Jornada de Sarstun y Paracaidistas

Sarstun y Paracaidistas

I returned from my quick trip to the states on a Monday, and the next village team was to arrive the following Saturday. Normally, each group has a leadership team which arrives here in Antigua the Wednesday or Thursday before everyone else’s weekend arrival. This mainly includes a Logistics Director, a Team Facilitator and a Team Administrator. These people all have very carefully defined roles in preparing for the trip and ensuring that things run smoothly while in the field. It’s very difficult to say that any one or two jobs are the most important positions on the team, since there really are no extra people, but if one was really pressed to identify a top-five list these guys would be on top. I did help pack and organize some things before the Peten trip, but the team leadership took care of most of those things.

The Sarstun trip, unfortunately, was another story. It just so turns out that this particular group of individuals decided to forgo the usual protocol. Rather than providing a leadership team, they simply ignored the idea entirely, expecting for all of the heavy lifting to be taken care of upon their arrival. Hand in hand with a total unwillingness to complete the numerous highly important preparatory tasks which they had been assigned, the team leaders seemed to expect for some magical Guatemalan-Medical-Mission-Equipment-and-Foodstuffs-Purchasing-and-Packing Fairy to simply make sure things were done. Huh. If you’re thinking “looks like a job for Jenna!” you’re not the first person to have reached that conclusion.

I spent the week prior to the jornada’s start running around Antigua, frantically checking things off of forever multiplying lists, sorting and packing and lifting and purchasing and calling and meeting and running running running. The honest truth is that I didn’t mind, at the time. I was fully aware of the importance of my job, and it probably wouldn’t be far from the truth to say that I was proud of being entrusted with such responsibility. Clearly the people I’m working with must trust me, if they gave me all of these jobs. In a paradoxical sort of way, it’s like earning the opportunity to work really hard. Anyhow, I was sure that the team would be grateful when they saw how much legwork had been done before their arrival, and that was encouraging to me. Sadly, that hope did not come through. Rather than appreciating the volunteer – let me reiterate that – I’m a volunteer. As in, a person working more than full-time for absolutely no compensation, out of a desire to help the people of Guatemala ¬– they were actually angry with me! I’m not even kidding! The first thing the wife of the husband/wife leadership team did when we met was berate me, apparently as a representative of the greater Faith in Practice institution, for packing the wrong foods for the week. I was just following the very detailed, very official list which I had been given. I made absolutely no decisions in the process, yet apparently the ratio of crunchy to smooth peanut butter was a friggin’ crisis. When I say berate, I’m not talking about a simple “Jeeze! No one likes smooth peanut butter!” This was a full-scale, finger poking at my chest, raised voice, red faced sermon which criticized my audacity in assuming to know what this team would want to eat for lunch on Monday afternoon. Whew. That was before we even made it in the doorway.

I could go on and on, but it would be pointless. Basically, they were difficult people to work with, and that fact sucked a lot of the fun out of the trip. It only got worse as the week wore on, and although none of them will ever know it, I was secretly in tears on more than on occasion.

But enough complaining.

This particular jornada called for some very innovative, and exciting, travel arrangements. As we had done to reach the Peten, we once again flew on an Air Force transport plane from Guatemala City. This time we flew to Puerto Barrios, a port town in the Bay of Honduras, on the Caribbean coast. From there, the whole team and all of our gear crossed the bay in a Guatemalan Navy PT boat, arriving in the town of Livingston, at the mouth of the Rio Dulce. We stayed two nights in Livingston, a dirty little town where an American tourist was brutally machete-hacked to death last summer. We didn’t spend much time sightseeing.

The temperature never strayed far from the high nineties throughout the week, and neither did the humidity. We awoke early the first two mornings, breakfasted on fresh cantaloupe, pineapple, zapote, and mango, and then boarded Somalian pirate boats (not even kidding) from the roomside-dock. We then ventured into the open ocean, speeding along as if pursing a British yacht, bouncing in the waves and enjoying the early morning spray of Caribbean Sea in our faces. The boat ride lasted approximately forty-five minutes in the mornings, and half of all eternity on the afternoon returns (more on that later). Upon traveling the entire remaining Guatemalan coastline, our pirate boats navigated their way into the Rio Sarstun, a river which creates the border between northern Guatemala and southern Belize. From there, we cruised up the river roughly a kilometer before reaching the tiny town of Sarstun, accessible only through local waterways. We set up camp in a fairly well equipped medical clinic, and saw several hundred patients in two days. The truth is that the final numbers were a bit disappointing, in a paradoxical way. There were very few surgical referrals compared to other jornadas, due to the fact that Faith in Practice has been present in the area for about five years. Obviously this is good news; the people of the area with the most dramatic cases have already been taken care of! However, we couldn’t help but feel a bit dissatisfied with such healthy people. FIP plans to hold off a few years before bringing back another village team.

The boat rides back to Livingston each evening were one of the most miserable transportation experiences I have ever had. An early evening wind picks up around 4:30 each day, generating powerful whitecaps pushing opposite our direction of travel. The little ponga boats we rode act somewhat like a lever when zipping along through the ocean – the motor end buries itself in the water, and the front end sticks up several feet into the air. Those unfortunate souls seated in the front (I happened to be captain of this population the first day – the foremost person in the boat) literally fly as the boat slams into whitecaps, then drops into the valley formed behind. The first day, I was seated on a cooler in the front, grasping onto a tied-down buoy for dear life, bouncing several feet into the air and slamming back down on the Igloo with each wave. Several times I was afraid I would actually bounce right out of the boat and into the water, although that option seemed much better than the alternative of struggling to remain torturously inside. By the time we arrived back at the dock, I was certain I could survive 8 seconds on a bull better than any cowboy at the NPRA.

The third day we woke before daylight again, this time packing all of our things and bringing them along. We once again loaded into the ponga boats, although this time we headed up the Rio Dulce instead of out to sea. We took a breathtakingly gorgeous early morning ride through the canyons of the Rio Dulce, in a setting which brought to mind a tropical version of Montana’s Gates of the Mountains. After roughly an hour’s time on the river we arrived in the town of Rio Dulce, where we transferred everything once again, this time loading the trunks full of equipment into a waiting van. We road inland an hour and a half before finally arriving at the town of Paracaidistas (Eng: The Parachutists), where we set up shop once again.

The subsequent two days at Paracaidistas were interesting. Business was slow, as the local network coordinator had failed to publicize the correct date for the clinic. Nonetheless, we managed to end each day in a state of absolute exhaustion, thanks to the insufferably hot weather and continually grumpy attitudes of some of the team members. Thursday, the final day of the trip and Day 2 in Paracaidistas, two social workers from a nearby town brought in three severely sick children. I was the first FIP team member to meet them, as I saw them all in triage. One was a young girl – I think she was seven or so – with obvious congenital defects and noticeable retardation. She was very small for her age, although her head was huge, and her limbs we curled up into her body. The cornea of one eye was scarred white, and there was some sort of fistula below her nose, to name a few of the most obvious problems. In addition to that child, there were two infants – one of them roughly a year old and clearly dangerously malnourished. The baby’s limbs were tiny sticks, her face had the characteristic aged look of a severely emaciated child and her mouth was overtaken by thrush. The pediatricians quickly diagnosed her with an imperforated anus – a rare condition which is usually caught and surgically corrected within hours after birth. She was referred into the Obras Sociales hospital here in Antigua, first for treatment in the malnutrition center, in order to recover enough for her surgery. When the baby arrived here earlier this week, the Guatemalan doctors took one look and immediately ordered an HIV test. Sure enough, she was positive. She’s currently in the National Hospital in Antigua, since the Obras hospital doesn’t treat HIV/AIDS patients, but she’s not expected to live much longer. It was a rude awakening in several respects – first of all, that the health situation in this country is still so bad that such major defect such as an imperforated anus can go untreated for over a year, and secondly that a child like her could also have HIV. The subject didn’t even come up with the American doctors while I was speaking to them about her in the field; I don’t think it really even occurred to them that she might have the disease. At home, it’s not one of the first things you consider, apparently. This really is still a third-world country, despite the fact that we’re eating uncontaminated food, sleeping in hotels with air conditioning and being treated like celebrities at every town we arrive in.

