beach holiday sort of tourist trap, then finally did go and loved it. 

Of course, there probably are parts that are tacky tourist traps, like Kuta beach maybe but we didn't actually go to the beach at all. We went to the inland village of Ubud and loved it so much we just stayed put. But then, we're too old for fishbowl cocktails. 

There's a very good reason why Bali is Australia's number one holiday destination. In fact, I can think of seven...

1. Its cool, chilled ambience. This may sound typical of any touristy island but Bali really has an easy-going vibe about it. This place knows tourists but still retains a casual, village feel. It could also be that at the time, we were sans child and our days stretched out lazily with afternoon snoozes and long, lingered meals. 

2. Our hotel. Though "hotel" is an inadequate word to describe our gorgeous accommodation. The friends we went with organised it all for us, which was great as this small hotel of about 20 rooms and five villas books up months in advance. We stayed in both a "room" and then a villa. Both were typical Balinese buildings, simple, sparse almost, with high wooden ceilings, wooden floors and furniture, crisp white linen and thatched straw roofs. 

The view from our balcony over electric green rice paddy fields

Our villa with its private rock swimming pool - after moving here we didn't go out that much.

3. Nasi goreng. If you've never tried Indonesia's signature dish, my sympathies. It is fabulous. A kind of fried rice laden with spicy onion sambol then offset with crisp cucumber, peanuts and hard-boiled egg. At the time of our visit, I was five months pregnant with Maya and food was just starting to taste good again. An egg with every meal was just what I needed.

4. All the other amazing food. Indonesia has some incredible dishes, some that have drifted into mainstream "Asian" food and others that remain national delicacies. Think laksa, beef rendang and satay.

Az makes a mean beef rendang. Come over sometime and he'll cook it up for you

5. Massage. What holiday is complete without someone pummeling my shoulders while the scent of lavendar drifts through the air?

6. Tropical weather. Hot, humid days followed by the electric crackle of an incoming thunderstorm that pelts down warm, heavy rain. The air lifts, frogs croak and there's even a slight chill in the air. How else does the foliage grow so thickly and so green? There's nothing quite like nature in the tropics. 

 

7. The people. With all the tourists flooding Bali, you'd think the Balinese would have had their fill. But not so any we encountered. Our friends were Indonesian and knew their way around so we went to lots of local restaurants and also walked around town ourselves, visiting the markets and so forth. Yeah, it's touristy and people try to sell you stuff but they're also friendly and welcoming. And isn't that really what makes a good holiday? 

The charming locals in the Sacred Monkey Forest, Ubud

Eight years on...

I feel guilty that my blog posts have whittled down to a measly two a week but I honestly feel so rotten that I just want to curl up in bed every day with my dried apple pieces and maybe a can of Fanta. Bizarre, I haven't drunk Fanta in years and years but I am loving our reunion. 

I've finally gotten some decent medication - well, as of ten minutes ago so I can't say with authority that it works but it gives me a mental boost anyway. And I got it in the typical Chile fashion, that is, my doctor texted me the name, I went around to every pharmacia in a three-block radius (there are a standard five) and finally found it. They handed the box over, no prescription needed or advice given (I wouldn't have understood it anyway), I paid, opened the box outside and promptly swallowed one. Right now, I am looking it up online, with the help of Google translate, to find out what the dosage actually is. Thank you, self medication.

I do hope it works as, amongst other things, I'd like to go out for dinner tonight. Sunday was az and I's eight-year anniversary. Gosh, that's a long time. It feels like half a lifetime... probably because we've done more things in those eight years than most people do in half a lifetime. 

Travelled all over Europe, Asia and Latin America... and that last one is still in progress. Lived on three different continents. Bought a house. Had a child. Climbed Australia's two highest mountains. Trekked to World's End in Sri Lanka. Dog-sledding in Switzerland. Elephant riding in Laos. Snorkelling in Thailand and Malaysia. Driving across the Andes from Chile to Argentina. Mountain camping in Bulgaria. Skiing the Andes. Rescue by helicopter in Australia. Cheetah patting. Cross-country motorbiking.

