Santa Marta, El Salvador

A man once told me that, roughly speaking, El Salvador has one doctor for every six thousand people. His name is Aristides Peres and for him the above isn’t just some mindless statistic, it’s an every day reality and job description. Dr Peres is one of a six member medical team in the remote village of Santa Marta, a two-hour long pick-up truck ride from the nearest town along pot-holed tracks almost impassable in the rainy season. We went there to interview several men who’d once met congressman Joe Moakley during the 80s and ended up staying three days. The first time I met the doctor he stood tired, stethoscope draped over his shoulders, a dog walking aimlessly along the floor of the medical centre as we interviewed him about AIDS (SIDA in Spanish.) His English was good and he reminded me of another man a long time ago, a fat doctor in Cambodia who played the violin every Thursday night and educated tourists about T.B between every song.
After Dr Perez had finished speaking and Roy had began to pack up our equipment I approached him. Our initial conversation was short and to the point:

ME: Hello, I enjoyed your speech. I was just wondering… I’m a wilderness paramedic by the way… I was thinking that I’d really like to help you in any way I can.

Dr Perez: Ok, can you come in five minutes? I’m must do a government health check on children at a school in the mountains. You can help me?

Me: (slightly taken aback, having expected to be given a job scrubbing the floors at best) Yes, of course…

I bounded up to Judy seconds later, a massive smile on my face as I asked her permission to accompany the doctor. She smiled and told me to get going. Ten minutes later I was walking out of the centre with a medical team that consisted of the doctor, a young looking dentist with long hair and aviators, a ferocious female nurse and another man with a stack of files under one arm. Together we climbed high up a dusty hill above the village, weaving erratically around docile cows lying in the middle of the road. The sun was out and the air hot and dry with the ever-present smell of animal dung. As we passed old men taking a break from work each raised their cowboy hat slightly in greeting, nodding their silent respect to the doctor who seemed to know every one. Eventually the village disappeared behind us and ten minutes later we’d arrived at the blue walled complex that was the school of Los Rodeo. As we entered through a massive steel gate Dr Perez turned to me, ‘remember to lock it. The children see us come and think we give them vaccinations so they run away.’ This I did as the others set up shop in the schools open air atrium, tables dragged out, dentist tools set up and piles of forms disgorged from bags. All the children lined up in front of us, laughs and smiles contrasting with limbs thin from malnutrition and arms riddled with ringworm. They took great sport in sneaking like tigers to pounce from behind and slap me over the head before disappearing behind a wall of their friends, everyone giggling shyly. The doctor pulled out a chair designed for a six year old and turned to me, ‘If I tell you what to write can you record each child?’

Three hours later I’d seen dozens of children, most with some small complaint like a common cold though a few had intestinal parasites. We worked like a production line, each child stepping forward to have his arms, mouth, eyes and ears examined before being given a slip for medicine and sent to the next area to be measured. I took down information, name of patient, age, sex, complaint in Spanish. My shirtsleeves were rolled up and sweat poring off my brow by the time we finished. There were other things I’d see working with Dr Perez, disturbing things I’d rather write about later when they are not so vivid.


Cow in the Road, Santa Marta


Mural on the wall of a school, Santa Marta


Kids


The Dusty Roads of Santa Marta