#6 Tick . . . tock . . .

As usually happens when a profound experience begins to draw to a close, the hour hand swings much faster than it had before, the pillow is reached sooner each day, and the inevitable “I can’t believe it is almost over”, is shared almost unanimously.

As I prepare for my last two days of work, there is a split between reflection and projection. The reflection aspect is predominantly in the form of places visited, memorable conversations with new friends, and various sunrises and swims. The projection part is much less tangible. It is almost more of a curiosity about what assimilation back at my “home” will be like.

I think about hopping into my spacious Subaru to go out to a $50 (if I am lucky) dinner with Ali, rather than trying to squeeze, fold, and wedge myself along with 27 other people into a 12 passenger van for a vastly superior $12 dinner. How weird is it going to be to not have to consult a translation dictionary and spend 10 minutes explaining that we need 8 international stamps in order to mail letters? But mostly, what is it going to be like to be back in a place where the outlook on life, the acceptance of reality, and the ability to be happy at almost insurmountable odds is achieved?

It is third observation that has been stuck in my mind recently.

In all of the encounters that I have had with the women with whom I work, the patients who we serve, and the acquaintances that have been made on the street and around Guatemala, there is a pervasive happiness that is exuded. People walk with their eyes up and smiles and “buenas dias” are shared with almost all. This ranges from the doctor at my clinic to the crooked woman selling plantains on the corner.

It is this that I will miss most. The interaction with people and interest they express is honest and is wonderful. In a very strange way, with all of the language issues that make even the most mundane of conversations a challenge, I actually feel more comfortable and communal walking the streets and markets of Xela after three weeks than I could have ever thought possible. With all of the expectations that I had coming down here, this certainly was not one that was in the crystal ball.

So as the last 72 hours whiz by, there is not much left to do but absorb and enjoy. Hopefully the hour hand will slow its pace just a little.

#5 A picture's worth . . .

well, you know how it goes. And after a long weekend of travel, a rainy volcano hike, a 4:00AM bus departure, and very little sleep . . . I just don't have a long note in me.

Becuase I am lazy, here are 11,000 "words" in photo-form.

#4 In the groove

I find it interesting how quickly you are able to adapt to new and different surroundings when it is a matter of “having to” rather than “choosing to”. When there is no other option than speaking Spanish, you speak Spanish. When you need to find your way home from Parque Central, you find your way. It is certainly a challenging and often frightening realization when you are first thrown into these situations. What has been surprising, however, is how quickly assimilation and adaptation can occur if the effort is put forth.

The language gap at work is narrowing and I am having the chance to do more and more both with my colleagues and with the patients. Monday included a road trip to a make-shift warehouse to purchase beans, rice, flour, corn, and buckwheat to be portioned and given to local families. The structure that held our provisions was in the basement of a school, and certainly appeared to be intentionally inconspicuous. Inside were thousands of pounds of food in USDA sacks which stated “not to be sold or exchanged”. This was one time in which I suppressed the questions despite the obvious curiosity.

The two week mark is (astonishingly) tomorrow, and while on the large scale my Spanish is still probably at the level of a 1-year-old, I find myself understanding exponentially more that last week, and even being able to express more than “Si”, “No comprendo”, or “No hablo Español”. At the same time, I view Quetzaltenango not as this foreign place with foreign people, but more as a temporary home as friendly relationships have formed with the man at the Laundromat, the late-night workers at the bakery, and the bartenders at Técun.

While this comfortability is certainly nice in terms of feeling more at ease with my surroundings and environment, it also offers probably the most rewarding opportunity. When the focus isn’t entirely on, how do I say that? What does that mean? or Oh my God, where is this bus going?, more of the characteristics and uniqueness of the place and people are appreciated. I’m not talking about trivial things like the fact that ketchup is called ‘salsa’ or that toilet paper does not go in the toilet; I am talking about the subtleties that are not noticed until the guard is let down and the eyes are opened.

On Wednesday, I sat in a two bedroom home - with the term ‘bedroom’ being very generous - in which 8 people live and visited with a 90-year-old woman whose condition had been deteriorating quickly. Célesto’s questions where being translated by the woman’s 75-year-old daughter and roommate as the matriarch only spoke Quiché. My eyes scanned the cinder-block walls and at first where drawn to the number of flies, the filth on the mattress which lay on the floor, and the overwhelming number of photos, quotations, and tributes to JesuChristo which covered the wall. But then my gaze locked on the older woman’s eyes. They were filled with so many stories that I could only hope of hearing. She sat there, worn cane in hand, and answered our questions in a dialect that included sounds that I had never heard before. Every now and then her toothless and contagious smile would take over her face and the room. We stayed for about an hour, shared laughs (some of which I am sure were at my expense as I am fairly certain that they had never had a 6’5” gringo sharing a seat in their bedroom), gave some medicine and vitamins, and them were on our way.

