Getting ill can be infectious

A hospital in Astana

Unfortunately, this week saw my first visit to the doctors in Astana. Luckily it wasn’t anything life threatening and, to be honest, after my experience I am rather glad it wasn’t.

As with many jobs, part of the benefits package is private health insurance. This meant that when I got here I was covered to visit the doctor and any treatment after this, so felt a little more at ease. Although the health care in Kazakhstan is generally free, in the capital there are a number of private hospitals, which charge for their services. My company picked an oddly named group called Interteach (I assumed that this was something to do with English language teaching, but it appears I was wrong.)

While living in the country before I had, of course, had to go to the doctors a couple of times and the procedures that were suggested to me, as well as carried out on me, were rather questionable. I always got the impression that although they were highly trained they were a few years behind the UK and often, as were the buildings and equipment they had to work with.

When I got an eye infection, I was sent to the main city hospital, a bright yellow and green building in the centre of the city. I found my way to the opthamologist and was told that the only cure was an eyelid massage which should be carried out immediately. I sat there as the doctor pulled on rubber gloves and proceeded to pull up my eyelids and massage them in order to remove the infecition. Needless to say it didn’t work but luckily I only had to pay 700 kzt (£3) for the privilege.

In order to get the correct treatment it is necessary to know what is wrong with you and then make an appointment to see the appropriate specialist! As far as I am concerned, here is where it all starts getting too complicated.

I went to see the GP at the clinic to find this out and got sent to the test centre. Here I had my tests done and then took them back to the clinic. The GP then signed a slip of paper, which was a referral, and, after asking me if I gave English lessons, sent me up the road to the government hospital, which they had rang a number of times to confirm was the correct place.

They did not have this particular specialist at their clinic (in fact there seem to be very few in the city).

Putting back on my various layers of clothing and stepping out into the bleak, freezing afternoon, I got back into the taxi which was transporting me around. Unfortunately, I had left my previous results at home (as medical care is paid for they seem to give the patient all the results and do not retain the information themselves).

Having been driven home, we made our way to the hospital. The hospital was behind a high metal fence and as I, literally, slipped through the entrance, I seemed to have stepped through a time warp taking me back to Russia in the 90s.

The building was an old, Soviet block with large blue metal doors, and there was no sign of life (not a good sign for a hospital). I entered what I assumed to be the entrance and found a small dark lobby. The next door was closed so I knocked on the small wooden window. I showed my referral to the angry looking receptionist who informed me the doctor had already gone. After a re-think she opened the door and suggested I follow her.

Waiting in hospital corridors

The corridor was dark due to lack of windows and patients were walking up and down the corridor with masks over their faces. I sat next to a particularly yellow-skinned women and was told to wait. I did this for 30 minutes, watching the doctors going in and out, the patients being helped to their ward, the cooks bringing their pails of compott up and down the corridor. Eventually a women, who I had mistakenly taken for the cleaner, asked once more for my referral. She disappeared only to return a few seconds later with the news that I was in fact in the wrong hospital and they didn’t have this particular specialist at, this, the infectious diseases hospital.

Not a particularly productive day!

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