Mauro does not want his sperm to fulfil their objective. His wife does not want to expand the family either. Thus, the man with the scattered beard decides to tie off his semen-carrying tubes, a procedure that medicine calls vasectomy.

His eyes sparkle at the idea that by having surgery in Tacna, he will save a good deal of money. His teacher’s salary would not afford him that luxury in Chile. While tapping his temples with his fingertips, he calculates that this would cost him more than five hundred thousand pesos. He then slurs the Chilean health system. Plenty of epithets to label the insurance companies flow into his head. A good shower of generous libel for the doctors. In short, Mauro thinks that the health system in his country sucks.

This man from the border city of Arica, author of a book of poetry called “Spit out”, lists the benefits of the health system of the neighbouring country: three or even four times cheaper, short examination-diagnosis time, good professionals. This is why we are crossing the border. Mauro wants a quote for the surgery from a urologist at the Solidarity Hospital in Tacna, a medical centre for poor and indigent Peruvians.

I attest to the benefits of the so-called “hospital of the poor” myself by seeing an ophthalmologist and getting glasses within three hours. All for twenty thousand pesos. In Chile, the tedious procedure would consist in going first to the insurance company, then to the doctor’s appointment and, finally, to the optician. Thus, only after a few days the glasses would appear and all this for a much higher price. Chileans arrive by bus at the Peruvian hospital. The taxi driver who brought us believes that it is unfair that they receive attention in a place intended for low-income Peruvians. The coming and going of sick people –he repeats with irony– makes him glean that in Chile medicine is a privilege.

He’s not the only one who thinks that.

The Solidarity Hospital has an oval roof that gives it the look of a gym. The offices are distributed like premises in a shopping centre. Each one advertises its medical specialty: gynaecology, urology, plastic surgery, among others. Only outpatient procedures are accepted as the hospital runs every day from 7.00 to 19.00. Mauro asks in one office about vasectomies. The secretary tells him to wait. He sits and watches TV. They have a quiz show that resembles Yingo, a famous Chilean one. Most of the patients around him are Chileans. A couple of women stand out with their Andean skirts.

Denis Huamanlazo Ordoñez has been the director of the hospital for four years. He is not surprised that a Chilean journalist crosses the border to interview him, “since your com-pa-triots” –he highlights the syllables– “come from Arica, Iquique, Antofagasta, even from Valparaíso and Santiago.” The doctor reports that 40% of the care provided by the hospital goes to Chileans, and that that figure rises on weekends, reaching 50% and up to 60%. “And don’t you think it’s shamelessness on the part of Chileans to come to get medical care here?” –I ask. Huamanlazo, without taking his eyes off the computer screen, replies that the concept of the hospital is solidarity and, consequently, those who need care should receive it. “We do not distinguish between peoples or nationalities. The Solidarity Hospital is for everyone” –he repeats.

Denis affirms to know the health problem in Chile, supposedly one of the best in South America, only accessible by a minority. Meanwhile, most Chileans must wait their turn in public hospitals for hours, days, weeks and even months. He scratches his chin and mentions that in Peru the access to healthcare is more equal. The taxi driver that brought him there had said exactly the same earlier: hospitals are an object of pride in Peru. In Tacna there are three for a population of 250,000 inhabitants. “Here, as it is a border city, there is a climate of brotherhood. The relationship with Arica is complementary” –Denis replies to the question of whether his fellow citizens complain when a Chilean is treated before them.

A moment later, I meet Mauro and he tells me that all went well: the operation will cost around sixty thousand pesos. Indeed, within 48 hours there will be a sterile poet.