A few weeks ago I became very depressed after receiving a text message from my good friend Anne. "My students brought me 50 ears of corn!" It said. "I love the kindness and smiles of this culture."
It was a bad day anyway, but upon recieving this message I couldn't help but think "Jeez. No one in my town has given me anything more than a headache since I've been here!"*
So, I was walking home from the Puesto yesterday when I was stopped on the street by a young girl selling peanuts. "Seño.," she said. "Here is a bag of peanuts for you."
"How much is it?"
"De nada."
I thanked her profusely, and continued down the street with a new swagger. Someone gave me something! Finally! Somebody in this godforsaken place likes me! It might not be 50 ears of corn, but a bag of boiled peanuts seemed good enough for me. These are the moments you have to cherish, I told myself.
I walked into my house, smiling. Nothing could ruin my mood right now, I thought. I had such high spirits, I extended the bag to one of the little kids hanging around our house. This gesture, I thought, would be universal for "Want a peanut?" Instead, he took the whole bag from me and meekly said, "Thank you.
No!!! I thought. My one tiny victory snatched from my hands!
Thankfully, the whole thing just made me laugh. And I'm glad her small gesture of magnanimity turned out to be a gift that kept on giving. But I was really looking forward to those peanuts.
*This is not entirely true. My host family has been very generous with me. It was just the first thing that came to mind.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
my new friends
Let me start at the beginning.
My most recent adventure began at 4:00 a.m. Thursday. I was awakened to the sound of deafening explosions outside my home. Once again, back in the states this would be a grave call for alarm and a definite call to the police. Here, it registered little more than sleepy annoyance. Then the church bells began. Then the praise music, complete with a bone-rattling bass. This is all a part of the continuing celebration of Guatemala's Independence from Spain. At 5:00 a.m. I summoned the will to get out of bed, and by 6:00 a.m. I was on a bus headed for Huehue, from which I would take another bus to Xela. The purpose of my trip was to poop in a cup and hopefully discover the cause of my ever-more-frequent trips to the outhouse.
Just past the neighboring town of Colotenango, the bus came to an unexpected halt, and, after some deliberation, everyone on board, including myself, got off and continued toward Huehue on foot. We walked for hours, through the rain, through throngs of angry indigenous men protesting a national identification card program. I walked until I found a ride with an extremely zealous evangelical man.
"I asked God this morning, 'God, who can I share the Word with today?'" he said. "And here you are!"
And share with me he did. He told me his theories on original sin, the fall, the follies of Catholicism and Mary worship. The truth is, I didn't agree with hardly anything he said, but I swallowed my words and my pride and smiled and nodded the whole way. I sold my soul for a 20 kilometer ride to Huehuetenango. Lord, please don't let me have a real moral test, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Martin Luther King, Jr.
I did finally make it to Xela, a day later and much poorer than I expected to after having to buy a hotel room and several suppers when the bus protest continued for the rest of the day.
I have occasionally written here about my loneliness. Well, I have one source of comfort, at least for a little while. When I feel sad, alone in the universe, I have this mantra to soothe me: "At least my parasite friends are with me."
That's right. As I write this right now, there are a significant number of amoebas gallivanting around my stomach lining.
And any of you who have ever attended one of my dinner parties know that if nothing else, I am an excellent host. :)
My most recent adventure began at 4:00 a.m. Thursday. I was awakened to the sound of deafening explosions outside my home. Once again, back in the states this would be a grave call for alarm and a definite call to the police. Here, it registered little more than sleepy annoyance. Then the church bells began. Then the praise music, complete with a bone-rattling bass. This is all a part of the continuing celebration of Guatemala's Independence from Spain. At 5:00 a.m. I summoned the will to get out of bed, and by 6:00 a.m. I was on a bus headed for Huehue, from which I would take another bus to Xela. The purpose of my trip was to poop in a cup and hopefully discover the cause of my ever-more-frequent trips to the outhouse.
Just past the neighboring town of Colotenango, the bus came to an unexpected halt, and, after some deliberation, everyone on board, including myself, got off and continued toward Huehue on foot. We walked for hours, through the rain, through throngs of angry indigenous men protesting a national identification card program. I walked until I found a ride with an extremely zealous evangelical man.
"I asked God this morning, 'God, who can I share the Word with today?'" he said. "And here you are!"
And share with me he did. He told me his theories on original sin, the fall, the follies of Catholicism and Mary worship. The truth is, I didn't agree with hardly anything he said, but I swallowed my words and my pride and smiled and nodded the whole way. I sold my soul for a 20 kilometer ride to Huehuetenango. Lord, please don't let me have a real moral test, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Martin Luther King, Jr.