The third child was the worst of the three. He was a two month old baby with a cleft palate, and severe malnutrition. I walked the mother and child back to the pediatricians, where he was soon diagnosed with pneumonia on top of everything else. He was cyanotic upon arriving, and was clearly in a very bad state. He was immediately started on IV Rocefen (a powerful antibiotic), and arrangements were made to have him admitted to the nearest hospital the same day. We broke for lunch as the mother waited outside for the transportation we’d arranged to arrive.

Upon finishing our guacamole-tuna fish–jalapeno sandwiches (you have no idea how delicious they are), we began filtering back into the general mêlée outside of the kitchen. One of the pediatricians stopped by to check on mother and baby, only to discover that he was dead. Feet from where we had calmly been eating lunch, savoring and socializing, the boy had died. Despite his grave state upon arrival, we were shocked.

I’m not entirely how or why, but somehow I was ushered over to sit next to the mom, and comfort her. In retrospect, I think that it’s probably due to the fact I’m one of the more fluid Spanish speakers – no one who stumbles over their Spanish words in perfectly casual conversation wanted to struggle with consoling a mother rocking her dead baby. Of course, it was the last thing I felt qualified to do, but despite that fact I was pushed through the tiny crowd of people hovering and sat down in the molded plastic chair alongside her.

What do you say? What do you do? Does anyone know how to act in that situation? Anyone? What could possibly hurt more, in the whole wide world, than the brutal injustice of losing life before it’s even begun? How can you tell a mother that things will be ok, that life will go on, that eventually the pain will subside? I don’t believe it – how can I expect her to? Do you tell her that her baby is being rocked in the arms of God right now? How can that be, when he’s still clearly being rocked in her own arms? Do you hug her? Cry? Pray? Scream with the pain, the actual physical pain in your chest and your stomach and your heart and every bone of your body, the pain that you’re feeling for her, and for him? How did this just happen?

I don’t really know what I said, or what I did. I sat with her, I talked to her, I answered all of the questions that I could and told her that God loves every single one of His children, and that the only thing she can do is be grateful that He shared this one with her and her family for a short time. I hugged her, and held her hand, and wiped her tears, and kept back my own until later, when I went to the kitchen and sobbed with our team pastor and cook, Barbara.

A cleft palate. That’s all he had, at first. And thanks to all of the complications from this simple, correctable condition, he died. We’re still in Guatemala, after all.





It wasn’t a miserable jornada, although this blog entry would make that appear to be the case. As always, there were beautiful, healthy babies to play peek-a-boo with, there were eternally grateful women who’d been suffering from uterine prolapse for 20 years and were now going to receive a free surgery, there were young girls with strabismus who would soon have a normal facial appearance and Guatemalan army soldiers with AK-47s and venereal disease who would be itch-and-discharge free within a few short days. There is no better feeling than that which you get from really helping people who need and appreciate it, and we did a lot of that in four days. It just also included some rude awakenings, and some learning experiences in subjects which I never intended to study. For better or for worse, there’s never a dull moment in Guate.

Resumen: El mes de marzo

Peten Jornada

Hmm…my current behavior as a blog-ist has been less than responsible. Here I go, announcing my departure from the safe cocoon of Catholic service, striking out on my own with a new organization, a new city and a new job description. Then, for all intents and purposes, I vanish from the world of internet publication. I’m not sure who should be more worried: my readers, who have not heard from me for a month now, or me, how has not received a single “Hey, Jenna, are you still alive down there?” email. For my own peace of mind, I’ll just assume that you all directed inquiries into my current state of existence to my parents, who have been actively fielding all questions on a nearly full-time basis. To catch you up on my activities for the month of March, I’ll provide a recap:
Week 1: The first week of March was also my first week with Faith in Practice. I was in the office for those first several days, getting a crash course in how the organization functions while helping to prepare for an upcoming village trip. The village trips are incredible undertakings, and require an inconceivable amount of preparation, logistics and organization. All of our materials are packed into 30 or 40 heavy duty plastic trunks, which are classified, categorized and cross-checked a million different ways. The trunks include all of the medical equipment necessary to do anything from fitting people for solar-operated hearing aids to cryogenically treating cervical lesions. Roughly half of our freight is the pharmacy, which doles out vitamins and albendazole (a long-lasting intestinal parasite treatment) to every patient who comes through, along with every drug from aspirin to Zantac.
It didn’t take me very long to determine that this is a fantastically run, extraordinarily successful organization. It hasn’t been difficult for me to find ways to make myself useful, and I’ve been very pleased with how welcoming they’ve been. At the mission, I often felt like I was an outsider, a naïve young girl who’d be tagging around for a little while before going back to the comfort of American life. I never felt that there was any real interest in considering me as a contributing team member, a person with ideas, skills and intelligence to offer. Although I planned on being there for a year, I always felt that I was just being tolerated as a person taking up space and eating food – never any concept of building long-term connections or relationships. In their defense, this attitude on the part of Sheila and the nuns is probably a self-defense mechanism. After all, how many countless people have come down here through the decades, stayed for a while, and moved on with their lives? What’s the point, I imagine them thinking, of getting attached? At the same time, this is a very self-fulfilling attitude. I would guess that many more people would be involved in a more long-term sense if they were more welcomed to begin with, and everyone was encouraged to get involved. Nevertheless, that style of thought has been blessedly absent since I’ve been with Faith in Practice. Since Day 1 I’ve felt very much like a part of the team, which is an incredibly refreshing sensation.
I spent Monday thru Saturday helping with the myriad of preparations necessary for the trip, running all over town in search of everything from liquid nitrogen tanks to 48 loafs of bread. After nearly developing clinical psychosis as a result of intense boredom and loneliness during my first months in Xejuyup, the 180˚ change has been very welcome. The team got in on Saturday afternoon, and we had a dinner at a nice restaurant that evening before returning home to pack. (That’s one of the perks of this job – I’ve been taken out to eat for work-related dinners at some of the nicest restaurants in Antigua – places several steps above the street-side pupusa carts I get my daily dose of worms from.)
Week 2: We got up early Sunday morning, and met in front of the Obras Sociales de Hermano Pedro Hospital, in downtown Antigua. From there, the team boarded a black school bus, elaborately decorated with resplendent flames. The bus delivered us to the Guatemalan Air Force airstrip, exactly parallel to the regular Aurora International Airport. We pulled through the gates, nervously averting our eyes from the literal horde of fatigue-clad teenage boys toting AK-47s who greeted us. We cruised from the entrance through the military base, peeking into the sparse barracks and giggling at the giant billboard instructing soldiers how to best avoid venereal diseases. Our fiery ride motored directly onto the tarmac, where we unloaded our bags beside the DC-3 transport which would fly us to the Peten.
Initially, I was quite taken aback by the designs emblazoned on the underside of both of the plane’s wings. Guatemala is clearly a country steeped in machismo culture, but tattooing FAG across the wings seemed like a bit much – was it perhaps supposed to be one last jab at the enemy, whoever he may be, as he glances up to see the military flying overhead? Further reflection, however, provided a better explanation: Fuerzas Aéreas Guatemaltecas (aka Guatemalan Air Force) was, after all, the name of our chosen airline carrier for the day.



