one great day

A few months ago, Living Waters for the World came to an aldea of my site and put in a water purification plant.  It's really cool, makes great water and is working well since it got started.  They worked with a local family to put it in, and while they were there they fell in love with the 10-year-old daughter, a beautiful, sweet little girl named Doris.  They also realized that Doris is mostly deaf.  Her hearing loss is so severe that she has never been able to learn Spanish, and only speaks a little Mam.  When LWW left, they asked me to look into finding an ear specialist for Doris and offered to help with the expenses.  

Friday, Doris, her mother and father, and I went to Guatemala City to see a specialist and get a special hearing test done--one that's only offered in the capitol.  This is a 7 to 8 hour trip for someone coming to my village.  Which is not to mention braving the dangers of the city.  Thankfully, we all arrived on time and in one piece at the doctor's office bright and early Friday morning.

Doris' mother stayed in the waiting room.  I went up with her father.  The doctor, a portly Ladino man who said everything with a dramatic flourish, asked her father a few questions about her general health, then took off her ponytail holder and started to massage her scalp and her face.   Then, without warning, he took a pair of scissors off his desk, and began to cut a quarter-sized bald patch on Doris' scalp.  

"Uh...whatcha doin' that for?" I asked.  

"Oh," he said, nonchalantly.  "It's so the electrode will stick on better."  

Like so many moments I have had in this country, I maintained a somewhat placid facade, while my mind scrambled to make sense of the situation and I personally resisted the urge to panic.  Electrodes??? I thought.  What is going on?  What have I gotten this poor family into?  

After a preliminary ear exam, the doctor bade her lie down on a small exam bed.  He then got out four electrodes and proceeded to place one on the tiny bald patch on her skull, one on the middle of her forehead, and one behind each ear.  

"¿La va a doler?"  I asked.  Will it hurt her?

"No," the doctor assured me she wouldn't feel a thing.  I was skeptical, given the fact that what I knew about electrodes involved electroshock therapy or torture devices.  

"¿No la va a dar un choque?"  It won't shock her?

Finally, Mr. Bedside Manners explained that the electrodes only measured brain activity, to see if her ears were sending signals to her brain.  

He then showed us a graph of a normal ear's hearing patterns.  It looked like a mountain range, with five distinguishable points representing different phases of the test.  

The computer began to read Doris' activity.  Where there should have been peaks and valleys, there was nothing but an empty horizon.  No activity.  My  heart froze.  The doctor confirmed my worst fears as he explained to her father and me that the results showed complete deafness in her right ear.  Something the most powerful hearing aid in the world couldn't hope to fix.  

The doctor, explaining the procedure the whole time with his typical unnecessary gravitas, waxed philosophical.  "As you know...we are all capable...of making...errors.  And...I have made an error just now...as it seems the electrodes are not connected to the computer."

Once again, my mind reeled.  What kind of a quack was this?  What if he hadn't noticed?

The computer started a new reading.  Foothills, ridges, and yes, small mountains appeared where before there was nothing but a flat line!  We knew then Doris could hear in one ear and that a hearing aid could potentially help a lot.  

Her left ear showed much less promising results.  But one ear is enough to develop much better speaking, comprehension and social skills.  

Poor Doris!  The test took about 45 minutes, all told.  As the doctor removed the headphones and the electrodes, I could see a little tear starting to slide down her cheek.  As she got down off the table she started bawling.  I offered to go fetch her mother, but the men in the room thought it wasn't necessary.  "It's over, it's over," they said.  I gave her a Strawberry Shortcake pin I had saved from a birthday party goody bag, and she cheered up a bit (thanks Charlotte).  

Afterwards, we went to the Guatemala Zoo.  Now, let me tell you.  If you ever are having a hard time, a depressing season of your life, go to the zoo with a child--or anyone--who's never been before.  The wonder of seeing a live giraffe, tiger or kangaroo for the first time is positively infectious.  Doris' favorites were the meerkats, and we practically had to drag her away from the monkey habitat.  