A week ago, I (admittedly) would have left with memory banks filled with images of the flies, the mattress, or of the language and culture gap, and not of those eyes and the smile . . . I am glad it is not last week.

#3 Venturing out . . .

We have returned from an exploratory, tiring, and altogether memorable weekend. After a 3-hour mountainous drive south, we arrived at the 8th wonder of the world Lago Atitlan and the village of Panajachal. The lake is extraordinary. With water over 1,000 feet deep, stretched over hundreds of square kilometers, and resting beneath the majestic peaks of three impressive volcanoes, it provides an atmosphere that is beyond compare. How is it possible that a body of water this size can reside at 8,000 feet above sea level? The town in which we stayed, however, offered a dichotomy which was unsettling. Tourist-filled markets and garment, trinket, and wood-working stands line the main street offering opportunities for bartering. The weavings, carvings, and artistry that the locals produce are staggering both in the glorious colors, and in the complexity and care with which each piece is crafted. The guidebooks we have and advice that has been given from previous travelers is that you offer half of what they are asking and then “walk if you do not get it”. While it can be easy to view this haggling as a game, the simple fact is that these people are living on what amounts to dollars a day and that I am dealing with matters of cents in my buying. Added to this is the fact that scurrying about us were children in traditional garb pandering for money and selling anything from chincy beaded key chains to pens with your name embroidered on them. “Please buy so I can go to school”. “I am so hungry, please buy from me”. Pressured by their parents who prod and push their children to “follow the man”, makes for a depressing and disturbing experience. All I wanted to do was give money, or the food on my plate but knew that it was not appropriate to do so.


The majority of my writing has been focusing on the beauty of the land and people and only briefly discussing the poverty and challenge that the people face. Traveling this weekend and seeing the men in the fields, the women carrying impossible loads of scarves and weavings on their heads, and the children begging for fruit and one quetzales ($.13) was over whelming. It seems cliché to compare lifestyles and is something that I am sure happens to most people when exposed to a culture and socioeconomic environment so much different than their own, but it is simply inescapable

Thoughts of taking for granted such things as running water, changes of clothes, school, health, family, transportation, and warmth flooded me as I witness people for whom this list represents luxuries which are merely dreams. Then my mind takes me to what our government and society chooses to waste money on . . . but that is not something I feel like writing about.

While despair and depression could easily sink in if I were to dwell too long on the paucity of opportunities that these children have, watching their smiles, listening to their laughter, and feeling the spirit and vivacity that they have is like a tonic to cure the ills.

Our time in Lago Atitlan included trips to three other villages, and a swim in a portion of the lake in which volcanic steam provides for a incredibly warm, bordering on boiling soak. Evenings were spent enjoying drinks, conversation, and dancing for the younger folk staying at an adjacent hotel. We concluded our sojourn with a trip to Chichicastenagno where thousands of venders sold everything imaginable from colorful silks to squealing swine. And despite two of our travelers getting lost for the better part of an hour, we managed to make our way to our comfortably familiar home in Xela.

It is now back to work, more Spanish lessons, and whatever adventures are yet to be had. Adios . . .

#2 Settling in

Hard to believe that I have called Xela home for 5 days already. The work, the cultural exposure, and the language absorption make the hours fly by, while also providing the mental stimulation and overload that causes me to collapse into my bunk each night.

The schedule each day is precisely structured with free-time at a premium. Early breakfast provides the calories via huevos, tortillas, and beans which will sustain us as the mornings are filled with our various volunteer placements. My work at the clinic is amazing! The women are phenomenal and I have surprisingly been able to share meaningful and delightful conversations with them in Spanish. I decided that I had had enough of being the only one frustrated with the language barrier and therefore have started teaching two of the young ladies English (turnabouts is fair play!). Stomachs ache with the laughter that is shared and tears stream down our faces as they declare . . . “English be too hard, only want fun made of you, not me!”

The enfermeria is closed on Wednesdays to allow us to visit others in the town. Miles were covered as we made our way through the maze of shacks and homes that make up La Esperanza. Leading the way is the head nun who is probably 60, looks like 80 and has the energy of 20 . . . not unusual. Trying to keep up are two nurses with your’s truly bringing up the rear. After visiting, treating, and praying for an elder man who had recently fallen off his bicycle and broken his ribs, we made our way through shady alleys to a small garden where we bought native plants to be used in the clinics natural-medicine plot. As we walked, Ianafresca (the nun) picked up a large tree limb and stripped of the branches. I asked Irene why she was doing this, and was told that it was to beat away any of the chuchos (street dogs) that may attack. Just a little different than making the trek to CVS for a prescription.

