Joining a Health Club in Brazil: They Don't Make it Easy

This is a post about something you can only experience in a place outside the "first world.'' It illustrates a microcosm of Brazil's famous bureaucracy, in this case, surrounding the joining of a health club.....

So, what's a mom of two elementary-age kids not enrolled in school and bored out of their minds to do? Join the local swimming pool! Easier said than done here is Rio de Janeiro.

Mind you, this is not Ipanema, or even Niteroi. This is Cocota, and they do things old school here in the 'hood.

There are three main hurdles to becoming a member of the Cocota Sports Club. First, you must pay, and the payment must be made in a specific way. There's the membership charge, which is good through infinity and is non-transferable. Then there are monthly charges, which must be paid separately by check. Pre-written checks for the first three months must be handed over upon joining.

The second requirement for membership is that the principal club member must be a MAN over the age of 18. No, I'm not joking. Must be a man. Said man can then bring along a herd of females if he chooses, but the chief club member must be male.

The third hurdle, upon which the other two are contingent, is that each member must procure a medical exam. The exam costs $10 reals, or less than $5. It is given by a visiting physician on Tuesday and Saturday evenings only. No exam, no pool.

This Tuesday night it happened to be raining cats and dogs, and I happened to be wearing an ace bandage because I twisted my ankle earlier in the day. It's 7:45. My husband, who has been working on this membership thing all day, announces suddenly that we four have to walk to the club immediately for the exams, or there will be no pool tomorrow, which would be a minor emergency. For days, we have been promising them a respite from the heat and a place to play. So, out we go into the rain, me dragging my foot; the girls delighted to be using their beautiful new umbrellas; Alfredo tense and paranoid someone will hear us speaking English.

To get through to the Doctor's exam room, we have to walk all the way through the club. People give us musing looks. It's a bit late to be out with kids and in rain like this. And there is an obvious foreignness to us: we a bit too tall, a bit too blond to fit in.

The doctor looks to be in his late 20s. He writes our names down neatly in pencil on a sheet of notebook paper; 19), 20) 21). One by one, he asks the children to spread their fingers apart and hold their hands out, then turn them upside down, again with fingers spread out. He demonstrates himself first, so the girls know what to do. Then he asks to see the bottom of each foot. Perhaps to see if their are webbed?

Satisfied that no one has leprosy, he stamps our pieces of paper, and we are now officially allowed in the pool once it opens tomorrow. Unless, of course, rain delays the promised pool another day.