Housecalls

We accompany Dr. Mendoza on a few house calls. An old man has prostate troubles. The hospital won't see him because he does not have "social security". Without proof of employment or insurance provided by the employer, the hospital will not treat him.


Next we enter the home of a Mixtec Indian woman in a wheel chair. She is 63 years old and only speaks her native language. Her teenage son and husband translate into Spanish for her. The family came from Oaxaca when their land was taken there. Six of her children have gone to America, never heard from again. The cheerful teenage son is doing odd jobs to help them make money for their medical needs. He proudly plays a trumpet for us and shows us crafts he makes out of sunflower seeds. The money will be used to find help for his mother.

The delicate woman's husband pats her head as he tells us her story. Around age 40 she fell about three meters down a mountain. Her pain has increased, and eventually she lost control of her bowels and urine. The last time she walked was about a year ago. Now bed sores have replaced her ability to move, and even feel, her legs. She has an X-ray and even an MRI, but the doctors have all told her they can't help. At the hospital they did not give her any help, just an obtuse diagnosis: "viral disease of the spine".

In Juarez, one must have "social security", like insurance to be treated at the hospitals. By working for a company, one can get this insurance. Some factories even have their own medical facilities for the workers and families. Self-employed Mexicans can use government clinics, which hopefully have a functioning clinic to match the given address. Private and non-profit clinics fill in the gaps for health care. Most specialist doctors operate privately.

In the sparse home of the paralyzed transplant, the doctor tells us that there is only one neurosurgeon in Juarez, and he won't treat if they can't pay. The woman motions to her son to show us their TV. People in masks are dancing. The video was sent from their friends in Oaxaca: it is an Easter celebration. Transplanted from their original home, like so many of their neighbors, they have the video to remind them of their heritage. We are all smiling as they tell us the tradition. The old women begin the dancing, and invite the younger women. Married women dance with their husbands. If young men and women are caught dancing without being married, they are sent to jail. If a married man dances with another woman other than his wife, he is sent to jail. Dr. Mendoza tells the woman she wants her to dance again. Later she brainstorms with me how to get an American neurosurgeon to see her. It seems it should be easier as we walk outside and see the Texas highway 10 just beyond the rubble of Anapra.

Her husband excitedly tells us as we go, "We want an American doctor because the Mexican doctors don't open the door for the poor. The special doctors here: they don't open the door for the poor."

Dr. San Juana Mednoza

Dr. San Juana Mednoza operates a small church clinic in the Anapra community. The intensity of this wrinkled woman is brought forth as her eyes widen while explains the importance of education. "Many big problems are so common here that the people just accept them. We need to educate them what diabetes is doing to their bodies: the loss of sight that the elderly here accept as old age can be prevented by managing their diabetes."

The population the non-profit clinic serves has migrated from interior Mexico to Juarez in search of jobs. The factories along the border keep prices cheap for Americans, and keep wages sparse for the workers. The factory workers earn about 35 to 45 dollars a week. With a steady income families can buy junk food, corn chips, and sodas. In a foreign land, new diseases emerge: hypertension, diabetes, arthritis, and depression.

Across the river: Anapra community

The scant Rio Grande divides El Paso from Juarez. On one side stands a large striped ASARCO chimney, and just across the river each dusty hill is hopefully overshadowed by a cross. However, it's unclear what kind of protection the inhabitants are recieving. The black stripes of the hills are evidence to the factory wastes that ASARCO has dumped in the slum community called Anapra. We walk between houses built of plywood and scrap mattresses. The fences dividing the plots are creatively made from trash. Locals don't mind telling us their health problems.

A mother tells us that the children are suffering from asthma. Four of her son's friends use an inhalor. The man with her quickly interjects in fast Spanish: his mother-in-law got breathing problems as soon as she moved to the area. Another shop owner says, "Many boys and girls die here. Toxins are found in their bodies." "They have lead in their lungs and blood." He seems defeated telling us about a petition that many community members signed. They want ASARCO to remain closed. No more dropping the wastes across the border again. But, no one in authority seems to be paying the list of signatures much heed.



A weathered woman emerges from her house, stepping over tire parts. She says the closest clinic is across the bridge. "If a child gets sick, we wait. The Clinic is far, so if he gets bad, we will take him to the hospital. But first we wait."

Walking the Streets

It seems like a bridge must span much further to cover the differences between downtown El Paso's high rises and the colorful buildings amid rubble of Juarez. The music, brightly colored cowboy boots, and fresh fruit stands welcome me to Mexico.

I met Ana, my guide, and after getting to her house immediately wondered why I didn't spend more time in Juarez before. The houses on her streets were yellow, green, red and pink. The grafitti didn't seem too obtrusive since it was compteting with so many other colors. Neighbors were talking on the streets. Children were playing soccer. With such close proximity and interaction, each street was more like a commune.

Ana's mother works as a medical assistant. When I ask if she's always worked Ana mater-of-factly explained that most women have to work for the family to survive. Her mother bears no resemblence of finishing a day of work as she prepares food. She offers me frijoles, then carne avada, then chili, then sweet bread, and tortilla after tortilla.



After dinner, Ana takes me back to the streets of downtown Juarez. Several thin women in high heels are positioned on the streets, not too close together. A big white sedan pulls up, flashes lights, and backs out. One woman follows the sedan and jumps in. We get out and talk to a tiny girl wearing glitter on her eyes and chest. She is nineteen. Five years ago she began "checking out the business" and for three years has been making money. She and a friend tell us that their clientel is "everything": American, Mexican, men from the city and men from the country. Through Ana I asked her, "Where would you go if you thought you had a disease?" She replied, "I feel healthy." But when I asked her where she would go for tests, she said she there is a government clinic that she goes to on Sundays and pays for testing.