I did finally make it to Xela, a day later and much poorer than I expected to after having to buy a hotel room and several suppers when the bus protest continued for the rest of the day.
I have occasionally written here about my loneliness. Well, I have one source of comfort, at least for a little while. When I feel sad, alone in the universe, I have this mantra to soothe me: "At least my parasite friends are with me."
That's right. As I write this right now, there are a significant number of amoebas gallivanting around my stomach lining.
And any of you who have ever attended one of my dinner parties know that if nothing else, I am an excellent host. :)
Monday, September 15, 2008
feliz quince
Today was the Guatemalan Independence Day, so I had the day off from work and took part in some of the festivities. Patriotic expression always leaves me in an awkward position, here in the Land of the Eternal Spring. I never know what to do when I go to a school assembly or a government function and everyone says the pledge to their flag (which involves pledging eternal loyalty until death) or sings the national anthem (which truly seems eternal). I have decided on standing, but not saluting or saying the words during these uncomfortable moments.
Guatemaltecos celebrate with bombas, extremely loud firecrackers, beauty pageants, parades and constant marimba music.
I made the mistake once of getting up and dancing like an idiot to the marimbas once when my family asked me to. Now every five minutes they say "Dance, Emily, dance!" I have the sneaking suspicion that they are laughing at me and not with me.
But the best moment of the day was when I saw a guy wearing a t-shirt that read "PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN: 1776." There's a phenomenon here called ropa americana, in which your thrift store rejects get sent South of the border to be sold for pennies in a market called the paca. The fact that a majority of Guatemalans can't read what they are wearing often results in hilarity. For example, the muscular construction worker sporting "There are only two types of girls in the world: Alpha Chis and those who wish they were!" across his chest.
Or consider the surly teenager in a navy hoodie with a nautical theme that said "I have scurvy."
Then there are the little old ladies who wear t-shirts with sexually provocative messages, or the sweatshirt with a pair of shackles on it that reads "Jesus is my ball and chain."
I once had to supress a loud guffaw when I realized my host father was wearing a sweatshirt from the Limited, too, a clothing store for preadolescent girls.
But there's something just priceless about a guy wearing a Fourth of July shirt on the 15th of September.
Even better than the guy wearing the shirt that said "Property of the USA."
Guatemaltecos celebrate with bombas, extremely loud firecrackers, beauty pageants, parades and constant marimba music.
I made the mistake once of getting up and dancing like an idiot to the marimbas once when my family asked me to. Now every five minutes they say "Dance, Emily, dance!" I have the sneaking suspicion that they are laughing at me and not with me.
But the best moment of the day was when I saw a guy wearing a t-shirt that read "PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN: 1776." There's a phenomenon here called ropa americana, in which your thrift store rejects get sent South of the border to be sold for pennies in a market called the paca. The fact that a majority of Guatemalans can't read what they are wearing often results in hilarity. For example, the muscular construction worker sporting "There are only two types of girls in the world: Alpha Chis and those who wish they were!" across his chest.
Or consider the surly teenager in a navy hoodie with a nautical theme that said "I have scurvy."
Then there are the little old ladies who wear t-shirts with sexually provocative messages, or the sweatshirt with a pair of shackles on it that reads "Jesus is my ball and chain."
I once had to supress a loud guffaw when I realized my host father was wearing a sweatshirt from the Limited, too, a clothing store for preadolescent girls.
But there's something just priceless about a guy wearing a Fourth of July shirt on the 15th of September.
Even better than the guy wearing the shirt that said "Property of the USA."
Saturday, September 13, 2008
chicken guts
Yesterday I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and nearly tripped over a bucket filled with blood and innards. Now, back in the states, this would have been cause for great alarm. But here in Guatemala my first thought was honestly "Oh, maybe we'll be having chicken soup tomorrow. My favorite."
Before living with my current host family, I had never had a relationship with any of the animals I consumed. But my family here raises chickens, ducks and turkeys, and they even have a pig and some cows.
And I have to say, it doesn't bother me at all to eat the same chickens that run around our patio, clucking softly and shitting constantly. These chickens have a far better existence than the most expensive "free range" chicken that money can buy in the United States. They frolic all day long about our patio, or on my family's farm a few miles away. They sneak corn kernels from the gunney sack stash. And when their time comes, their death is quick and probably relatively painless. Some people here even give turkeys a shot of whiskey before killing them. When my family bought turkeys to kill for a big birthday party, they were tied up near the outdoor sink where I brush my teeth. As I watched them while brushing my teeth, I would tell them, "Eat, drink and be merry, guys. Eat, drink and be merry." And they were.