Once our luggage had been securely strapped through the center of the aircraft, we boarded single-file, strapping ourselves into the bucket seats lining the sides of this giant metal tube. Seated near the cockpit, I was able to enjoy the intoxicating, slightly disconcerting scent of diesel fuel and feel the shakes and rattles ringing up through my bones as we accelerated into takeoff. I’ll be honest – I’ve never been one to fear flying. I gained a new appreciation for that phobia during this particular flight, and felt it once again reaffirmed on the return trip.
We arrived at the air force base in Flores 50 minutes later, around 11 am. After unloading and sorting out the luggage, a group of adventurers (myself included, obviously) jumped onto a bus for a sight-seeing trip to Tikal. We weren’t scheduled to start working until Monday, so we took advantage of the proximity to Guatemala’s largest, most famous Mayan ruin site for the afternoon.
Tikal is an impressive place, for many reasons. Firstly, it’s located in the heart of the jungle, in an area which the overused word “wild” only weakly describes. It’s filled with noisy howler monkeys, brilliant tropical birds, giant bizarre rodents, snakes, lizards, bugs (especially ones carrying Dengue and Malaria), impish spider monkeys, and, although we didn’t see any, jaguars and black puma. The pyramids jut into the sky through the canopy, rising above the trees as if to prove once and for all man’s presence in and dominance of the region. Many are only partially uncovered, giving the accurate feeling that we’re really falling behind in reclaiming this ancient city from its tenacious and aggressive vegetative surroundings.
Climbing the pyramids must be done against all forms of reasonable judgment, as it requires conquering both intensively oppressive, humid tropical heat and rickety, very clearly third-world-country-tourist-attraction handmade wooden staircases. For those who may suffer from a mild-to-moderate case of fear of heights (such as, for example, me) the thrill of reaching the top is only just barely enough reason to brave the vertiginously steep stairs.
Winding through the overgrown paths, feeling somewhat lost and disoriented, temples seem to loom out of nowhere with every slight bend in the trail. It’s easy to imagine yourself as a 19th century explorer just discovering the giant Mayan metropolis, marveling over the extraordinary architecture and incredible significance of the findings. Although we only had an afternoon to explore, it was just enough time to cement my desire to return for a several-day expedition of my own. We’ll see when I get around to that….
The rest of the week was a whirlwind of work work work work work. We set up clinics in two different towns, each one lasting for two days. All four days we arrived at our worksites with hundreds of people waiting at the gates, tolerating scorching heat and hours upon hours of waiting in line just for a consult from an American doctor. I was kept busy in a million different ways – first triaging patients as they came in, determining the nature of their complaint and which doctor to send them to. Later in the day, as patients stacked up and extra hands were no longer necessary in triage, I essentially converted into the role of “patient advocate.” I worked non-stop with patients needing referrals for various surgical or diagnostic procedures, searching for options available in the area to provide services which we can’t do ourselves and convincing these terribly poor people to continue to seek out medical treatment. I worked with the doctors and our Faith in Practice staff to coordinate treatment for people with particularly complicated conditions, and was often stuck with the rather crappy job of telling people that we couldn’t help them. The case which most sticks out in my mind was telling a 22 year old man – exactly the same age as me – that he most likely had terminal brain cancer. I think that no one else wanted to have to do it, so rather than facing the music they bounced him around the different areas of the clinic in hopes that anyone else would break the news. As miserable as it was to do, I couldn’t keep sending him off to some other area all day long. How do you start that dialogue? What do you say? Do you try to provide hope, or is it better to just be straightforward and factual? Is it OK to cry, too, or does that violate some sort of breaking-devastating-news rule? It was a conversation which I will never forget.
On the bright side, though, I got to do plenty of wonderful, exciting, fulfilling things, too. I fitted at least a half a dozen kids for wheelchairs, a luxury which their families had never imagined having access to. There’s an image permanently emblazoned in my mind of a petite middle-aged mother, probably less than 5 feet tall, who lugged her 9 year old daughter into my makeshift office. The girl had been born with cerebral palsy and relatively severe mental retardation, and was only mildly responsive to outside stimulus. Her mother had been carrying around this large child for 9 years, permanently stuck with the physical burden of a growing 85 pound child, along with the emotional burden of having a handicapped kid in a culture which does not embrace such individuals. Not only was I able to tell the mother that I could provide her with a wheelchair, for free, but also I put her into contact with a school for disabled children very near their home – their first chance at interacting with other families dealing with the exact same challenges. Watching the mother hoist her daughter off of the dusty cement floor after making wheelchair measurements, grunting with the weight, sweating from the heat and strain, a few tears of joy found their way to my cheeks as I realized the significance of the gift which we were providing. This wheelchair will surely change the young girl’s life, but even more significantly, it will change her mother’s future in an incredible way. Just writing about it now gives me goosebumps.
The week flew by in a series of long, exciting, fulfilling, exhausting, sweaty days, and before I knew it we were headed back to Antigua on another FAG express flight. (Get your mind out of the gutter.) I spent one full day in Antigua, helping to unpack the trunks before running home to unpack and repack my own suitcases. Sunday morning, I met the team at their hotel, where they were taking a bus back into Guatemala City for their flight back into Houston. Serendipitously, I was to go back to the states on the same flight, transferring from Texas to Portland, where….
Week 3: …I was to have an interview at OHSU! I got into Portland Saturday night, and was in my own bed on the coast around midnight. Talk about a major transition! From the jungles of Guatemala to the Oregon bog in approximately 24 hours…there’s no way to describe how that feels. After being so involved in my Guatemalan life, it’s simply shocking to come back home for a quick visit, and be reminded that I also happen to be a character in a whole different life, in a whole different language, in a whole different world. The best adjective I can provide you with is bizarre.
Nonetheless, I thoroughly enjoyed my short trip back into Gringotenango. By total and completely chance (or perhaps Divine Providence) my ‘lil sis’ birthday was the Sunday after I arrived, and Zach and Jamie were in Oregon visiting some of her family. As if we were completing some giant cosmic plan, the whole family was together for a few short hours, and we were able to enjoy a great birthday dinner with Ari-Anna Rose.
My interview at OHSU was on St Patrick’s Day, and I had the pleasure of staying with two great friends in the process – first with Elizabeth (my freshman year roommate) on Marquam Hill the evening before my interview, then with Aurora the evening after. (I won’t hear any conclusion back for several more weeks, so I’m stuck suffering an agonizing wait at the current moment. If I get in, I’ll surely write a triumphant blog on the subject. If a big fact rejection notice comes my way, however, I’ll probably keep it to myself.) I flew out to Montana in the wee hours of the morning of the 18th, and spent the rest of the week with Ricky, wondering why on earth I ever went to Guatemala in the first place. I obviously love what I’m doing down here, but somehow that was really easy to forget while I was with him. Funny how that works.
Week 4: I returned to Guatemala on Monday the 23rd (Serena P’s birthday, incidentally), and spent the subsequent week preparing for the next jornada. Pretty much a repeat of my first week with FIP, although I’d like to think that I was a bit more useful this time around. It was, once again, a week full of activity and excitement for the upcoming mission. This once was to be incredible complicated – the trip would first take place in a river-access-only village on the Sarstun River, which is the border between Guatemala and Belize. This required a multitude of trips utilizing varying sizes and styles of boats, including braving the Caribbean whitecaps in Somalian pirate boats. I’m not even kidding. But, since that was half in March and half in April, and I’m currently exhausted, we’ll save those stories for the next post. I promise I’ll try to get it up in a more timely fashion! Until then….saludos!

Moving On

A New Chapter

Well, my dear readers, it’s time for an announcement. I have officially quit my position at the mission, and will be starting a new job on March 1st.

Although this may seem a bit abrupt to the casual follower of the “Jenna in Guatemala” saga, it’s actually far from a sudden move. The truth is that I’ve never enjoyed my teaching position, and working within the rather archaic and disorganized structure of the mission has been a continually frustrating reality for me. Those who talk to me regularly (that’s really only Ricky and my parents, so don’t feel left out…) have heard me complain on a weekly basis about my dissatisfaction with both the school and the overall program here. It’s not worth going into a million details, as that would turn out an entire blog post of whining and complaining, which is something I’d much rather avoid. Instead, you’ll have to trust my judgment on this one, and if you really want the full story, which does exist, I’d be happy to tell it to you personally.

When the eye doctors were here one of the nurses, Connie, mentioned that she’d worked as a free-lance medical team “helper” here in Guatemala during the mid-90’s. She’d originally come down with a commitment to a mission hospital, but was very unsatisfied and unhappy with her work and living circumstances. As she explained the reasons for her discontent it all sounded incredibly familiar. Apparently a medical team had come to their hospital a few months into her stay, and she enjoyed herself for the first time since she’d arrived. Sounded parallel to my life here. The visit by this team inspired her to leave behind her official position at the hospital and begin contacting American medical teams who’d appreciate in-country assistance from a Spanish-speaking American nurse. Once she heard how similar my experience has been to her own, she encouraged me to try and do the same thing.