Friday was one great day.

facing it

Young people hard at work on the portraits I mentioned in a previous post.  Thanks guys, lookin' good!

the Franco years

This is Franco, my little buddy.  I lived in his house during my first four months in site.  He is what grandparents would probably refer to as "a little stinker."  Around here, he's just travieso.  In fact, he once threw a rotten tomato at me.  However, at the end of the day, I can't help but love the little guy.  We have a lot of fun playing soccer, and I appreciate his imagination.  I went over to their house for dinner last night, and he held up a tortilla, told me it was his motorcycle, and started zooming it around the table.  He also once played soccer with a plastic coke bottle.  Sometimes the armchair psychologist in me thinks that some of his meanness is from separation issues, because his father has been in the United States for pretty much his whole life.  

i project

So, I thought I would let you all know about the little projects I am working on right now.  They aren't vast, expansive efforts carefully researched for their sustainability.  One of them isn't even really related to my program at all.  But they are things I think I can do, that I am interested in, which I think have the potential to improve some people's lives just a little bit.  

Project 1:

As I have written before, the local midwives (comadronas) meet for additional training once a month in the Puesto de Salud, where I lead a charla.  We started out talking about things like hygiene during the birth, giving good prenatal care,  danger signs in the pregnancy, birth and newborn.  Then things got technical.  I began doing a lot of research every month and spoke to them about how to cut the cord and care of the placenta.  Finally, we have started to cover broader topics like domestic violence and sexuality.  These ladies are fun.  They are also very intelligent.  Unlike some other groups, they come to every meeting ready to learn.  They participate and add their own comments.  So, when a women's organization called the Zonta Group out of Sarasota, FL with the motto "Advancing the status of women worldwide" donated kits for midwives, I was very excited.  Because almost everything in the kits is disposable, I looked for things to supplement them, like stethoscopes to hear the fetal heartbeat, and those little mucus-sucker-ball thingys.  The kits, while an amazing and generous gift, were a little disappointing when we realized that each one could probably only used for one birth.  I am still looking for more TempoDOT themometers (so they can tell if a woman has a fever--a danger sign) and some rags.  Even though it's not the most sustainable gift, I think it will help the midwives and raise consciousness about hygiene.  Also, I feel good about giving this donation to a group that works hard and always comes in to charlas.

Project 2:

Because of the scarcity of digital cameras, money to make prints, etc, most people have few pictures of their children.  Also, exposure to the arts is limited.  Likewise, I live in a mostly forgotten corner of the world that is not remarkable enough to merit significant coverage in geography or social studies classes.  So, a couple of months ago, I took pictures of all of the students in the sixth grade, and sent them to an art teacher from my home town, Kathy Thompson.  She found a group of artists and interested youth who will paint portraits based on the photos I sent earlier (most of them are from Epworth First Baptist Church, as I understand it, although there are other community partners as well).  Students here will receive portraits of themselves that will hopefully become a cherished keepsake for them and their families for many years.  The artists will receive some cultural education about life here in this rural Guatemalan village as well as the satisfaction of brightening the life of a child.  The portraits are currently under way and should arrive mid to late June.  

So, those are the long term projects I am working on.  If you are interested in getting involved, there are ways you can help!  Just leave a comment or email me.   Many thanks to the Zonta club, Mrs. Thompson, Epworth First Baptist, Demosthenian Literary Society, Len and Carol Crawford and all other community partners involved in these exciting projects!

culture matters

Today when I was getting on the bus going back to my village, I passed a young boy and his father, and asked the boy when the bus was leaving. He answered me, and then stared uncomfortably at me, then began whispering to his father in Mam. Now, I can't understand much of the Mayan dialect, but there's one word I know very well--"shnool." Shnool is a word for women outsiders. Mostly in Guatemala it is used to refer to women who are of Spanish descent more than indigenous descent. It's not a nice word.

I turned around and addressed the young man, who was still staring. "Actually, I have a name. My name is Emily. Better that you use my real name--this word, shnool, it's an ugly word, don't you think?"

He seemed embarrassed, and his father tried to tell me a story about how shnool is not actually a bad word, when I know well and good that it is.

