San José de las Lajas/At seven in the morning, the green fence of the La Micro neighborhood pharmacy already had a line in front of it that turned around the corner. There was no sign announcing the arrival of medicines nor an official voice to confirm it, but in San José de las Lajas important news spread from mouth to mouth with the speed of need. It was enough for someone to say “something came in” for many to leave the stove on, the broom leaning against the wall or a grandchild in the care of the neighbor and go out with the card folded in pocket. The scene, repeated so many times in recent years, took on an air of particular urgency last Monday: it was not about buying, but about not continuing to wait.
“The captopril hasn’t arrived in more than four months,” says Mabel, a second-grade teacher, while fanning herself with a school notebook she carries in her purse. During that time he has bought it on the street, for 500 pesos per blister, a figure that eats up a good part of his salary. To be there, he left his students with a pedagogical assistant and left almost running. “This is not to get ahead of ourselves, it is to not be left without anything,” he summarizes. In front of her, a couple of women review their recipes over and over again, as if the paper could evaporate before reaching the counter.
The La Micro pharmacy is a small place, with worn walls and lighting that does not completely dissipate the gloom. The sale progresses with the usual slowness, and each customer seems to take longer to be served than the last. Outside, those waiting make themselves comfortable: sitting on the wall, standing under the fiber cement roof, or leaning on the rusty bars of the windows. The majority are middle-aged and elderly people, with that accumulated fatigue that does not go away even with good news.
“I even brought a prescription for amoxicillin, although they told me that no antibiotics were included,” Mabel comments in a low voice.
“I even brought a prescription for amoxicillin, although they told me that no antibiotics were included,” Mabel comments in a low voice. The complaint is repeated among those present: “First, they supply other establishments in town, what is left over comes here.” There are also the usual suspicions about favoritism and friendships, a constant murmur that no one can confirm but that is part of the landscape. Distrust, like the queue, is already structural.
Zenaida, a 67-year-old retired architect, clocked her shift at five in the morning and still has number seven in line. “The 1,000 pesos I had saved to buy a piece of meat are going to go to medicine,” he says without raising his voice. He suffers from several chronic illnesses and is well aware of the cruel arithmetic of these times: either eat better or sleep without pain. “I thought nothing would come in until January. I’d rather spend the 31st with only rice and beans than spend the night awake because of my joints,” he confesses while taking out of his wallet two 500-peso bills, wrinkled from keeping them so much.
Inside the premises, an employee strictly controls access to the counter. Leaning out the barred window, he repeats the slogan: three recipes per person, nothing more. “As long as I’m here there will be no disorder,” he warns, aware that some see each arrival of medicines as a business opportunity. Its vigilance contrasts with the precariousness of the system it tries to sustain: few drugs, too many needs and a distribution chain hit by theft, diversions and lack of control, as investigations into the deterioration of the public health system have documented in recent months.
The scene becomes almost ritual. Every time someone comes out with a bag in their hand, the others ask what they managed to buy, how much there was, what’s already gone. The inventory is reconstructed in real time: captopril, some clonazepam, painkillers counted. Nothing that is enough for all those waiting or that lasts long. “This is a respite, not a solution,” says one retiree, while adjusting his cap and looking at the ground. “Now they can bring back in March or April. That’s why I came running.”
The approach of the end of the year runs through all conversations. Nobody talks about celebrations, but about survival
The approach of the end of the year runs through all conversations. Nobody talks about celebrations, but about survival. In the queue there are stories of expired prescriptions, of months without treatment, of impossible prices in the informal market. Some remember when the pharmacy was a place for quick processing and not a place to test physical endurance. Others prefer not to remember.
In San José de las Lajas, as in the rest of the country, the shortage of medicines has forced chronically ill people to reorganize their lives around the shortage. The pharmacy becomes a meeting point, a social thermometer, a stage where wear and tear is measured. This Monday, the arrival of “a little” of drugs did not solve the problem, but it activated a minimal, almost defensive hope: that of not being left completely unprotected.
When noon approaches and the line begins to dwindle, some return home with the essentials; others, with empty hands.
