Guatemala Bound With Karen ~ Indulging in Living: My Humanity Remembered

February 9

I slept well. Woke early, had a hot shower and joined the group in the open-air restaurant for a group photo. It is really cold. Well, not really cold by Canadian standards. I am just not dressed for it. This morning I have on the hastily knit wool gloves I haggled for in the market. They cost me 7Q or about $1. My laundry is washed, dried and very neatly folded for just 20Q or barely $3. What a life!

Today my stove building team consists of my buddy Marg (we call her Marguarite so as not to confuse her with Joe’s Marg…and it sounds exotic …and she is sort of exotic), Joe, and husband and wife Jackie and Joanie. Paul is our mason. He is not feeling 100% and I wish there was something I could do for him.

The room we are working in is really small and dark. We can’t all fit in it. There is only one small window and a bare light bulb dangerously wired to the low ceiling. Every time I enter I try to remind myself to duck. I am a giant in Guatemala. There is barely a person over 5’5” and their doorways reflect this. If I bashed my head once I bashed it 100 times a day. Today seems to be worse because I am wearing a brimmed hat and it obstructs my view somewhat. My face is sunburnt from yesterday so a hat is a necessity today.

Marguarite-the-sunscreen-pusher jokes with me, referring to my sunburnt face, “You have aged your skin 10 years today!” Some would say that the chemicals in sunscreen are as harmful as the sun’s rays. Niether the burn nor the chemical screen feels right to me so I resign to cover my skin and wear a protective hat.

My first job is to submerge 30 cement blocks in water and stack them near the building site. There is no other way than to get wet doing it; a pretty cold job first thing in the morning. This work is a constant reminder of how little muscle strength I have. But this is far more rewarding than lifting weights because it has meaning, a purpose. It is not the self-indulgent stuff I force myself to do in the gym back home. This is real work and it feels good. My body moves and bends with ease. This is such a revelation after all that it has been through in the past year. I am not tugging at my clothes as was my habit before. For the first time in my life I feel comfortable in my skin. It fits me perfectly.

I am wet and muddy and it really doesn’t matter. There is sand under my nails. It has been there for days. I stare at it. Strangely, it doesn’t feel wrong or dirty. It is a symbol of change. Embrace the dirt, I say to myself. It is the least I can do and it is oddly effortless, given the Karen I am in my too-sterile Ottawa life.

The highlight of my trip thus far comes after lunch when Sarah and I hand out the hard copies of select photos we have taken. Marg comes along to video all of our reactions, but especially the reactions of the women and children who so graciously trusted us with their images. We know only a few ill-pronounced Spanish words and absolutely no K’iche. Still, we are all women. I understand the love they have for their children, even if they don’t have water to wash their runny noses or green vegetables and multi vitamins to keep them healthy.

Malnutrition is rampant here. These people are small by genetics. However, we gasp at the fact that a nearly two year old can be mistaken for an eight month old and can barely walk; a 20 year old looks like a 13 year old through our eyes, and tiny shy girls of 16 have babies while still babies themselves while lacking the knowledge to provide them with a healthy future.