WHO's vaccinations?

Just before we left Manila Eilidh had her 4-month-vaccinations.  Our pediatrician noted that Eilidh's next round of vaccinations was due at the end of July, when she would be 6 months old.  At that point we would be in Spain.  Just.

So one of the first things I needed to do, when we arrived in Malága, was to find a pediatrician.  Admittedly I had been a bit lax on the research front before we arrived in Malága; I had wanted to enjoy our time in the Philippines as much as possible without thinking too much about the next move.  This meant that I had NO idea about how the vaccination schedule in Spain worked, nor indeed how the medical system worked.

In the Philippines, at one of the last check-ups before your baby is born, you are asked by your obstetrician to choose a pediatrician to be there at the baby's birth.  This was not something I had thought about.  I had just assumed that all the right people would be at our baby's birth, not that we would have to choose one.  But anyway, I asked around for some recommendations and chose one.  Our pediatrician then came to visit us every day in hospital, and she was the one we saw for Eilidh's check-ups and vaccinations.  So we were sorted.

How did it work in Spain?

I contacted a mutual friend, who had had her second baby here in Spain.  She told me that for some of the vaccinations you have to go to a chemist, buy the vaccination and then take it to your pediatrician to administer.  Unfortunately she didn't live in Malága itself, so couldn't recommend a specific pediatrician in the city.

I did a bit of Googling and found a pediatrician.  I phoned up, with my first question '¿Habla inglés por favor?'.  The secretary did, albeit broken.  I went ahead and made an appointment.

When I arrived at the appointment, the pediatrician did not speak English.  And I could not speak Spanish.  We tried to communicate, with Eilidh's list of vaccinations in front of us, in broken English and Spanish.  The Pediatrician was sweating from the strain, wiping his brow as he studied the vaccinations.  It didn't leave me with a good feeling.  He called in the secretary, who explained the same thing I had heard from my friend: you have to go out and buy some vaccinations.  She also said that some are free at your local health centre (Centro de Salud).

My mind was reeling.

I had a small window of opportunity to get Eilidh's vaccinations, and I was fast slipping out of it.  I didn't feel comfortable with the pediatrician I'd seen - his bedside manner with Eilidh wasn't good, and our communication difficulties were just too great.  I needed to find someone else.

At this point, I decided (sheepishly) to ask one of my Spanish friends to help me.  She was a godsend.  She found out about our local Centro de Salud, came with me to register Eilidh there, made an appointment with another pediatrician, came with me to that appointment, helped me buy the vaccinations and came back again for Eilidh's second vaccination appointment at the Centro de Salud.

It was made clear, at this second vaccination appointment, that we had not followed the Spanish schedule for vaccinations (obviously, as we had not been in Spain).  What baffled me was that the vaccination schedules around the world are so different.  When we had been in the Philippines our pediatrician told us that we were following the WHO recommended vaccination schedule.  I assumed (I'm learning slowly not to assume anything) that this would be the same around the world.  But it isn't.  I've spoken to friends in the UK and a friend from Holland and it seems that all 4 countries (Philippines, Spain, UK & Holland) all have slightly different schedules.

So I'm still undecided about the vaccinations that I haven't given Eilidh, we have moved again (out of Malága), which leaves us in the position of finding a new Centro de Salud, new pediatrician and figuring out whether to give her this 'missing' vaccination or not.

Let's not move again any time soon.

Feria de Malaga, 2014

"Oh, and during the fair.  It's going to be crazy."

One of the first things I heard from Santiago (the gentleman who picked us up from the airport when we arrived in Málaga, and has helped with various relocation-tasks) on the journey from Málaga airport into the city.  Mr H had heard the same thing, from more than one person.

A few weeks later, as Santiago was taking us to view some houses, he was shaking his head telling me how crazy it was going to be: "Imagine, people starting drinking at 12 o'clock, in this heat.  They are all drunk by 2pm!"

So what is this fair all about?

Every year, during the third week in August, the city of Málaga has it's annual fair, or feria.  Ostensibly, the purpose of the feria is to commemorate the re-conquering of Málaga by the Catholic monarchy of the time (Isabella & Ferdinand) from Muslim rule in 1487.  To me it seemed that the purpose was to get as drunk as possible by necking back as many tiny plastic cupfuls of Cartojal as you could.

The centre of Málaga, which had normally been quietly buzzing in the middle of the day became very busy and boisterous.  Doors which I'd thought were shut for good, would open onto rooms full of people partying.  Streets which are normally deserted between 2pm - 6pm were packed full of people.  Bars, some of which were normally void of any clientele, were standing room only.  Men in pink shirts were seen wheeling pink boxes of bottles of Cartojal to drinking establishments and convenience stores.  Temporary waste bins were set up every 20 metres on every street of the old town.  Ladies were seen sporting, mostly spotty, fancy dresses.  Men were still in their shorts.  Purple, green and white lanterns were hung above the main shopping street.  And a general sense of happiness and enthusiasm pervaded.

It was a little bit crazy.  But I really didn't mind.  I quite enjoyed wandering around, seeing everyone having such a good time.  We joined in with the Cartojal drinking.  But after Eilidh was in bed, in the comfort of our apartment.  Rock 'n roll we are not.

The Monday after the feria ended, the city was eerily quiet.  A week before, temporary bars and shade had been erected in the central square (Plaza de la Concepcion).  This week they were being taken down.  The sticky concrete was being washed and as many broken shards as possible of Cartojal cups were being swept up.  And from then onwards it was business as usual in the city.  Until next year.  

The day my husband got locked in a toilet

It was a Saturday afternoon.  Eilidh was asleep.  I was clearing up after my lunch.  My phone started ringing.  It was Mr H.  I thought he was phoning me to tell me that he was about to leave Estepona with our new (to us) car.

Nope.  He was phoning me to tell me that he was locked in a toilet at the cafe where he'd decided to have some lunch before driving back to Malaga.  He didn't know the name of the cafe.

The toilet had no windows.  And no gap under the door.

How were we going to get him out of there?  I knew where the cafe was - it was right next door to the garage where we'd bought the car.  I used Apple Maps to try to find the name of the cafe, so that I could find the phone number, but that was ineffectual.  Frankly, I think Apple Maps suck.  I decided to phone Denis.  Denis was the man who had sold us the car.  He was born in Germany to Spanish parents and speaks perfect English.

"Ah, Rebecca, yes, I know Simon is stuck in the toilet.  I'm on my way there now."

Mr H had clearly had the same idea.

20 minutes later, Simon was still stuck in the toilet.  The cafe owners had decided to send for the carpenter who had fitted the door in the first place.

10 minutes later, the carpenter still hadn't arrived.  Denis decided to take matters into his own hands.

He'd seen his father (who owns the garage) wielding a circular saw that morning.  (What you need a circular saw for, as an owner of a second hand car garage, I'm not sure.  But that's an aside.)  He went in search of the saw, found it, and sawed the lock from the door.

Mr H was free.

Thank you Denis!