My Days of Building Up Me

February 7, 2011

Today I build a stove.

I don’t build it alone.  I contribute to the building of a stove.

If I have learned anything since being here it is that these stoves change lives. But not just the lives of the people who receive them. The stove builders are changed too.

Already I know that I will never be the same after having had this experience.

 Henceforth these February days will be forever more referred to as: My Days of Building Up Me.

I get my hands dirty. I lift and tote and do the things I would never ever consider doing in my regular life of “girlie” pursuits. Indeed, for the first time in my life I have dirt under my suddenly broken and chipped finger nails. This is a far cry from the well maintained French manicure I normally indulge in. And, amusingly, I just don’t care!

I remember very little about what we are supposed to be doing. Fortunately our group has Marvin as the mason. I imagine that he must consider us a nuisance. But he is patient. He speaks only minimal English yet I manage to get him to tell me that while working alone building these cinder block stoves he averages three completed in a day.

Each stove requires 30 clay bricks, 30 cement blocks, lime, cement and sand, a metal stove top or planchate with three cut-out burners, metal stove door with vent, a flat thin clay piece to sit above it,  and a stove pipe. We have 5 teams. All of the supplies are waiting for us at each building site when we arrive. Our partner, CEDAC, has arranged this. Jose, a director in CEDAC, and his wife, Gricelda, accompany us each day.

The morning is downright cold. Not Canadian cold. But cold nonetheless. I realize early on that I should have packed a warmer sweater or two. Even a pair of mittens would be helpful. I slept in my clothes last night; pants, 2 shirts, sweatshirt coat, and “smart wool” socks (a much appreciated travelling gift from Marjorie.) I’m not particularly opposed to sleeping fully clothed. I do it often at home but more out of laziness than necessity.

Tom is adamant that we all meet for breakfast at the little café nearby. Apparently it is some kind of tradition. I have decided that I will not eat breakfast out. It is a nutrition rather than cost-cutting decision. I have brought a powerbar, containing the all-important 17g of protein, for each morning and my plan is to eat it when I arrive at the work site. The café is actually an outdoor courtyard surrounded by buildings; the owner’s home I assume. Tom takes us out back where there are farm animals in the heart of the city, and he shows us a shrine. We take photos like curiosity seeking tourists. On the other side of the courtyard and around a corner, only steps from where breakfast is served, he shows us another shrine; a Catholic shrine, gaudy and unnecessarily elaborate, much  like the church itself.

We travel to the work sites in a 16-person van and 2 pick-up trucks. I sit in the far back seat today but the bumps damn near kill me. Note to self: NEVER hop into the van first!

The family we are assigned to build for has 10 children and 3 grandchildren. There are people everywhere. Lots of extended family. There is so much excitement! Having an odd looking group of gringo’s in your kitchen, which essentially is your whole house, must be a weird happening. Of course, I am unsure whether it is us that makes them excited or the prospect of having a new stove/less smoke.

I embarrass myself by telling Rita about stoves being built under thatched roofs. At the time I didn’t really fully understand the significance. CHILDREN COULD DIE! We are in this country of a thousand contradictions to give rural families a hand up, not cause them harm.  I am reminded of Tom’s serious warning, “I have seen pictures of children, their faces burnt, houses burnt, families killed because a thatched roof caught on fire.”

Tom is a tall, mildly unkept rural Canadian boy. Like the country he is so passionate about, Tom is full of contradiction. I find his innate fatherly quality at times both aggravating and heartwarming. He makes no apologies for who he is and that speaks volumes. In the case of Tome Clarke, actions speak louder than words. It’s as simple as that. I have little doubt that Tom’s actions have saved lives, created better lives, inspired many lives. That’s all I need to know.

I fumble along with the stove building, so incredibly happy to be where I am, when I am…on a sunny Central American day, in a dusty valley, at the end of a dirt road, at the beginning of my 53^rd year! Taking Carol’s “little sis/wiser sis” advice, I try to relax and experience rather than manipulate and change.

With almost no Spanish comprehension I instinctively take out my camera. The children and women begin giggling. Rural Guatemalan women giggle a lot, really a lot. Could they be laughing at us? I’m sure we look pretty silly, trying to dress-down in sporty MEC things, caked with sunscreen, wearing gloves and masks and knee pads and safety goggles!

I feel like a rock star after every photo I take. They “rush” me as if I have gold in my pockets…which y’all know, I don’t! I show them each and every pic, even though the sun is so bright that we can barely see a thing. Sarah joins me with her super-duper-deluxe Nikon and the kids go crazy. The women begin washing their shiny thick black hair and sprucing up. There aren’t showers here. They wash their bodies in the same outdoor sink that they wash their dishes and their clothes.

We promise each other that we will get those pics developed and share them with the families before we leave the community later in the week.

The day thus far was totally exhilarating.

Turns out that Sarah and I are on Tuesday lunch detail with father-daughter team Phil and Meaghan (12).  Phil, an elementary school teacher from Perth and distance runner knows only one speed, FAST. So we walk FAST through Xela. Our stops are to collect 26 sub rolls and cookies from the bakery (Guatemalans love bread and sweet things, often combining them to we take care to ensure that our rolls are not spiked with sugar), tomatoes, onions, pineapple, and watermelon from the Mercardo Flores, butter and cans of tuna from the grocery store, and homemade peanut butter from the Blue Angel Restaurant. We schlep the stuff to the nicely appointed B&B where Janice, Marg and John are staying, and under the watchful (only slightly suspicious eye of the owner) we create a feast for 30 hungry stove builders.

I find it amusing that when we are done with our domestic duties we meet the group at an Italian eatery called Guiseppie’s. There is barely a thing there that doesn’t contain wheat. I figure it out, adapting as I have in all things here.

After dinner we stop in at a tiny club on the way home to listen to a collection of oldies performed by a guy and his guitar…from Burlington of all places! I meet a woman from the UK. She is 39 and has been travelling in Central and South America, mostly, for nearly a year. She has worked and volunteered along the way, engaging her experience in environmental organizations.

Back at the room I manage to get my grimey clothes off but forego the shower. I am way too cold.