We return to our home base in the afternoons for Spanish lessons, trips to cultural museums, speakers discussing history and society in the region, and phenomenal field trips. After piling into our van on Tuesday, we climbed a spectacular mountain passing farmers tending to their fields which were perched at ridiculous angles. As clouds welcomed us to the summit (over 8,000 feet) we spent hours soaking in the volcano-heated springs. The heat, the minerals, and the cool mist provided for a euphoric feeling which seemed to take over my body and provided for a level of relaxation that I have never experienced. Leaves the size of golf umbrellas provided protection from both sun and rain as we marveled in this natural phenomenon.

As the work week comes to an end, Ali and I have planned to travel to what many call the 8th wonder - Lago Atitlan - for the weekend. More to come from this adventure upon our return.

#1 And it begins . . .

Well, I decided that this would be a good summer to do two things which were absent from my life’s resume . . . service work in another country and creating a blog (the former carrying more significance than the latter). I am three days into the first endeavor and figure that there is no better time than the present to start the second. Not really sure what it will include, but hey . . . it is a summer of adventure so why not give it a whirl.

We arrived in Guatemala City on Saturday after traveling 2,030 miles in 7 hours from NYC courtesy of US Airways. Given that impressive pace, how hard could the last 130 miles to our soon-to-be home in Quetzaltenango be? Answer . . . 5 hours of pot holes the size of a Volkswagen, encounters with countless chicken-buses (yes, that’s right), cliff-edge meandering in fog that seemed to be inside the van, and the tremendously upsetting sight of another bus that had just tumbled off the edge and cart-wheeled hundreds of feet down. Our collective voices were hushed as the final encounter certainly left an impression on us. But, Fredy got us to our base safely and we looked forward to the light of day when we could cast our eyes upon the mountains, volcanoes, and people with whom we would live.

Daybreak brought a vista that was magnificent. Despite the inescapable poverty, Xela is a simply beautiful place with beautiful people. It is abundantly clear that the home in which we 16 live is not representative of what the locals inhabit. The Mayan motif in our house is complete with gorgeous wooden furniture and colorful tapestries, somewhat spacious bedrooms (with six bunks per room), a grassy lawn, and a staff whose smiles override the language barrier that exists.

Not surprisingly, the dining room wall is covered with quotes from both famous and unknown sapient minds extolling the virtues of volunteering. I had figured as much and predicted an environment where Ghandi, Mother Teresa, JFK, and Bishop Tutu would have had an impact both in spirit and in words. Not here, however. The quotes boldly scattered across the stucco were a little more direct and, dare I say, ominous. “There is no education like adversity” . . . “Despair has its own calms” . . . and “We learn from failure, not from success”. YIKES!

Twelve hours later and filled with the optimism from these 'inspirations', I was sitting on a bench at the foot of a mountain waiting for the clinic to open. With me was a lush sea of deep green corn crops, an incredibly docile cow, and a nagging curiously as to how in the world was I going to survive working here the next three weeks with a group of 6 women (mostly nuns) who did not speak a word of English. Just as the butterflies' flapping was become unbearable, the heavy wooden door open and out walked the head nun of the Campo Maria. I rose, stuck out my hand and . . . “Me llamo Jason, y usted?”

For some reason, despite the fact that my command of the Spanish vernacular consists of, “Where is the bathroom” and, “Thank you” . . . I quickly found myself drawing blood, testing for diabetes, and writing prescriptions in Spanish. Yes . . . someone whose proficiency in this language had grown to maybe 20 words at this point was writing prescriptions for insulin and amoxicillin. Ummm . . . okay. Of course I checked each prescription with Celestia - my guardian at the clinic (I think she drew the short straw) - after making the mistake of instructing a patient to take twelve pills every hour instead of one pill every 12 hours . . . don’t worry she will be fine.

Although the women with whom I work are undoubtedly the nicest in the world, they do not hesitate in laughing uncontrollably at my ridiculous language handicap. While sharing a mug of some sort of white soup/beverage/porridge I attempted to explain where I was from and what I did for a living. Each listened with a fascinated gaze and with great intensity. Clearly I knew more Spanish than I thought! Upon completing my biography they exchanged thoughtful looks before exploding into hysterics. I simply smiled . . . and immediately consulted my dictionary to see why “I am a Biology teacher and am married to a volunteer who works in a girls home in Xela” was so funny. Ahhh . . . I in fact had made minor mistake, evidently I regaled them with tales of my upcoming marriage to the large goat that lives in town! While it was a handsome goat, there were no nuptials and I have since signed up for private Spanish lessons during my free time. Evidently the best education is adversity.

Hilarity and embarrassment aside, the work continues to inspire, humble, awe, and amaze me. Today we treated a 98-year-old, 98-lb. man who has lived here his whole life and tomorrow I will be heading into nearby villages to treat those who are too poor or frail to come to the clinic. Nervous, yes. Excited, incredibly!

I am hoping to update the blog every couple of days (certainly with more brevity - I promise), and hope to include some more photos as well. Hasta luego.