Vespas Brasileiras, Part II

Chairs
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Yesterday I got to experience two Brazilian systems: the federal police and the hospital pronto socorro (essentially a hospital version of the United States emergency room).

One took 4 hours.

The other took 20 minutes.

When I walked into the federal police building, I was given a Ficha Estrangeira (Foreigner ticket) with the number 32 printed on it. I was there because I was required to register with the police within 30 days of my arrival.

I sat down in what felt like an airport seat staring at the backs of people's heads. Frequently people's names were called, but no numbers. It took a while for me to figure out that two different systems were occurring simultaneously. Brazilians (whose names were being called) were here for passport related stuff. The estrangeiros (foreigners) were here to register, among other things.

It took at least 30 minutes for a Ficha Estrangeira number to be called. Number 9.

"Oh damn," I thought, "This may take a while."

And indeed it did. I'd been planning a nice lunch and instead I was spending it eating crispy, cheese-flavored fried things from the vending machine.

I finished the book I was reading.

In between staring into space, I even started reading my Portuguese-English dictionary.

I made friends with a woman who was born in Afghanistan, moved to India when she was 7, came to Brazil with her abusive husband, learned Portuguese and with the support of a neighbor divorced her husband and is now here working to support her two teenage children (who are both in school). And she never was given the opportunity to learn how to read and write. She was number 40. She got someone's attention and explained her situation to him -- that she was afraid she might lose her job if she stayed here all day. She got helped.

I was especially interested in how many very young (early 20s?) women were working here and how casually they were dressed. Tank tops and flip flops and too-tight pants. 

It was always amusing when someone came out to call a new number saying "Estrangeiro número 17" essentially, "Foreigner number 17."

3 hours after I arrived, my number was finally reached. I jumped up and practically ran into the room. The man took out a list and started telling me all the things I needed to register. "Yup, got that," I kept saying. He looked surprised. "How did you know you needed all this?"

"The university told me." Inwardly I was thinking how grateful I was to the university because if I had to wait 3 hours just to be told, "Go get this stuff and come back and wait again another day," I might have exploded.

He sent me back outside to fill out an application form, which I filled out, making some less than educated cases, which later had to be corrected when I returned to his desk. For example, instead of putting down my passport number, I put down my flight number from Houston. "Huh?" said the man, "What on earth is this number." I blushed.  Uh, perhaps my brain was a bit muddled after all that waiting?!

Then I was sent back outside to wait some more.

A different man came and handed my passport back to me with a little strip of paper with an official stamp, some numbers, a bar code and my photograph. Then he took me into a small room and coated my fingers in thick black ink for fingerprinting. Luckily, they had stuff in the ladies bathroom that got it off.

And that was it. Exactly 4 hours later I was free to go.

----

So...needless to say, although a visit to the doctor seemed prudent because the rash from the wasp sting on Sunday was continuing to grow in size (after all, I have no idea what these Brazilian wasps are capable of), I kept putting off going.

I walked over hill and dale to register for the World Social Forum (post to come about this), even got on a bus by myself (woo hoo!), wandered around the indoor market downtown and then, since nighttime was fast approaching made a move for the hospital.

I didn't know exactly what would happen or even if they'd accept me because this wasn't really an emergency in my mind. And I also didn't know how much they'd charge me. I wasn't thrilled about that prospect either.

I brought along my international insurance information just in case that could do something. Though I doubted it.

I went to the information desk. They told me to go sign in. I handed the guy my passport and he clicked away on his computer and asked me for my address and my phone number.

Then he said, "Follow the yellow line to room number 6." I did with "Follow the Yellow Brick Road" playing in my head.

The doorman to room number 6 directed me to sit in the waiting room nearby. "Here comes the waiting," I thought and started to send a text message to A. since she lives nearby.

Before I could finish it the doorman was calling out my name. Incidentally, "Alison" is a man's name here in Brazil, so everyone is a bit confused when I respond to it (such as the lady in the shoe store when I presented her with my credit card. "But you can't be Alison?" she said reading the name on it).

Inside, room number 6, I was asked simple questions about why I was there and what had occurred.

"Where are you from?" asked the doctor after finishing the medical questions.

"The United States."

"And how long have you been here?"

"Two weeks just about."

"Wow, you speak such good Portuguese."

I didn't mention that I'd studied the language for about 2 years, so I better speak decent Portuguese. I like to bask in the lie that I could have picked up all this Portuguese in 14 days time.

Then I was directed to another waiting area. This one was filled with unhappy looking people. There was one woman who could barely sit and was moaning in pain.

A few minutes later a nurse/doctor motioned for me. "We're going to do an injection," she said and directed me to the other side of the room, past sick people in hospital beds, to a small space behind a curtain.

She pulled out a needle.

"Where?" I said.

She smiled. "Your bunda [bottom]."

I winced considerably because it felt that the needle would never end.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she said kindly (if that's possible).

"Yup!" I agreed.

She motioned for me to go sit back down.

The moaning lady was still there across from me, half in her seat, half out. 

Then the first doctor spoke to me again. She said that if the shot hadn't been enough that I should go pick up a prescription that she'd written on my form.

"Tomorrow morning," she said emphatically, "Not any sooner."

"Okay" I agreed. 

The doorman asked me if I was ready for the liberação (liberation). I laughed and said yes - I felt ready for liberation - and he opened the door for me.

Oops, he wasn't joking. Literally, I had to go to a window marked "Liberação" to give them my medical form and sign out.

No money charged.

Wow.

I looked at my watch and all of this had transpired in approximately 20 minutes.

Wow.

Now of course, I should preface this by saying that I've heard stories that not all visits to the pronto socorro are so easy. However, this experience is a far cry from what would have happened had I shown up in an emergency room in the United States with an allergic reaction to a bug bite.

Truth is, I wouldn't have gone in the first place.

And good news too! Today the rash has subsided quite a bit.

Woo hoo for painful shots in the bottom!