Confronting people when they talk about me behind my back, using words they think I don't know like Gringa or Shnool, has become a way of expressing my frustration. You would think that after seven months living in site, people would be used to me, and would refer to me using my name, and not an ethnic slur. You would be wrong. Just the other day a small child ran away from me in the street, clinging to his mother's apron, asking her to protect him from the "kidnapper." And I'll never forget the day when a baby who could not even walk, who viewed me from the vantage point of being strapped on his mother's back said "'nool" as I passed.

I know that confrontation is not the Guatemalan way. It's a society where indirect communication is the norm, tempers are held in check and to be considered enojada, or an angry, ill-tempered person is a strong insult. But I spend so much energy trying to be culturally sensitive all day, this is the one indulgence I allow myself.

When it happens, and it's mostly with children, I stop what I'm doing and approach them. Sometimes they run away, but most of the time they stay. I introduce myself, and tell them that words like shnul are not nice words. I ask them their names, and I try to remember them for next time. Does it work? Not really. But it allows me to let off some steam and maybe, just maybe, to integrate a little more into the community.

and a happy new year...

After a marvelous week at home for Christmas and a bittersweet return to the land of the eternal spring, I spent New Year's in Antigua with some Peace Corps friends.

This New Year's has got to be one of my best New Year's.

I think there is a lot of pressure on this holiday to do something "cool." It's the holiday to go out to a hip bar or a nice party in a sparkly dress.

To ring in '09, I split a bottle of a delicious Tempranillo Granacha with a friend at our hotel, and went out after on the Arch street in Antigua. It was packed with people--enough to be exciting, but not so many that you couldn't move at all.

To move right under the Arch, where the action was, we formed a chain and snaked through the crowd like a train.

For the midnight countdown, we looked up into the sky where fireworks were exploding right overhead. They were so close that little pieces of string and dust from the explosives kept falling into our eyes and hair.

At midnight, they set a big metal sign on fire. Each letter spelled out a message welcoming the new year and encouraging the crowd to drink Gallo beer. They burned for about a minute before extinguishing themselves.

I just made it back to my site today. It was a beautiful day, and I distributed some of the gifts that I picked up for my loved ones here. I'm happy to not be traveling anymore, but I'm more determined than ever to accomplish my goals and make a difference here.

Here are a few New Year's resolutions:

To update this blog once a week

To take a great photo once a week

To spend less and save more

To visit my other Huehuetecos

To study Mam every night

To put more time into my charlas BEFOREHAND

To be more zen and roll with the punches more (and to say "these people" less)

As a post script to this post, I would like to say that my last resolution was just tested. As I was writing, two little boys opened the door to my room (from the adjacent storage room that the local government uses) and started speaking in Mam to me. Annoying? Kind of. But I kept my cool and was able to respond to them in their language. Bring it, 2009!

it's alive

One thing about Guatemala--there's just so much life here. Let's face it: In the United States, we live in a pretty sterile environment. There is not much microscopic life swimming in the drinking water that comes out of your kitchen sink. Heck, you can even drink out of the garden hose! Not so here. There could be giardia, amoebas or other parasites merrily anticipating a romp around your stomach lining in any drop of unboiled water.
The same is true for people, plants and animals. Due to a mix of machismo, religious tradition and societal values, families here are big--far bigger than the average family in the U.S. It seems no matter where you are, whether its at a city council meeting, in a restaurant, visiting someone's home and especially in the Health Center, there are always a ton of little kids around.
Stateside children are relegated to specific parts of life. They have their own table for meals, and you don't take them somewhere that they could make a disturbance. Even our lives are divided into childhood, adulthood, parenthood and retirement. And unless you actively seek to make children a part of your life, they won't be.
Sometimes it's sad, like when you see a dog that is so skinny it can't nurse its puppies, or you see a kitten with one foot in the grave. Sometimes it's annoying, like when something you left under your bed for a week is already moldy. Or the fact that you have to be so proactive at killing insects and arachnids in your living space.
But I like that it's such a family-friendly society. And, like in all areas of my life, I'm learning to make accommodations for things and people different than what I am used to.