At first I was hesitant; nervous about the idea of striking out on my own and being totally responsible for keeping myself both busy and happy. Although it sounded like a fantastic alternative to what I’m doing, I didn’t envision myself actually going through with it. Too complicated, too scary, to unsure. I might not love what I’m doing here, but at least it’s stable.

I went with the eye team to Antigua for the day the weekend before they flew out of Guatemala City. While there, I continued to ask Connie about the work she’d done, disappointed in myself that I wasn’t going to just take a great big scary leap of faith and give it a try. My life had become rather comfortable here, in some ways (dare I say?) easy, or at least predictable. (All of those adjectives were subsequently erased the following Tuesday, but that’s another story which I’m not going to tell.) We sat together at breakfast on Sunday morning, eating before they jumped into a taxi for Guatemala. Connie encouraged me once more to try something new, if I was really unhappy, and I brooded in feelings of self-disappointment (perhaps the worst kind) as I realized I probably was going to nod my head enthusiastically, write down a whole list of contact people and organizations, and then do absolutely nothing with it.

That’s probably exactly how things would have gone, too, if God didn’t already have plans in the works. As we made the short walk from our breakfast café to the hotel, Connie and I actually ran right into the director of Faith in Practice, one of the main organizations she’d worked with. She introduced me, explained that I speak decent Spanish, had been working with their medical jornada for the past week, and was interested in working with them. Just like that, I had an in. The director, Joe, and I spoke for several minutes, and he encouraged me to give him a call to discuss possibilities. I called him that very night, and he suggested that I return to Antigua for a face-to-face meeting.

Saturday the 14th I went to Antigua, where I met with Joe, his wife Vera, and one of their program directors, Christine. They offered me a full-time volunteer position, and I decided to accept it.

Faith in Practice has a myriad of projects here in Guatemala, all of which are related to health programs. They primarily work with American medical brigades, which come down for week-long tours of duty. Their teams set up mobile clinics in remote villages, triage patients and arrange for people to have surgeries done. They also have surgical brigades, which operate out of the Hermano Pedro Hospital in Antigua, and a variety of regional surgical centers throughout the country. Services offered include orthopedic, gynecological, urological, ophthalmological, ear/nose/throat, and general surgical procedures. They also bring down dental teams, have a cervical cancer training and prevention program and do public health education. It’s an incredibly huge, highly organized and coordinated organization which has grown to serve tens of thousands of people yearly since they started out in 1992. The surgical center which they’ve built at Hermano Pedro Hosptial is far and away the finest medical facility I have seen in all of Guatemala. They bring down nearly 1,000 American volunteers (mostly for week-long jornadas) every year, and in a given week see around 2,000 patients in their clinics. Despite all of that, they still have a very small administrative team, and are pretty much run entirely by Joe and Vera, the Texas couple which started the whole thing. What makes it all even sweeter is that they’ve ecstatic to have me working with them! When I met with Christine in Antigua on Saturday, one of the first things she told me was “Joe is so excited to have you working with us! You’re all he can talk about!” Apparently they’d already decided I was in, and here I thought it was just a preliminary “let’s see if you’ll fit in with us” sort of meeting!

Ok, so, enough excited gushing – what am I going to be doing? Good question. I made it very clear to them from the beginning that I absolutely require that they keep me busy, a statement which they laughed at before replying “don’t say that, you’ll be begging us for time to sleep!” Perfect. My main job will probably be working with American teams as a translator and coordinator, help them set up and run clinics, communicate with local Guatemalan team members and their patients, and overall operate successfully. This will entail a good deal of traveling – the second week I’ll be with them, starting March 7th, I’ll be in the Peten. That’s the wild wild west north of Guatemala: tropical jungles full of jaguars, monkeys and Mayan ruins. The jornada schedule is most busy from now until early fall, so I’ll have plenty to do until I have to leave for school mid-summer.

I’m not entirely sure what my living situation will be like yet, although I’ve got promising leads a few places. More to follow here.

So…I’m sure there are plenty of details I’m leaving out, but that’s all I can think to share right now. I’m fantastically excited about the new position, and am confident that I will be much happier. In addition to having a job much better suited to me, Antigua’s the Guatemalan Disneyland. It’s full of nightlife, cultural activities, safety (!) and people my age. Also, it’s a very short bus ride to Guatemala City, which means I’ll be able to see my friends there much more frequently. More importantly, I’ll get to travel all over, seeing more of this country which I’ve become rather smitten with.

I’m bummed to be leaving the hospital in Mazate, but I’m sure I’ll be back to visit when possible, and we even have a Faith in Practice team in the area in April. I have no intention whatsoever of leaving them for good; I’ve already decided that my connections there are going to be life-long ones. I can’t wait to come back with a bit more skill and expertise, and show them I wasn’t kidding when I said I was studying medicine (I’m talking years down the road, of course, not months or weeks).

I’ve had some great experiences here at the mission, better ones yet at the hospital, but I’m ready to move on. So! Here’s to new beginnings!

La Segunda Jornada de Ojos

The week of February 1st through 7th brought the return of the Jornada de Ojos, an event which seemed eons away when they all packed up and left last September. I wouldn’t exactly say that time has always passed quickly here, but I was surprised to realize that five months had passed since the last time I’d been happily translating away in the clinic.

The week before I returned to the Mazate for a few quick days of morning work. Unfortunately and relatively inexplicably, Sheila has insisted that my time spent in the hospital is limited to a maximum of three mornings a week, and the other two mornings I need to be up at the school. It’s kind of a bummer, since there’s not really anything for me to do all morning in tiny little Xejuyup, but it’s important to her and it gets me down in Mazate at least a little bit. It was very nice to return to the hospital, where I felt like I had been truly missed and was enthusiastically welcomed back. The hospital director had changed since I very first started spending time there, and I was a bit nervous about asking for official permission again. I’d kind of made a big deal about insisting that I be allowed to spend at least a few mornings a day there, and the thought occurred to me briefly the evening before I went to ask that I could be denied access. Quite the contrary, I ran into the director, Dr. Olivar, just as I entered the front doors and was earnestly welcomed back, quizzed with regards to why I’d been absent so long and encouraged to return to work ASAP. Needless to say, it made me feel quite good about the work I’d been doing before I left.

The most interesting case I saw during that last week of January was a young boy who’d fallen 30 feet out of a tree, head-first. Miraculously, he didn’t hit his head and was in perfect condition neurologically. That fortunate condition didn’t come without a cost, however, and the radius and ulna on both arms protruded from his skin, with wrists and hands jutting at bizarre angles towards his body. The poor boy was miserable, and his story was heartbreaking. As we quizzed him about who he was and what had happened, in order to test how well his brain was working, he explained that he’d climbed the tree in order to catch a squirrel. “My father’s left us, and my mom’s working in Guatemala,” he sobbed, “and my siblings are hungry. We were going to eat it.” Wow. Just about made a person want to cry, and activity usually discouraged in ER staff. Luckily, our Mazate traumatólogo (that’s orthopedic surgeon in Spanish, I think it’s a great name. Kind of like otorrinolaringólogo, which means Ear Nose and Throat Doctor) has connections with the docs at the National Hospital in Xela, where they have more resources available for poor patients. We cleaned him up very well, cast his arms in their peculiar angles and packaged him for transport.

Another crazy case was a man who came in with a disgusting, rotten cellulitis in his left leg. He claims that it’s been there for 10 years, although the concept of a person living with half of their lower body literally rotting away for 10 years is entirely otherworldly to me. His leg was hugely swollen, ulcerated and grey, bringing to mind an elephant who’d been hit by a car. The worst part was when I started placing a temporary bandage on his leg, just until he was transported to the surgery ward. He’d placed a tourniquet below his knee, and the doc asked me to take it off. Being the good little order-obeying soldier that I am, I did just as I was told. A literal fountain of blood spurted from an ulcer on the man’s shin, threatening to flood the ER with several liters of blood. Apparently this was the reason he’d chosen today as the day to report to the hospital: the ulcer had eaten through an artery, and un-tourniquetted produced massive hemorrhaging. Bummer I had to be the person to figure that out. Luckily I was observant enough to be wary of both the tourniquet and the leg in general and was careful to be very far off to the side before loosening the knot; I don’t think a speck of blood from the bright red flood touched me.

