#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.