A word to those who champion the slow food, eat local, eat seasonal movement: sometimes it kind of sucks. For those of you reading this back in the states, the average distance your food travels to get to your table is about 10,000 miles. Mine usually travels a matter of feet. Sometimes a few miles, if it comes from the market in the neighboring town. And I have to say, sometimes I tire of only eating beans, tortillas and eggs, all of which come from right here and are oh-so-ecologically correct. I miss Spanish olives, California almonds, and imported olive oil. Not only that, but greater variety in one's diet is actually healthier than just eating beans, tortillas and eggs for every meal.
So, enjoy your strolls to the local farmer's market once a week, just ask yourself if you are really ready to move to a diet free of imported wine, Washington apples or Wisconsin cheese.
Before living with my current host family, I had never had a relationship with any of the animals I consumed. But my family here raises chickens, ducks and turkeys, and they even have a pig and some cows.
And I have to say, it doesn't bother me at all to eat the same chickens that run around our patio, clucking softly and shitting constantly. These chickens have a far better existence than the most expensive "free range" chicken that money can buy in the United States. They frolic all day long about our patio, or on my family's farm a few miles away. They sneak corn kernels from the gunney sack stash. And when their time comes, their death is quick and probably relatively painless. Some people here even give turkeys a shot of whiskey before killing them. When my family bought turkeys to kill for a big birthday party, they were tied up near the outdoor sink where I brush my teeth. As I watched them while brushing my teeth, I would tell them, "Eat, drink and be merry, guys. Eat, drink and be merry." And they were.
A word to those who champion the slow food, eat local, eat seasonal movement: sometimes it kind of sucks. For those of you reading this back in the states, the average distance your food travels to get to your table is about 10,000 miles. Mine usually travels a matter of feet. Sometimes a few miles, if it comes from the market in the neighboring town. And I have to say, sometimes I tire of only eating beans, tortillas and eggs, all of which come from right here and are oh-so-ecologically correct. I miss Spanish olives, California almonds, and imported olive oil. Not only that, but greater variety in one's diet is actually healthier than just eating beans, tortillas and eggs for every meal.
So, enjoy your strolls to the local farmer's market once a week, just ask yourself if you are really ready to move to a diet free of imported wine, Washington apples or Wisconsin cheese.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
hunting wabbits
An ongoing challenge and failure in my life so far has been working with a destitute family and their first and only baby. For reasons to do with respecting their privacy, I won't tell you the baby's name explicitly, but I will say that he shares it with a certain plaid-wearing hunter who spends his days searching for "wabbits" and has the surname Fudd.
So, a few weeks ago I was sitting at a desk in the health center, working on a water purification charla to do in one of the elementary schools, when the doctor walked in and asked if I could share some of my knowledge on nutrition with a young family. He took me into the examination room, where the baby was naked on the exam table. At ten months old, he weighed only nine pounds, and his body was covered in sores. He had a bad infection in his groin area, and he cried plaintively at the cold in the room. His mother was very young, and very tiny. When the doctor had finished examining him, she held her son protectively, and looked around the room with frightened, suspicious big brown eyes. She didn't speak any Spanish, so I used one of the only phrases I know to ask her son's name in Mam.
I briefly went over the food groups with her husband, who does speak Spanish. Here in the third world, rather than a pyramid we group food into only three groups--foods that give energy, like fats and carbohydrates, foods that aid in protecting the body from illnesses and enhance things like skin and vision, and foods that aid in growth and development. I encouraged the family to give the baby energy foods five times a day, and to supplement them with growth and protection foods.
They left soon after, referred to the hospital by the doctor, but I still see the baby's sad little face sometimes. It kind of hurt your heart to look at him. Up to this point, I had only seen malnutrition like that in pictures and commercials to sponsor a child.
I decided to go on a home visit to the family. My Guatemalan counterpart, fluent in Mam, agreed to go with me. I wanted to make Incaparina, a hot drink with many nutrients and protein in it, with the family.
