Life in the Provinces
I am still reading Imperium by Ryszard Kapuscinski; this is an excellent book, I recommend it highly. At this point in the book he is taking a tour through the southern countries of the former USSR, and he is writing about Georgia, the home of Stalin.
Georgia assumed a model of development typical of the entire Third World: a rapid, unnatural buildup of the capital paid for by the neglect and further impoverishment of the countryside. Life in the provinces means stagnation, poverty, hopelessness. Hence the rush to live in a large town, and above all else, the capital. Here there is the possibility of a better existence, of advancement, of a career. As a result, the capitals are surrounded by urban sprawl: suburbs constructed without any care, cheaply and sloppily.
Soviet-style architecture and art are also common here. There are many statues of heroic workers, and huge, ugly, reinforced-concrete buildings that would be at home in Moscow.
You see programs on TV every day about the economic advantages of Panama, especially Panama City, which is full of new high-rise buildings, and is called “Little Chicago”—although the weather could not be more different. The Canal Zone encouraged a lot of people to learn English, and American companies are now taking advantage of it. HP, for example, expanded its support operations to Panama, instead of Costa Rica, because of the English literacy. It should be noted, however, that in the providences of Panama little English is spoken, and development is limited.
The Tico government is aware of the population imbalance, and tries to combat it. There is a branch of the University is almost any small town. But their offerings are so limited students end up commuting to school at the main universities in the Central Valley—and then stay for the jobs.
One hardly need point out that the process of urbanization is going on everywhere. When I moved to Denver, for example, it was fast becoming another Los Angeles. In Costa Rica, the downtown area is turning into a slum, and a rush to the suburbs is well advanced. That is why I left the Central Valley: to get away from the crowds, filth, and crime.
But I am learning the many disadvantages of being in the provinces. Being a resident, I can buy health insurance in the public health service (CAJA) for only $40 a month. Most of the health service in this system is administered by local clinics (EBIAS). When I lived in San Ramon de Tres Rios, a northeastern suburb in the foothills, the local clinic was easy to work with.
To get my medical tests I had to stand in line with everybody else at seven o’clock in the morning, but when they noticed I was an elderly person, they moved me to the head of the line (somewhat to the annoyance of some people who got there before I did). Again, because of my age I could just show up at the appointment window and get an appointment to see a doctor for the next day; everyone else had to stand in line. I always saw the same doctor, who spoke fairly good English (typical of a university graduate), who was familiar with my health history. My health improved under his care. All my medicine was provided by their pharmacy.
When I moved to Orosi, I assumed the local clinic would be playing by the same rules. Was I wrong! It was like being in another country, where corruption and incompetence was rife. The line here starts at three o’clock in the morning, because there may be only a few medical appointments available for that day. You have to pay someone two thousand Colones (four dollars) to get them to stand in line for you. None of the doctors speak English, and their competence is questionable. This clinic makes it difficult to get medical care (making bribery more profitable), in stark contrast to the clinic in the Valley—which focused on good medical care for everyone—where bribery was unknown.
The postal service is similar. The Tico postal service, as in all undeveloped countries, doesn’t work very well. As a result there are many private mail services to get your mail from Miami to you. I use Aerocasillas and I pick up my mail at their office in Cartago, the nearest large town. I have been satisfied with their service, on contrast to another service, which was unreliable. But you cannot use a private company to deliver mail inside the country.
The US has the same rules. When I worked for Westinghouse they had their own fleet of DC-3s to move freight between plants. They tried to use these for interdepartmental mail too, but the post office slapped them down. Parcel delivery operated under different rules, however, that is what made UPS possible—something Costa Rica needs badly.
As I started to say, the Tico post office leaves a lot to be desired, but the problem seems to be worse in the provinces. When I first moved to Orosi, I got my CAJA receipts by mail right on time. Then I stopped getting them, so my CAJA provider tried sending my receipt by registered mail. We assumed registered mail here worked the same as in the States: it kept track of the mail as it went along. We were wrong: my registered mail got stalled somewhere, but the post office doesn’t know where. This would be funny if it were not so serious. Sometimes sacks of mail end up on a ditch because the post office doesn’t feel like working on them. Accountability is a foreign concept to them. And this, as I have said over and over again, is what makes Latin American impoverished.
Orosi does have some big advantages: it is beautiful, clean, and relatively crime-free. And it is close enough to San Jose I can go there to do things I can’t do here or in Cartago.
I will probably find a good, English-speaking doctor in Cartago, and pay for him myself, since medical care is cheap. I will use my CAJA coverage only for my hospital expenses. Here, strangely enough, the provinces sometimes have an advantage: they have better hospitals. Since downtown San Jose has turned into a slum, the main hospital has turned into a slum also. I was there a few times for some medical tests, and I am scared of the place.
Life is never simple.