Both of those cases I was rather disappointed in myself for not having camera handy, and I think I’ll have to start bringing it.

The following week was dedicated to the eye docs, who were a very fun bunch. We saw a mountain of interesting ophthalmological pathologies, and impressed upon me how fortunate I was to be working with them. I don’t think a single one of the four eye docs here failed to tell me that I’d already seen more ophthalmology in this one week than they saw before starting residency. This time around they brought down a Yag laser, which I can best describe as a large apparatus which shoots laser beams into eyes, making blind people see again. If that’s not cool, I don’t know what is. It would be a lie if I said I wasn’t moderately considering ophthalmology as a specialty, although I know I’ll change my mind a minimum of six trillion times between now and picking my residency programs in four years.

On a different note, I had a very humorous experience with one of my students recently. One of my biggest challenges in any subject is teaching the kids how to pronounce words correctly, so I always try to find creative ways to explain pronunciation. Mostly this means relating parts of the English word to words they already know in Spanish – like explaining the month of March as “mar” (which means “sea”) + ch (the sound which people make to get your attention here. ) That way, it’s not just some goofy combination of sounds, but two parts which make a whole.

In my Segundo Basico classes we’re building vocabulary which relates to school – pencil, pen, desk, teacher, student, etc. I felt really lucky when I taught them the word “essay,” since I know they love watching Mexican telenovelas. Mexicans often refer to one another as “ese” (pronounced “essay”) so I explained the connection to them in class. “You already know how to pronounce this word perfectly,” I told them, “because you hear it on TV. “Essay” can be “ensayo,” or it can be a Mexican.” Made perfect sense to me.

On Friday, I assigned each student in the class one of our new school words, and had them make a big, illustrated flash card which I’ll use to drill the whole class on Monday. Little Otto Armando was assigned “essay,” and this is what he turned in at the end of the period:



A guy with a good sound system robbing two people at knifepoint. A Mexican.

I thought he was joking at first, until I saw the confusion at my laughter. Then I felt horrible, because I’d apparently done a poor job of explaining, and now I was embarrassing him. I explained myself again, this time choosing my words much more carefully, and sighed with relief as the bell rang.

Last Day of January - Where did the month go?

Sorry I´ve been so terrible about writing since I got back. About a billion things have happened, all of which have kept me very busy.

About 6 days after I got back down here, Father Hazelton had an accident with his gas burning stove. He left a burner turned on, without a flame burning in it, for about 20 minutes before trying to light it. The result was an explosion which blew the ceiling out of his house, broke windows and left him with 1st and 2nd degree burns on his arms and face. He spent about a week and a half recovering here before being medevac-ed to an LA burn center. He´s not in Helena staying with his sister, apparently recuperating well.

A week after he was burned, a group of visitors from Montana came down. They spent 10 days checking out the area and learning about the mission. The group included our director Mark, two other people from the Diocese and four doctors. The doctors saw patients and took care of Hazy, eventually making the decision to have him sent to the US. Through all of the time they were here I was essentially chief guide and translator, since the nuns and Sheila were totally consumed with taking care of Hazy, who was beginning to develop a rather serious infection in one of the burn wounds. This was in addition to teaching at the school, so I had my hands full.

The doctors left of Saturday, and that afternoon I went to spend the night at my friend Ruth Pamela´s house in Mazate. She´s the medical student who I met through working at the hospital. This week I started going to the hospital in the mornings and teaching in the afternoons. It´s a schedule which includes a ton of running around, but I´m happiest when I´m busy, so I don´t mind. However, it does mean I have much less time to sit down and write, which is why it´s taken me so long just to finish one story.

That´s not about to change, either, because today the eye doctors are arriving for another week-long medical brigade. I’m supposed to translate for them in the exam rooms in the mornings and go up to the school for my afternoon classes. I anticipate exhaustion.

I haven´t put up pictures in a very long time, and I´ve got a few I´d like to show. There are a few new impressive additions to the ¨Bugs¨ picasa folder, and I´ve got an assortment of photos from when the Montana visitors were here. I wanted to share some of the beauty of the scenery here, and I´m afraid the pictures don’t do it any sort of justice, but they’re better than nothing. Enjoy!

January 2009

Bugs

Final Installment....

I was led into the cool, dingy office where a large uniformed man sat behind his rickety metal desk. El comandante briefly explained the situation. With a frown, the man behind the desk gestured me towards a molded plastic chair and took my passport. Slowly, he read through every page, turning it sideways and upside-down when necessary to read the myriad of visa stamps from across Latin America. “Argentina….Chile….Peru…Mexico…” he read them aloud until reaching the most recently marked page, displaying my Guatemalan visa.

Looking up, he remarked “I just don’t think there’s anything we can do. You’ll have to stay here.”

I looked around the room, letting the word “here” hang in the air while contemplating the absurdity of this concept. Slightly more desperate feeling that before, I began to retell my story, emphasizing heavily the fact that I’d tried in good faith to remain legally compliant, and that I’d never intended to break any rules.

“You’ve already been granted favors! Your visa was already renewed once! You’re asking for an awful lot of exceptions to be made…” he replied, stern and perturbed.

That comment irritated me – getting my visa renewed once in Guatemala wasn’t any sort of diplomatic favor. It was perfectly legal and acceptable. At this point, el comandante (who I was beginning to mentally demote from the position of comandante, as he was clearly subordinate to Capitán Grumpypants behind the desk) stepped into the room. “She’s a nun…” he commented to no one in particular, before ducking back out again.

“Oh really?” asked Grumpypants, as a doubtful eyebrow shot up towards his receding hairline. Not sure what to think about the morality of impersonating a nun, I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders.

The forty-five minutes which followed are somewhat of a heat-stroked, stress-drenched blur. I was interrogated with regards to my travels and my work in Guatemala, before being told they’d do me a favor and let me go with a 1,500 Lempira fine. I wasn’t exactly sure what the Dollar-Lempira exchange rate was, but 1,500 of anything seems like an awful lot. Anyhow, they certainly weren’t going to be accepting Visa, and I only had about 120 Lempira on hand. Going along with the accidental nun story, I pleaded poverty, extracting a small handful of Honduran bills and coins from my pockets and placing them on the desk as proof. At this point, the two men retreated to a next-door room, evidently in the illusion of finding auditory privacy. They were wrong about that, as I easily heard the ensuing conversation, wherein the acceptance or rejection of a cash bribe was discussed. To my chagrin, they decided that was a bad idea, and returned to the office after reaching that agreement.

The longer we sat discussing my migratory woes the closer lunch hour approached. Of this fact el comandante was acutely aware. Several times I heard him remark, after stepping out of the room for a mini-conference, “She’s a nun! Just let her go, and then we’ll go eat lunch.” Comments such as this were what steeled me in argument, as they made evident the fact that these men clearly had the power to just wave me across the border. Once I knew that, I was going to make it happen. It became something of a challenge, one which I knew I could win if I held out long enough.

The boss wasn’t totally convinced that I really did belong to a Holy Catholic order. I can’t imagine why. Finally, he decided that the only way to determine if I was in fact a nun, and did in fact deserve a courtesy crossing would be to give me an Official Honduran Immigration Services Nun Test. The intent: proving once and for all if I was faking it. Passing would earn me a five-day visa for getting back into Guatemala, where I could complete all of the necessary paperwork to get OK’d for an extension. I was never told what would happen if I failed, and I decided it would be wisest not to ask. At any rate, I had my hand gripped tightly on my backpack and was prepared to make a run for it should my answers be determined unsatisfactory.

