As I stand on the edge of the road, on the edge of Antigua, waiting for our volunteer transport, I feel anxious. It's 7:20am. My stomach is wobbly. It's a feeling I am familiar with. Often throughout my life I have felt "unsettled", uncertain, usually when my imagination couldn't create a clear image of impending events, or when I couldn't conceive of events ending well. It's the way my insides would churn as I entered a new school in a new town. (I went to 4 high schools in three cities in two provinces. As the perpetual new girl my stomach churned alot!)
Curiously, this morning I am on my way to school. And I am afraid of what I might see. I am terrified about how what I am about to see will make me feel, how the bare reality of the situation will change me. I have braced myself for change --painful, positive, hateful and happy change.
A yellow school bus picks us up on the doorstep of the Community House. It isn't one of those colourfully painted buses with Latino men hanging out of every oriface and bags of fruit tied to the roof. The role of this bus is to safely move volunteers through Gautemala City to Safe Passage (http://www.safepassage.org/). The seats have seat belts. I am aghast! They are literally the first examples of well-maintained safety equipment I have seen in Guatemala.
All of the passengers on the bus are volunteerrs at Comino Seguro (Safe Passage). They are American and Austrailian and Canadian on this day. Susan Schmaltz, owner and founder of the ECE program "Planting Seeds" and wife of the newly installed Safe Passage Exectutive Director, Richard Schmaltz, is on board, as are a number of family members; parents and siblings come to experience what their sister and daughter and friend are experiencing. The bus is nearly full to capacity.
Where we go is not pretty. There are no pretty things here. No manicured lawns or pruned flowerbeds or cared for shops or big box outlets with coiffed parking lots. I don't know much about this place, but already I am discovering that life here is haphazard.
In Guatemala City gun-toting men in stern uniforms and harsh faces threaten violence, and metal bars protect the dispenser of toothpaste and shampoo and immodium.
I meet Floriana first. She manages the ECE school called the Guarderia. When the yellow school bus stops everyone gets off. The handful of us going to the Guarderia board a van for the drive deeper into Zone 3, where the streets look like a dump. There has been some trouble with squaters and threatened violence so security is heightened. An armed guard opens the large steel doors revealing a smiling place, cheerful, colourful and -- even more than anything else -- hopeful. It is a place of refuge for little hands and minds and growing bodies, tucked safely away from lives of dust-filled nastiness, unristricted dispair.
For a moment, as we are shown a sports feild that could be in any North American city, I forget that we are surrounded by a dump and barbwire and the people who make a meagre living selling the "stuff" of the dump. But the smell begs to be noticed. It assaults me, waking me up and reminding me.
I am in the Guarderia. Children as young as two years old scamper across play surfaces designed and built by University of Washington students. I watch macho little boys strutting, playing out the life they see in the faces of their fathers.These are tough kids, I think, associating toughness with filthy clothes and faces.
Susan takes me to the top of the playstructure, up traditional ladders and bridges, through a walkway and open space made of carefully crafted wood. Being a writer hungry to tell a story has afforded me this time with Susan and then with Florianna. I am so very grateful.
The playstructure hovers majestically only inches from the hastily constructed tin city that the children of Safe Passage call home; a place where shacks called homes abound.. I stand on the top of it with my feet in my world but my eyes in theirs. It is made of cast-offs, unwated things -- tin and tires, pop bottles and junk food wrappers, and people.
Social workers employed by Safe Passage appeal to parents to educate their children. It is a non-denominational kind of help designed to respect and celebrate the identities and traditions of each child.
Florianna takes me to the building on the other side of the parking lot. On the ground floor is a storage room chalk full of donations -- shampoo, bristol board, pencils, soap, balls and more. Upstairs is a multi-purpose room that is often used as a gymnasium. A class of young teens is just assembling for a game of aapture the Flag. Florianna invites me to join, introduces me to the Guatemalan teacher and leaves. He gives me a pinhey and I carefully watch the goings-ons for cues.
Put pinhey in pocket.
Chase kids to nab as many pinhey's as I can.
Protect my pinhey.
Next, take 2 pinhey's.
Tie the second one around my right ankle. Put the first pinhey in a different pocket.
Try not to get tackled.
Watch for the kids who are on the ground giggling and try to get their pinhey's.
I do pretty well if I do say so myself. The kids are friendly. I try to introduce myself to a couple. They don't laugh at me (outwardly anyway).
When Florianna returns I am still playing, running around like a kid. She smiles. If she only knew how much these moments mean to me. Less than a year ago I could never have done this with such ease. I would have been out of breath. I would have lacked confidence. Today these kids give me more than I give them. When I say muchos gracias they have no idea how much I mean it.
I wash little hands in cold, untreated water, and encourage the use of soap, before lunch. Every child gets a balanced breakfast, lunch and two snacks daily. Most eat seriously. They look around for more. I wash off tables and faces. The children scrape their own plates and deposit them in a big white tub for cleaning (and I use the word "clean" generously.)
Richard is going to be released from the hospital today, and Susan must to leave in the early afternoon to pick him up. She takes Marg and I with her. Sarah elects to stay behind in her class of two-year olds. As we leave she is holding a child in her arms.
Walter drives us through Guatemala City. Susan doesn't drive here. In the early days she was shot at--five gunshots from the window of a car while walking down the street. That was more than a decade ago, but she doesn't tempt fate. I am drawn to Susan. She is a remarkable woman with the energy of someone who gives selflessly for no other reason than to give. I really wish I had more time to spend with her.
We arrive back at the Community House around 1:30pm. We eat leftovers on the terrace for lunch. Noone is home. It fells good to sit leisurely among the flowers with the warm sun bathing the open area between the buildings. I need this time to digest more than the food.
After lunch I change into my Chi Chi market Guatemalan outfit -- woven wrap skirt and embroidered white cotton top. Cool and comfortable. For the first time all day I feel clean.
We walk into town following a funeral procession. Slow and steady. Here people walk with the coffin to the church. We have seen this more than once. There is no vehicle-parade. No dark-windowed limos driven by dark-suited men.
Dominos Pizza is our landmark. Both Marg and I laugh at this. We trun left towards the ruins. Three quarters of the way down this cobblestone street we find the laundry ladies. they will wash my 6lbs of dirty clothes for about $4. But I make Marg stop before we get there to stare at sweets. There are sweet shops on everyb block it seems. It's not what I am looking for because what I am seeking has local chocolate as a main ingredient.. But I get 2 cookies anyway. They are yucky tasteless, colourless blobs. Expensive yucky tasteless blobs. I nibble on one and throw the other out.
We are looking for a restaurant called La Pinada Sol. It boasts "safe" food and authentic Latin music. Guy and Shirley have reccommended it and we want to take Sarah there for her last meal in Guatemala. Of course, marg and i hardly need an excuse to test out any kind of food. We wonder the streets until we find the place. Another unimpressive storefront with magic behind its doors.
The owner is a cheerful American from Nashville. His story is by now familiar. "I came here with my wife for a holiday," he tell us. "We never went back."
We try out a dessert and enjoy a tea. I buy apples and mangos for tomorrow's dinner. My bank card works and Marg's doesn't. We have learned to be easygoing about the crazy ATM's here and simply swap Q's back and forth.
The Tuk Tuk ride home could easily dislocate a few vertebrae. But we make it just in time for a down home meal of meatloaf and veggies. The food is comforting. Shirley is a great cook and an attentive hostess.
I worry only momentarily about getting fatter. I know I am eating way too much. But I have other things on my mind!
No comments:
Post a Comment