So this morning I went to the Hospital Municipal Infanto-Juvenil — Dra. Carolina Tobar García, which is one of the public hospitals in Buenos Aires. As the name indicates, it’s a government hospital for infants and children, and essentially Maria sent me there to see what public health in Argentina looks like.

The hospital isn’t awful. It’s just pretty damn bad — there’s in article in The Daily Profile, here, that details (in Spanish) just how much is wrong with this place. In essence, though, the building is really fucking old, and the new building still isn’t finished, and they don’t have great equipment — so although there are some talented doctors, and they have good training, they can’t do all that much.

Anyway, let’s start up top. I was supposed to get there at like 9:30, so I figured I’d take a 9 AM bus, get there maybe fifteen minutes late, and all would be well. I got out a little late, waited for the bus for a while, and it took longer than expected; I got off a little before 10:30. Okay, you know, it’s not like they’re waiting for me. I was mildly upset, but not really. I walked down Brandsen, crossed under the autopista and uner the train tracks, and got onto Carrillo, which is where the hospital is. And then I madea huge mistake: I turned left. Let me tell you: left was not a hospital. Left was wall, all the way down, wall covered with graffiti. It was a beautiful morning; it was bright; I wasn’t unsafe. I just wasn’t where I needed to be. At the end is a giant area where they load trains and trucks, with who-knows-what; Barracas is still a factory district. I turned right onto Suarez, and essentially walked up a street filled entirely with trucks. Huge, hulking monstrousities, hauling what-the-ever, lorry-loads of Things. The paths were covered with leaves (it’s still technically autumn here, remember), blowing in the wind, crunching under my feet. Then I turned and I walked up Perdriel. Essentially, I circled the entire block — and this is not a small block, this is at least a kilometer of walking. And then I called Sebastián, who I was supposed to meet.

And Sebastián told me that I essentially had circled the WRONG block — there were indeed hospitals there, right where I had started, but they weren’t even the ones I wanted. No matter — I found my way to Borda, the adult neuropsychiatric hospital, and he found me there, and showed me around. The first thing I noticed was that there were people asking for change outside of the front entrance. The second thing I noticed was that the entire thing looked as much like a prison as like a hospital. My view of prison is tempered by my restorative justice class taught at the Detention Center in Philadelphia, but the lights were the same — not the bright, clean white light I associate with hospitals, not the white light and sunlight of FLENI, but flickering and yellow. Old lights. Sebastian showed me the different parts of the hospital (and, amusingly, I can’t think of the right words in English to describe them), the consulting rooms, the chapel, the fields, the cafeteria, the research and laboratory, the rooms for the… shit, internados, the kids who stay there. Apparently, there are around 70 of them — he said that they’re only supposed to stay for a few weeks, but sometimes parents just don’t come back. A lot of the kids who are inpatients are violent, apparently, or have violent outbursts — schizophrenia, or sometimes autism, but dangerous to themselves or others. Which makes sense, of course.

Essentially, Sebastián showed me around to the different parts of the hospital, showed me the outpatient services, which is where he work, and then introduced me to some of the psychologists who work there. One of them, a big, bearded man eating in the break room, stood up to greet me. I’m still unsure about why he was happy to see me, other than that he spoke some English — I also don’t really know who he was; he just looked like a Freudian. But he shook my hand, crumbs in his beard, asked me how I was and where I was from, and then we turned to go. As I walked out, he called, “Eh, ¡Che!” (Che, here, is sort of like “man,” only more gender-neutral and age-neutral; I’ve heard parents use it with their children, girls use it with their female friends, and so on. This is not what was funny.) He asked me, then, “Eh, who do you prefer, Obama, or…” I shrugged my shoulders, and said, “Obama, naturalmente.” Anyway, the point was that this giant bearded psychologist who I met for twenty seconds immediately asked me about my political affiliations. Rachel tells me this has been overwhelmingly her experience here, but this was my first brush with it.

And then, maybe only two hours after I got there, maybe less, Sebastián left me with the head of the residents, Marco, who is another friend of Maria’s, and who was very helpful and friendly, and spoke English with a British tinge, and had a black sweater and a soul patch and seemed, like everyone here, younger than he probably is. And in the space of 10 minutes, Marco had arranged for me to return Monday morning at 8 AM (actually on-time, this time, ugh) and watch the admissions procedures for inpatients. I think. That part was in Spanish. 8 AM, definitely. Monday, definitely. What I’ll be doing, not so clear — and honestly, I don’t think it was my Spanish so much as that they didn’t really tell me. But hey, I’m interested, and it should be a good time, no?

Maybe “good time” isn’t quite right. Regardless.

I really want to go back there and take photographs, but I don’t know how much that’d be possible; I also don’t want to run out of battery without getting pictures at FLENI. I’ll consider it.

Right right, enough enough. I think I shall nap, now, or maybe go to yoga… And besides, it’s a Friday, and I should figure out something to do this evening. Oh, how frustrating this life! (Hah.) In any case, to explorations and new places, and a fond farewell.