February 8, 2011
Up early. No breakfast. I try to catch up on my writing.
By days end I have promised myself a few things: 1. I will find out how to get my washing done—and do it!; 2. I will write today and get to the Internet café to post; 3. I will stop worrying about money. I am resigned to the fact that I must borrow for the time being, at least until I can find an ATM that will accept my card; 4. I will get my photos developed so I can give them to the two families I have built for.
Today I work with the Del Grande family of Perth – Dr. Bob (dad), Leslie (mom) and daughters Rowan (15) and Lara (13). I am anxious to get to know them better. They have agreed to let me write about them for an article in “Ottawa Family Life” magazine. It doesn’t take me long to discover that Rowan and Lara are amazing young people. I enjoy my day with them.
Don Jaun is our mason. He is a short man with a smile that lights up the small space we are building in. He works fast, with a style all his own. He has developed a unique relationship with Tom. Twice over the past decade Tom, a carpenter by trade, has brought Don Jaun to Canada to work with him on projects at his Perth home. Don Juan has been to the Parliament Buildings and to an Omnimax movie. His face beams when we ask him about his Omnimax experience. Talking to him is mime-like. I move my arms in a sort of flapping way and he pretends to understand. Later, I learn that before he became a mason he was a “cusha” addict. Cusha is a homemade alcohol and we see its effects in nearly every community we work in.
The family we build today’s estufa for has no man. It seems unusual but we don’t ask why or how or when, although I really want to. The woman looks really old, but her daughter is only 12. She tells me that she has never seen a photo of herself. I take one. Tomorrow she will see it.
Our lunch is a hit. But why do I think that any food would be a hit after four hours of travelling and trowling?! We forget the PB at Marg’s fancy home. It is disconcerting to see the family, and others, staring at us from a perch near our makeshift eatery. We have so much and they have so little. They accept our leftovers with stoic faces.
We’ve all brought “things” from Canada for the families. Mine are gifts from so many people…hair bands and pencils, crayons and stickers, soap, toothbrushes and toothpaste. At the end of the work day each team makes up a bag of goodies for the family and gives it to the woman of the house. We’ve been told that it isn’t wise to give over the bag before the end of the day or to hand things out throughout the day. Because word spreads. And people with nothing are not always too proud to beg.
The ride back to Casa Argentina is lively for a time, considering the heat and our exhaustion. But gasps soon follow as those in the front seats are assaulted by the sight of a mangled motorcyclist lying in the road. Tom sees it. He is quiet. I imagine memories of his son’s tragic road accident coming rushing back. I look the other way as bystander’s cover the head of the dead.
Driving in Guatemala is a take-your-life-in-your-hands kinda thing. There don’t appear to be any road rules. People hang off the back of trucks willy nilly. Vehicles commonly drive on the wrong side of the road. Toxic black exhaust spews from the back of chicken buses crammed with people. Horns are honked liberally.
Max, Sarah and I exchange our grubby cement and sand encrusted clothing for wrinkled but clean attire as soon as we arrive back at Casa Argentina. (Don’t let the name fool you, there is nothing home-like about this place. But at about $6 per night I quickly adapted, comparing it to camping…and so far I don’t have bed bugs so that’s a bonus.)
At the photo lab in Xela’s Market Square we are reminded how utterly horrible are Spanish is. Why didn’t I take a simple Spanish class before I left, or take the time to learn a few important phrases before my landlady left to spend the winter in Mexico??
We learn that sometimes there is a gringo price for things.
Xelo is colourful, full of drunks and dogs, lingerers, pickpockets and street vendors. The “Mercado” near the Catholic church is worse. The smells assault you. We’re hungry but have been warned never to eat food prepared on the street. Food hygiene is not a high priority here, and sanitary conditions are poor. We could easily become disgusted but the good far outweighs the bad. Both Sarah and I are so incredibly grateful for this experience.
Sarah walks fast. Youth are on a mission. Max follows but with one eye in the back of his head watching out for me, trying to ensure that I’m not yanked behind some rotting door or fallen in to one of many uncovered or loose sewer grates.
It seems odd to us how the buildings are so closed off, yet the people are so open.
The buildings are all cement fronts and wooden doors with peeling paint and windows with metal bars. Brightly painted. A look behind often reveals a magical place. Lush and full of old world charm. Guatemalans almost always hide their cars behind these front doors. Not really in a garage. More like inside their homes.
Dinner with Sarah, Max, Marg, John and Janice is authentic Guatemalan food – soupa, chicken in a spicey sauce, rice and a little potato. There is a tiny salad but no one is brave enough to touch it. (Salad is another food to be eaten with caution.) Across the narrow cobblestone road the rest of the GSP crowd are finishing their meals. We cross over to show off our pics and then head to the Blue Angel for some late night Internet-ing. (The promised Wi-Fi at our hotel is no longer available and this has been disappointing.)
Anyway, I have been anxious to try papaya. Tom’s description of this local fruit had me salivating. I order a yogurt smoothie with papaya and settle in. Sarah runs back to the hotel to get something and I, mistakenly, don’t stop her. Tom gets Max to walk her back and he comes to walk us back home an hour later. “Every year when I am here I learn of a young girl who has been attacked,” he tells me the next morning. “Never walk alone after dark!”
The dogs alone are enough to keep from walking alone. I love dogs. However, these are not the pampered sweater-wearing animals I coo over on my Westboro streets. They scour the streets for food. They are abused, neglected and malnourished. They will hurt you in the name of self-preservation.
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