As you may already know, I am not a nun. This truth had me a bit nervous about the Official Honduran Immigration Services Nun Test (which, by the way, was made up on the spot by Capitán Grumpypants.) Luckily, after several months of living with two American nuns, I had at least a bit of ammunition to go off of. I was asked to recite the Hail Mary and the Our Father, in both English and Spanish. Easy enough, although my nerves nearly ruined the charade. I was quizzed about my order (The Order of the Blessed Virgin Mary, also known as the BVM sisters of Minneapolis Minnesota), our mission in Guatemala (Misión Católica de Santo Tomas la Unión, apoyado por el Diócesis de Helena, Montana, EEUU), the name of the Pope (Benedicto el XXVI) the name of my Bishop (Monseñor George Leo Tomas) and the Guatemalan Bishop overseeing our mission (I didn’t know this one, but I figured they didn’t either, so I said something generic like Jesus de León Gonzalez. That was a bit of a gamble.) When they asked me who the Archbishop of Honduras was I nearly panicked, then realized it was silly to think I’d know that even if I was a nun. After all, I’m an American, and I live in Guatemala. As nonchalantly as possible, I scoffed quietly and said “Why would I know that? This is the first time I’ve ever even been to Honduras!”

After a barrage of such questions Capitán decided he was satisfied, and leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he sighed, seeming almost defeated, “I suppose you’ve passed.”

I couldn’t believe it!! I’d just passed a Nun Test!! I still can’t decide if that’s a fact to be proud of or not, but at the moment I was ecstatic. I had to fight to hide the surprise and triumph I was feeling, instead nodding knowingly and saying -

“Por supuesto. Que Dios le Bendiga, Señor.” “But of course. God bless you, Sir.”

El Capitán shuffled through his desk drawers, eventually locating an inkpad and stamp. Just like he could have easily done 45 minutes earlier, he pulled my little blue passport towards him, carefully rolled the stamp across page 17, and blew on it to dry the ink. Then, in careful ballpoint pen underneath, he wrote the date and a note – “Valid for 5 days.” He began to pass it across the desktop to me but, apparently clairvoyant, stopped and pulled it back. Looking at me first, he took the pen and drew two little lines, one on either side of the “5.” Now the note said “Valid for -5- days.” There went the plan which had already sparked in my mind, placing a 1 in front of the number and granting me legal visa status until after I left for home in ten days. Bummer, but at least I got this far. I could worry about the rest back in Guatemala.

In the meantime, I had some very curious and slightly concerned travel companions waiting for me in the hot sun, eager to hear all about what I’d just pulled off. Within a quarter of an hour, I was on a bus zooming through El Salvador, bobbing my head to bachata and enjoying the sweet taste of hard-fought-for freedom.

At El Poy Border Crossing

As I descended from the bus into the shadows of La Entrada, I was struck by a lightening bolt of luck. Also disembarking in this dismal location, clearly alone and appearing relatively apprehensive about her choice in destinations, was a fellow gringa.

“Is this…la Entrada?” she asked me hesitantly in Spanish.

“Appears to be…” I replied, and with the exchange of sympathetic smiles and a brief second’s eye contact, an understanding was reached.

Without even discussing the issue we found a tuk-tuk (Moto-taxi) together, asked the man to deliver us to a cheap hostel and eventually got around to introductions. Nina, I learned, fell in love with a Mexican doctor while studying abroad. They met in Spain, her international academic escape from a home country of Austria. After finishing her studies in Europe Nina moved to Mexico, in order to live with this exotic Latin boyfriend. Despite his relative wealth, copious amounts of tequila consumption and to-die-for-secret-family-recipe steak fajitas, Nina only lasted a few weeks before deciding Dr. Mexican was really just an overdramatic mama’s boy. She’s spent the subsequent several months traversing across Latin America solo. Her next destination, just like mine, was Copan. We spent the next week visiting ruins, being stranded together in a tiny mountain town with no money, no food, and nowhere to go, escaping said situation, bussing across the isthmus to the coast of El Salvador, getting surfing lessons from the locals and enjoying plenty amounts of laughter, sunshine and local beer.

The tale of my visa woes takes place between Nina and I marooning in the highlands of Honduras and a Chinese noodle Thanksgiving dinner in San Salvador. We took a series of buses from the map dot town of Santa Rosa to the Honduras/El Salvador border, joining forces with a wanderlusting Aussie surfer in the process. Nina and I had already been tossing around the idea of giving surfing a shot; his (I can’t remember the guy’s name!) intensity with regards to the pastime was both inspiring and intimidating. Like most young Latin-American travelers, he carried a large backpack containing only the bare necessities. Uniquely, he was also lugging around an oversized padded surfboard case, containing two surfboards. Any sport worth putting up with the incredible pain of dragging that behemoth bag through crowded streets, cramming it into taxis and taking it on overstuffed rural and city buses must be pretty great, Nina and I reasoned. Why not try it? With that, we set our sites on the coast.

Our bus stopped just short of the border crossing, leaving a little stroll in the piercing hot, blindingly vivid sun before entering El Salvador. The tiny strip of land traversed in that walk was so confusing surreal that failing to describe it would be a grand disservice. For reasons unbeknownst to us, our glaringly gringo trio seemed to be the only international migrants of the day. We walked down the center of a dusty gravel road, an American, an Austrian and an Australian, eyeing our dubious surroundings as hard as they eyed us. The streets were lined with tiny wooden shacks, thick layers of dust and exhaustion covering the brilliant paint which had been splashed onto the boards long ago. Each and every shack, easily numbering in the twenties on either side, boasted the title “CASA de ADUANAS” on hand painted signs tacked to walls, above doors, propped on cement steps and hanging crookedly from singular hooks which allowed them to demonstrate an utter lack of breeze by maintaining an eerie stillness. What on earth such an impressive quantity of private customs businesses could possibly be doing in this deserted DMZ I’d hate to ask, for fear of under covering a multitude of trans-national contraband smuggling operations. Not one appeared occupied; private “customs officials,” shirtless and sweaty, peered out at us from their doorways or lounged in the shade of a few limp banana trees. On one side of the street, a warped picnic table hosted a half-hearted checkers game, complete with belly-scratching onlookers. The entire scene had the fantastic feeling of being a Wyoming town, circa July 1860, deserted following news that Billy the Kid would soon be arriving, but transplanted in its entirety to a tropical setting. Very Gabriel Garcia Marquez/Laura Vasquez/Jorge Luis Borge/Smashing Pumpkins music video in its magical realism, if you’ll excuse the literary reference.*

Up ahead a heavy iron-link chain lay across the road, apparently marking the border. The closer we got, the stranger the scene became. It started slowly, 75 yards or so from the makeshift boundary. A rotund-bellied man, shirtless, glistening and odiferous strolled up. Smartly unzipping his neon nylon fanny pack, he withdrew the largest fistful of American dollars I’ve ever seen brandished. Shaking it in our faces, he proclaimed insistently “Cambio! Cambio! Do-lars! Do-lars! Quiere Cambio?” Taken aback, we shook firm “no’s” and pressed forward. Melting out of the sparse shadows, oozing from plastered positions on CASA de ADUANAS doorsteps and appearing (very fat) out of thin air, one monetary exchange wildcatter multiplied into dozens. Overwhelmed by their numbers, stenches, dodgy handfuls of greenbacks and protruding guts we quickened our steps. The three of us reached the iron chain and looked around in expectation of an official gatekeeper. Several steps behind us sat a small building whose sign identified it as Honduran immigration; it appeared totally empty and utterly unconcerned with our crossing. Unfettered, we stepped across and continued on.

On the Salvador side, things appeared slightly different. No CASA de ADUANAS buildings soiled the sidewalks, and after shrugging off a few cambio men we were on our own. I had been prepared to employ my most persuasive Spanish skills in order to enter El Salvador, thanks to my expired visa, and was relieved to be crossing without so much as a glance at my passport.

Unfortunately, my relief was short lived. Up ahead in the road was a little guard station, and as we approached a few uniformed, armed men strolled out. Not yet concerned, we handed over our passports. The guard took mine, flipped through the pages, found my current visa, and issued a low, long whistle.

“Sorry, mamita, but you can’t pass.”