We climbed a small mountain to get to their house, which was basically tin sheets nailed together. The Spanish-speaking father was not home. The grandmother made a fire for me in the room that served as their kitchen. The stove was just a fire in one corner, with no chimney or way for smoke to escape. As I struggled with the Incaparina, I knew I needed to get the mother in the room to see how the stuff was made, but I was so nervous and preoccupied with making it correctly, I just didn't. Also, the language barrier didn't help. Just as I was thinking it was probably about time to take the hot drink off of the stove, it boiled over, extinguishing the fire! I then decided to add more sugar to the drink, just to give a boost of calories to the baby. As I tried to widen the opening of the sugar bag I had brought, it ripped, spilling all over their dirt floor. I cannot remember the last time I was so embarrassed. We fed the baby together, and I left the Incaparina mix, but as I left, I couldn't help but feel that what I wanted so much to be a cooperative learning experience turned out to be paternalistic and a hand-out.
Then Sunday, I tried to go back to their house by myself, at the hospital's request. I took a "shortcut" that my host family recommended, and found myself lost in a cornfield in the rain, about an hour before dark. The story of my journey back into town involves more corn and coffee fields, falling down numerous times, my host mother freaking out and calling the mayor of the nearest community to ask them "not to hurt the gringa."
It does not involve a home visit to the family. I never did find their house again.
I'm still hoping to try to go back to their house. I would love to work with these young parents for the whole two years that I am here. I just hope our next interaction is not characterized by raging incompetence on my part. But mostly I hope that whatever I do or do not do, Baby E lives, and grows up to be a strong and healthy Guatemalan boy.
**A Footnote to this post:
This baby died Monday. I'm pretty sad about it. Also, two other kids in my town died of acute diarrhea this past week. So, it's been sad times in San Gaspar Ixchil.
So, a few weeks ago I was sitting at a desk in the health center, working on a water purification charla to do in one of the elementary schools, when the doctor walked in and asked if I could share some of my knowledge on nutrition with a young family. He took me into the examination room, where the baby was naked on the exam table. At ten months old, he weighed only nine pounds, and his body was covered in sores. He had a bad infection in his groin area, and he cried plaintively at the cold in the room. His mother was very young, and very tiny. When the doctor had finished examining him, she held her son protectively, and looked around the room with frightened, suspicious big brown eyes. She didn't speak any Spanish, so I used one of the only phrases I know to ask her son's name in Mam.
I briefly went over the food groups with her husband, who does speak Spanish. Here in the third world, rather than a pyramid we group food into only three groups--foods that give energy, like fats and carbohydrates, foods that aid in protecting the body from illnesses and enhance things like skin and vision, and foods that aid in growth and development. I encouraged the family to give the baby energy foods five times a day, and to supplement them with growth and protection foods.
They left soon after, referred to the hospital by the doctor, but I still see the baby's sad little face sometimes. It kind of hurt your heart to look at him. Up to this point, I had only seen malnutrition like that in pictures and commercials to sponsor a child.
I decided to go on a home visit to the family. My Guatemalan counterpart, fluent in Mam, agreed to go with me. I wanted to make Incaparina, a hot drink with many nutrients and protein in it, with the family.
We climbed a small mountain to get to their house, which was basically tin sheets nailed together. The Spanish-speaking father was not home. The grandmother made a fire for me in the room that served as their kitchen. The stove was just a fire in one corner, with no chimney or way for smoke to escape. As I struggled with the Incaparina, I knew I needed to get the mother in the room to see how the stuff was made, but I was so nervous and preoccupied with making it correctly, I just didn't. Also, the language barrier didn't help. Just as I was thinking it was probably about time to take the hot drink off of the stove, it boiled over, extinguishing the fire! I then decided to add more sugar to the drink, just to give a boost of calories to the baby. As I tried to widen the opening of the sugar bag I had brought, it ripped, spilling all over their dirt floor. I cannot remember the last time I was so embarrassed. We fed the baby together, and I left the Incaparina mix, but as I left, I couldn't help but feel that what I wanted so much to be a cooperative learning experience turned out to be paternalistic and a hand-out.
Then Sunday, I tried to go back to their house by myself, at the hospital's request. I took a "shortcut" that my host family recommended, and found myself lost in a cornfield in the rain, about an hour before dark. The story of my journey back into town involves more corn and coffee fields, falling down numerous times, my host mother freaking out and calling the mayor of the nearest community to ask them "not to hurt the gringa."
It does not involve a home visit to the family. I never did find their house again.
I'm still hoping to try to go back to their house. I would love to work with these young parents for the whole two years that I am here. I just hope our next interaction is not characterized by raging incompetence on my part. But mostly I hope that whatever I do or do not do, Baby E lives, and grows up to be a strong and healthy Guatemalan boy.
**A Footnote to this post:
This baby died Monday. I'm pretty sad about it. Also, two other kids in my town died of acute diarrhea this past week. So, it's been sad times in San Gaspar Ixchil.
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