Unlike real doctors, with their fancy secretaries and med school educations, "El Doctor," as the ladies (and more than a few men) call him, doesn't take appointments. And he sees just eight people a day, promptly at 5pm. So around 2pm, they start lining up in the andador between our houses. Burro Hall is located on the shady side. (This used to be kind of a selling point, ironically.) And when we say they gather outside our window, we mean actually in our window, which is really a French-style door that starts at floor level and which, on the outside of the house, has a little ledge that's perfect for sitting down as you wait three goddamn fucking hours to see the fucking witch doctor.
We've discussed Mexicans' lack of familiarity with the concept of "noise" elsewhere on this blog, so there's no real need to explain to you what this sounds like in our living room/office, except to note that, inasmuch as a distinction between "inside voice" and "outside voice" exists here, everyone in line is, to be fair about it, outside.
Of course, it wouldn't occur to us to try to shoo them away. We have enough problems in life without making enemies with a witch doctor - particularly one who lives 20 feet away. Instead, we go up to our roof from time to time and photograph the patients. What follows is a bird's-eye view of the kind of people who wait hours in oppressive Mexican heat for a consultation with a witch doctor in 2013.
|"w8ing 4 witch dr"...|
|Really. Make yourself at home.|