Not particularly surprised or perturbed, I explained in my sweetest possible Spanish that yes, actually, I could. I told him that I’d consulted with both Guatemalan and Honduran border guards, and had visited the immigration office in San Pedro Sula, and the overall conclusion drawn was that I’d just need to fix the little teeny tiny misunderstanding once I got back to Guatemala. In truth, the first Honduran immigration officer I spoke with had told me that, and the Guatemalans were so cavalier about the whole issue that I believed what I said. Furthermore, I’ve come to understand that down here, anything can be up for negotiation if you want it to be badly enough. I had already mentally prepared myself for bribing if necessary, although I wasn’t exactly sure how that process should work.

I did my best to calmly elucidate the fact that, despite the official stamp in my visa, officials elsewhere had given me the green light to cross. The guard gave me a long, hard once-over and, apparently satisfied, took a second to ponder what I was telling him. He waved over a supervisor, and together we explained the unfortunate confusion. The boss nodded sympathetically throughout the story, and waved us out of the middle of the road, away from Nina and surfer boy. Had there been a single car in sight that would have seemed reasonable. However, since there was not, nor had there been since we’d arrived at the border, it seemed a bit sketchy. He began asking questions, clarifying the situation. I gave him honest answers to the numerous inquiries, and only furrowed my brow when he waved us slightly further away from the rest of the guards and my travel companions. Why is this auditory isolation necessary? I wondered. Looking back, the answer is rather crystal clear. Had I truly possessed the spirit of an officials-briber, I was being handed the opportunity. Instead, naïve to the ways of the illicit world, I simply followed him towards the ditch.

Having achieved a further degree of isolation, el comandante and the lesser-ranking guard began re-asking the same questions, perhaps giving me a chance to change my story. I re-told it, identical to the first time, starting with my first visa renewal in Guatemala City in August and ending with my arrival at this border crossing, El Poy. When I finished, el comandante shook his head several times slowly before beginning to speak.

“I’m sorry. But you’ll have to stay here.”

“Here?!?” I asked, incredulously. I knew I was trying to bend a rule, but up until this statement I’d been confident I’d get across. I’m young, polite, foreign, and, most importantly, feminine. Surely these ogling creepers could be persuaded to do as I wished!

“But! I can’t!” I replied, firmly. Stating the obvious, I added “I’m on my way to El Salvador.”

“No, mi reina, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here in Honduras.”

Obviously that was ridiculous – what was I going to do in Honduras? Take up residence? Try and sneak out through some other border crossing? I’d already been flatly denied a visa, so I wasn’t exactly sure what else I could do. Of course now, calmly sitting down and writing out the story, adequate legal paths come to mind. Clearly I could have gone to the US Embassy in Tegucigalpa, where my little blue passport would grant me access to all manners of diplomatic assistance. However, sweating and stressing in the dreadful piercing sun of an uneasy, desolate border town, the thought didn’t even occur to me. Arguing, however, did.

Wanting to help me, searching for an excuse to make things work, el comandante leafed through my passport once more. Upon arriving on the page of my Guatemalan visa stamp he stared down hard, willing it to produce a solution.

“Gua-te-ma-la…” he drawled, dragging out each syllable as if one of them may hold the key. “What, exactly, did you say you’re doing there?” he asked.

Well, I hadn’t yet said, but in the most saintly tone I could muster I replied “Doing volunteer work with a Catholic community in Suchitepéquez.” Considering the supposed piety of Latin American cultures, I hoped that this answer may be my golden ticket to freedom. Sure enough, the jefe raised his eyebrows in surprise, glanced at my slightly low-cut shirt, passed his eyes over my nose ring and then said “Oh really?”

“Yup.” I answered, and then, to prove I wasn’t fibbing, I added “I teach in a school for Indian children.” Since not many people could handle a job like that without some level of Divine Assistance, I thought it ought to prove my point.

“Eres religiosa?” The boss asked, clearly interested in my reply.

Since that question means “Are you religious,” and I’d just said I work for the Catholic Church, and people like to make a big show of how very religious they are down here, it seemed that the only logical answer was yes. So, that’s what I said.

Seconds after the word escaped my lips, I realized the mistake I’d just made. “Eres religiosa?” actually has dual interpretations. One is “Are you a religious person,” and the other “Do you belong to a religious order?” The latter, when written, would capitalize the word “religiosa.” Sadly, no such punctuation is possible in conversation, and I misinterpreted as a result. I had just declared myself to be a nun. Theoretically, if they bought it, this should make them more likely to cut me a break, though, so I decided I’d just go with it. After all, changing my story by taking it back would look pretty wishy-washy, and the last thing I wanted was for them to doubt me at this point. They’d probably send me to the dungeons of a Honduran prison if they thought I was toying with them, a fate I didn’t exactly embrace.

As I suspected, this admission of religious affiliation changed the situation a bit. Although the men interviewing me clearly had their doubts that I was actually a nun (fair enough…) they seemed willing to work with the idea.

“Why don’t we step into the immigration office…” suggested el comandante, gesturing through shimmering heat towards the derelict building we’d passed at the border-cable. He began to stride in that direction, and after a quick yearning glance and “I have no idea what’s going on” shrug of my shoulders towards my traveling companions, I scurried to catch up with him.




…we’re almost finished…..

…One more installment to go….




*I fully expect that Lauren Grahm and I are the only people who would understand that sentence, and I don’t even think he reads this. I wrote it anyways, because it’s the perfect description of the escenario. Don’t worry if it was nonsense to you.

Felize Ano Nuevo! (If you understand Spanish diacritical marks, you'll find that title funny)

Well, dear readers, if ever you existed I’m sure you’ve now found other places to focus your precious internet browsing minutes, far far away from the realm of Jenna Emerson’s blog. Yup, it’s true, I’ve pretty much dropped off the blogosphere map. Oopsi do. I apologize, and please allow me to explain myself. A variety of things happened within the past several months, which resulted in an incidental halt of blog production. They include…

1) My Guatemalan visa expired. This required a trip across an international border to renew. Said “short trip” turned into a three-country, 10-day jaunt, producing copious stories and absolutely no time to write them all down.

2) I returned from this little excursion to find that while I was away, Sheila had returned from her visit to the states. Although no one else had previously expressed any concern or even interest in my decision to take off for a few days, Sheila was furious that I had done something outside of her command or control. This fury, while slightly irrational, ballooned into a veritable Persecution of Jenna Emerson, a proceeding which involved far more people than it should have and was unfortunately blown rather out of proportion. Once she calmed down a bit, and we actually talked face-to-face about the issue, it was evident that she’d had a crazy moment and overreacted. A swing was made from trying to have me unceremoniously sent packing back to the states to the usual support and acceptance.

Up to this point, I haven’t divulged much with respect to Sheila’s craziness. This is not because her lack of general sanity is a minor issue. Quite the contrary, in fact. Although she’s a wonderful person with all of the best intentions, she’s also easily the nuttiest person I’ve ever met, ever, bar none. However, she also was a regular blog reader, so I couldn’t exactly expose that information without running into some rather dicey personnel issues. Now you understand why this blog has become “by invitation only.”

Anyhow, this little maelstrom kept me pretty busy as I tried to smooth things over, and then…

3) I was off, to the states, where I spent Christmas and New Year’s. I was quickly absorbed into the activities of making Christmas fudge, Christmas cookies, Christmas dinners, Christmas pies, Christmas Carmel Coated Yule Logs, Christmas presents…and spending hour upon hour of quality family, friend and Ricky time.

Although all of that blissful relaxation and much needed socializing ended just a few short days ago, sitting here in the same ‘ol Guatemalan dining room listening to crickets, munching on pineapple and enjoying the warm night air, it feels like it was some sort of surreal dream. School “started” today, although students were still in the process of enrolling. That means we have no idea how many students there will be, and therefore, no idea how many sections of each class we’ll need, and therefore, no class schedule yet exists. I have a feeling it will be several weeks before things are really going full-swing. We’ll see how well I put up with this crazy school teaching business this time around. After having such a great time working at the hospital, I have my doubts that I’ll put up with hating my job so very much. What that means, exactly, I’m not sure. Time will have to tell.

