To be unwell during August in the Algarve is something to be avoided if possible, and if it is unavoidable have a wallet full of money on hand. Other than for emergencies, the State health service appeared to have shut up shop in my local Barlavento area.
Having consulted with a cardiologist on August 12, I was sent for a full analysis of body fluids with results needed as soon as possible. First to the local GP, only to find a notice on the surgery door reading “Closed until a date in September”.
The smart new farmácia next door was also shuttered, as it has been for many months while investigations for malpractice are ongoing. The alternative was to drive to a specialist clinic in Portimão to expedite the sampling and pay a fee.
This I tried to do, only to find a notice on the door “Closed until Monday 16”. The question is: how do the sick and elderly inhabitants of Bensafrim (the village concerned) receive the care they need?
It is common knowledge that there is a shortage of both money and doctors in Portugal which may continue for some while, and next time I hear a British expat grumbling about the National Health Service in the UK I will suggest they give thanks for what they have.
In contrast, local veterinary practices come at a fair price, are always available and the treatment and care for animals seems second-to-none right across the board.
As a result, at least Rusty – my small rumpled and devoted four-legged friend – has been freed from the lampshade he has worn for more than a month. Under general anaesthetic he was found to have a tooth abscess. This was the cause of his other problems, and by extracting an infected back tooth the face wound has healed and his constantly leaking eye no longer weeps. Surgical attention combined with a course of antibiotic, the giving of which was a daily challenge, have given him back his joy in life (with grateful thanks to a kind and generous friend).
Likewise my damaged runabout, which is my contact with the outside world, has at last been transformed and looks as good as new. Fiat Portimão not only replaced various crumpled and broken panels, but spring cleaned inside and out, removed Rusty’s liberally shed white hairs and polished out all the scratches. The car looks great until the next ham-fisted driver loses concentration, and I am very careful where it is parked these days.
That said, I misjudged the width of my truck during World War 2, clipping the tip off a Spitfire’s wing. This rendered me liable to be Court Marshalled and no doubt sentenced to a spell in the Glass House. Fortunately, I was bleeding heavily after retrieving the sharp and twisted chunk of metal, and was dispatched to the medical centre for repair. Nothing more was said.
Those were the halcyon days of driving. Roads were almost empty, all expenses paid for by the Air Force and the only dangers were the elements, the enemy and one’s own carelessness. Today, driving is not for the fainthearted, but survival of those with eyes everywhere, quick reactions and respect for road space. Once off the main drag, it is a pleasure to follow quiet country lanes on my way home with time to see what is going on beyond the grass verges on either side. All through last autumn, winter and much of this summer, a family of black pigs has rooted in a field alongside the road: piglets were born, grew well, and after about the third litter was weaned and no doubt eaten as suckling pig, the place had been transformed into well-turned plough ground that lay fallow for a few weeks.
Then the farmer rigged up a system of irrigation, which not only moistened the soil but gave passing cars a token wash that included driver and passenger, should their windows be open.
After a short while, rows of small green shoots appeared and today when I drove past, the stand of lusty maize plants was head height, jostling for space and still growing.
Used as a staple diet in South and North America since 2,500BC, today it has unlimited uses beside food, including the production of bio-fuel, cooking oil, varnish, toothpaste and paper manufacture. But for me it is a milky young corn cob, lightly cooked and eaten with lashings of butter that delights, and is now sold in our local supermarket.
This will be my final Country Matters and I thank my faithful readers, some of whom have stayed with me for 24 years, and wish you all peace, happiness and continued support of the Algarve Resident.
Até à vista.
By Margaret Brown
|| [email protected]
Margaret Brown is one of the Algarve Resident’s longest standing contributors and has lived in the Algarve for more than 20 years.