And there's more, I'm sure but I'm leaving it at that as my head is hurting again. No doubt from memories of helicopter rescues - but you don't get that story without dinner and a bottle of wine. 

Poker face

On Thursday night, we had a poker night at our place. I was tempted to cancel as I was still feeling out of sorts but az had already picked out his poker shirt. Luckily we were all amateurs so it was a pretty chilled and raucous night with wine, pizza, homemade guacamole and a bottle of very cold jaegermeister. 

My only other experience of playing poker was in Hanoi with my friend Amber and some of her American mates. They lived on the other side of the Red River and the only way to get there was via Long Bien bridge. 

This is Hanoi's most famous bridge, designed by the Effiel company and built in 1902 when Vietnam was still a French colony. It was heavily bombed by the Americans during the war until the Vietnamese stuck their American POWs up there to rebuild it. It's 2km long with a single railtrack in the middle and a narrow road on either side, once for bicycles and now as a busy thoroughfare for motorbikes, fruit sellers, fishermen and pedestrians. 

In Vietnamese, Long Bien means the dragon that bridges the two river banks. For a lot of Hanoians, it's a romantic spot for wedding photos and to canoodle at sunset. 

But it's also a bit dodgy; street kids and runaways sleep dangerously high in the steel rafters and shady punters do shady deals at night.  

These photos make it look quite charming and peaceful, don't they? It's actually a chaotic place, like all roads in Hanoi. 

So, to get to our poker games, Amber and I had to ride our motorbikes across the bridge at sunset, always a hair-raising experience. The narrow one-way road fit one bike comfortably but I could always be sure someone would squeeze past me anyway. And despite the fact that we were travelling at a good speed (around 30km/hr) over this narrow, bumpty-bump bridge, I was always sitting on someone's tail and someone was always sitting on mine. In the dusky gloom, it was hard to see more than a couple of bikes ahead but invariably, I'd have to make a sudden swerve around someone who had stopped randomly to make a phone call or buy some fruit. 

I always breathed a sigh of relief coming off the other side. 

On the way home later that night, the bridge was quieter as Hanoians are not known for their late-night revelry. But then those who are driving have probably had a few beers, or worse, the local tipple, ruou (rice wine). Lights on the bridge are few and far between, and often, so too are the headlights - when their drivers forget to turn them on. It wasn't unusual for my heart to skip a beat as a motorbike appeared suddenly in the darkness, its driver meandering the wrong way down along my narrow slip of road. 

But apart from the driving antics which required 99% of my attention, the other one per cent could appreciate the views, the quiet of night time and the cool, fresh air devoid of daytime smog that hit me full in the face through my pushed-up visor. 

Not a bad way to play poker anyhow. 

Post #311

I've been as sick as a dog for the last week and half and frankly couldn't sum up the enthusiasm to blog about anything more than being sick as a dog. Which is generally what tends to happen when I'm sick - an all-round feeling of misery and self-pity that's pretty hard to shake. A permanent headache doesn't help either. 

Then on the weekend, I got a massive allergy attack. I haven't had allergies since I lived in Canberra so it hit me hard with bouts of uncontrollable sneezing, extreme headaches and a runny nose. I went through about five tissue boxes, which isn't hard as Chilean tissues are crap and come in tiny boxes decorated with Looney Tunes characters... for some reason. 

The allergies have now subsided but my nose is blocked and the headache a permanent background drone. I'm starting to sleep a bit better at night but have a general feeling of queasiness that's partly brought on, I'm sure, by a lack of hunger and therefore my body complaining that it's not being fed very well. 

All in all, I'm not feeling particularly inspired to do much besides sleep. If I could, I would happily hibernate in bed for the next three months or so. Maybe longer. 

So, if you are wondering where I am, now you know. Fingers crossed my next post is somewhat less mopey.