So, anyhow, now I’m back on the blogging horse, and my first mission is to share a bit about my visa renewal adventure of late November. Had the titles not already been taken by some other schmuck, I think I’d give this particular escapade the handle “A Comedy of Errors,” or perhaps, “A Series of Unfortunate Events.” Sadly, I think both of those names are spoken for, so I’ll just tell the story without a title.

To begin, I’ll provide the reader with a short primer on Central American migration laws, including details which only became clear to me after I embarked upon my journey.

In order to work in most any foreign country, a worker’s visa is required. In the absurdly tangled bureaucratic tape which has most of the Guatemalan nation knotted up at any given point in time, acquiring such a visa is a royal pain. In order to avoid filling out endless government forms, paying 10,000 quetzales worth of taxes in Q200 or Q300 increments and waiting for months while my passport, driver’s license, DNA saliva swabs, mother’s maiden name and first born child were all held hostage in the immigration office in Guatemala City, we skipped the legal visa procedure. Instead, I’m here with a tourist visa, which is good for up to three months. When my first three months were up, I survived a harrowing trip into the metropolis with Sister Mary in order to pay my small fine and renew. However, following that event, I was no longer eligible for a rubber-stamp extension. After six consecutive months in the country, it’s required that visitors cross an international border, and have a passport stamp to prove it. The idea here is that if you’re really just a tourist you’d never want to stay in tiny little Guatemala for more than six months, and if you’re faking being a tourist you should go through the arduous process of validating you presence here.

All of this I knew, which is why I decided to make a quick run over to the ancient Mayan ruins of Copan, Honduras before my number was up.

What I didn’t know is that the four Central American countries of Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and El Salvador have agreed, within the past several years, to have totally open, fluid borders. Just like traveling between the pre-9/11 USofA, Canada and Mexico didn’t require any sort of stamping, going into and out of these four Latin countries is a relatively document- and paperwork-free process. With this little preface completed, let our story begin…



Blessedly, my Guatemalan life had been busy, pleasant and fulfilling in the weeks leading up to November 25th, the day my visa was set to expire. The 18th through the 22nd a medical conference was held in Mazate, full of scientific talks, delicious meals, live music nightly and free booze. I’ve made friends with a Guatemalan medical student, Pamela, who’s the perfect balance of crazy and intelligent which I require in friends. I was in no big rush to embark on a weekend of lonesome solo-traveling, after finding such fun things to do here at home. Rather than worry about making plans for an upcoming adventure, I figured that my ever so travel-savvy self could easily hop on a bus make plans on the fly as necessary. I didn’t know exactly where I would go or what I would do upon arriving; I imagined that everything would fall into place on the road. No worries, thought I, I’ve got this Latin American traveler game under control.

I was about to learn a valuable lesson in humility. Bright and early Sunday morning I awoke in Guatemala City, where I’d stayed the night before with my American friends Kammie and Stephanie. I took a taxi to the downtown terminal, where my Honduras-bound bus was supposed to leave at 5:30 am. This was where things began to head south. We arrived at 5:22, only to be told that the bus schedule had recently changed, and the bus now departs at 5:20. Two minutes ago. Miraculously, in the one instance since I arrived here, Guatemala was running on time, and the bus had already left. “Elmer,” my taxi driver, assured me he had a backup plan, and we embarked on a wild early-morning tour of the city which ended as I frantically threw a handful of quetzales at Elmer from the backseat, vaulted out of his taxi and sprinted through a traffic jam to board a bus stopped at a red light. A slightly rough trial before the sun has risen, but I made it.

Panting yet relieved, I asked the driver if this bus happened to be Copan-bound. “No. Copan. No.” was his bored reply. Upon further prodding, he revealed that it was headed for San Pedro Sula, Honduras, a name which meant absolutely nothing to me. Realizing that it’s often necessary to transfer buses any number of times before ever reaching a specific destination, and trusting in Elmer’s advice that this bus was in fact that bus for me, I asked if I could reach Copan easily from there. “Aw, sure” the driver yawned. Convinced by this totally nonchalant response, I found myself a seat and fell sound asleep.

I awoke several hours later. I was well on my way to San Pedro Sula, having passed Esquipulas at least a hundred kilometers ago. No one had cared to mention that a transfer in Esquipulas would have taken me straight east to Copan, creating a total trip time of 5 hours. Just getting to San Pedro Sula would take easily that long, and then I’d have to backtrack south through Honduras in order to reach Copan. Groan.

I was now far, far away from my transfer point and continuing in exactly the wrong direction.

We crossed the border at Morales, and I was rather confused by the Guatemalan border control’s lack of concern for my expiring visa. They took one look at my passport, winked coyly (why? Your guess is a good as mine) and returned it. Unsatisfied, I requested a customary exit stamp, since the whole point of this trip was in acquiring that prize. “Nah” they shrugged, “we don’t do stamps anymore.” Politely, I explained the need for a stamp and my concern for my rather mature visa. “Sorry,” they replied, palms up, “we don’t even have an inkpad here anymore. Couldn’t give you a stamp if we wanted to.” As if to prove the point, the guard seated at a desk rocked back in his chair and pulled open the top drawer, displaying his collection of gum wrappers, broken pencils and a tiny 2005 nudie calendar.

Welp. I suppose you could say I’d hit a snag. They assured me, however, that an expired visa is really no big deal at all, and sent me on my merry way.

A few kilometers down the road, at the Honduras entrance station, it was another story. “YOU are going to have Problems” the polite young Honduran man said, shaking his head apologetically and passing my passport through a scratched Plexiglas window. “Your only chance at avoiding the fine – which is greater than 500 lempiras – is going to the immigration office in San Pedro Sula today and getting a new visa.”

This statement elicited from me a big fat sigh of self vindication. I had clearly made a major planning error early in the day, which had me detouring several hours past my destination. Now, the true reason for this huge trip extension was clear – my travel guardian angel was busy delivering me straight into compliance with international migratory regulations. Perfect. I got back on the bus, no longer angry at myself for the first time since I’d woken up, and enjoyed the surfside view into San Pedro.

Upon arriving in the bus terminal I quickly found a taxi which could take me to immigration before they closed at the end of the hour. Triumphant, I marched into the dingy salmon-pink building downtown, found an available clerk and stated my intention.

The visions of sugarplums legal visas which danced in my head were quickly busted by the cruel reality of, well, reality.

The immigration official calmly explained to me that fact the Honduras fully recognizes all Guatemalan visas, and is unable to provide any exceptions to Guatemala’s migration rules. Essentially, as far as my passport’s concerned, there are no borders between the two countries. I might as well have stayed home. He politely told me that my only chance of fulfilling the visa requirements in time was to take a bus to an obscure port town on the Pacific coast, then an overnight freighter boat to Belize. Such a trip would have taken me several thousand kilometers, hundreds of dollars and countless days worth of bumpy bus ride backtracking away from sleepy little Santo Tomas la U. And I only brought two pairs of socks!

After trying for several minutes to politely persuade the guy that his suggestion was actually quite impractical, and he really ought to just quietly, you know, stamp my passport anyways, pretty please, cute smile, coquettish wink, it became evident that this strategy wasn’t going to fly. I’m pretty sure it would have worked in loveable, corruptible Guatemala, but alas, Honduras appeared to be slightly more serious about rules. Frustrated, tired and concerned about what my next step should be, I found another taxi to take me back, defeated, to the overwhelmingly huge bus terminal. En route, I contemplated my options. Eventually I decided I’d give Guatemalan visa regulations the finger, say no-thanks to an extended solo-trip to rain-drenched Belize and proceed as originally planned to Copan. From there I’d figure out my next move. The Guatemalan officials I dealt with upon enter Honduras had seemed so congenial, surely I’d have to trouble returning home.

It was now 4:00 pm. The last bus for Copan leaves at 3:30. Insert unladylike vocabulary here. After several frantic passes through the massive terminal complex, I finally located the last bus going to La Entrada, a town half way to Copan. I had no desire to stay in San Pedro Sula, described in my guidebook as the gang capital of Honduras and the hotspot of the Latin American AIDS epidemic. Much better, I concluded, staying in a town introduced in my guidebook with the line “If you’re staying the night in La Entrada, something must have gone wrong.”

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The story continues…

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Stay tuned!