I always know I’ve gotten myself into some sort of a pickle when I begin thinking “I’ve got to write about this!” Today (Sunday) was one of those days. I’ve got a bit to write about my little vacation with Caleb and friends, but I haven’t gotten around to typing it out yet. In the meantime, I think I’ll share this story…
In order to set things up, we must turn back the clock, to last Thursday. During the truck transport to Xejuyup from the clinic, I found myself standing next to a very friendly, chatty woman. She clambered into the back of the pickup wearing a cute little skirt-suit and sparkly, albeit dirty, sandals. It was early afternoon heat we caught each others’ eyes while swiping giant beads of sweat from our respective brows. Before long, my new buddy Ruth was telling me all about herself. She lives in Santo Tomas, commuting to work as a nurse in both the national hospital in Mazatenango and in Xejuyup. In Mazatenango, Ruth works with “ancianos” (literally, “ancients”). Then, every fourth day, she comes up to Xejuyup and attends to the needs on the other side of life: she’s an on-call OB nurse. There’s a small public health clinic in Xejuyup, funded by the European MedicosMundi program, which lies only a few blocks away from the school. They don’t work with our clinic at all, so I haven’t had an opportunity to actually check it out since I’ve been here. To be honest, I’d pretty much forgotten it existed.
By the time we were in Pochol, about half of the way through our trip, she was offering to call me to come help with any births happening while she’s on call, and inviting me to Sunday dinner with her family. Delighted to be making a new friend and thrilled at the prospect of attending births, we exchanged phone numbers and planned on a Sunday lunch.
I was beginning to think that Ruth had forgotten about our plans by Sunday morning when she still hadn’t called to give me direction to her house as planned. Finally, a bit before noon, my phone began ribbiting insistently. (Yes, ribbiting. Exactly the same as the phone I had in Chile, my ringtone is a bullfrog.) It was Ruth, calling to confirm our plans and giving me instructions on how to find her house.
I walked across town, a bit apprehensive about what I may find. Strictly theoretically speaking, I’d imagine that polite social circumstances are probably about the same across all cultures. Notwithstanding, accepting an invitation to family dinner has the potential to be uniquely awkward, should there be specific expectations about, for example, saying grace, or eating with tortillas en lieu of utensils. Here, those are both definite valid concerns.
Luckily, Ruth’s chatty personality (and, in all reality, probably mine, too) alleviated any potential discomfort. Her family was very nice, and I ended up staying for over two hours yakking away and making new friends.
The only snag popped up as I was preparing to leave, when the family patriarch extended a most hearty invitation to attend his church service that evening. “It’s just two hours long! Really short!”
While that may not sound like a particularly complicated situation, the fact that I’m here working as a Catholic missionary creates a bit of a conundrum. Although I feel perfectly comfortable attending non-Catholic services, it’s important that I don’t send mixed messages as a representative of the Mission. Not to mention the fact that I’d just burned two hours with these folks; weren’t they sick of me yet?
I ended up giving a trademark noncommittal response, something to the effect of “I’ve got a lot of things to get done this afternoon, but if I finish in time I’ll show up” and headed home.
Further reflection on the situation led me to the decision to show up. I really enjoy Ruth, and her family was incredibly hospitable, and I’d like to forge a friendship. She’s very willing to let me her accompany her at the clinic, which would be way cool. Moreover, she’s got major aspirations to study a nursing specialty in the US, and is eager to learn English and have good American contacts. Basically, not only do we get along well, but we’ve both got something to offer one another. I finished a few projects at the Mission and headed downtown to find their church.
After a few wrong turns and a bit of confused wandering, I finally located a sign proclaiming the “Iglesia Rios de Aguas Vivas” to be “a 80 metros!” I walked down the alley, encouraged by the presence of several children running around outside a small doorway from which animated ecclesiastical shouting overflowed.
I ducked into the tiny basement enclave, where about fifteen people sat sweating and “Amening!” with enthusiasm. It only took a few seconds to survey the faces of the crowd, and realize that not one of them was familiar. Strange, considering that Ruth’s father was supposedly the preacher. The chubby middle-aged man shouting into a microphone at the front of the room looked nothing like the distinguished, kind older gentleman with whom I’d eaten lunch earlier today. Perhaps I’d arrived at the wrong church? But I’d followed Ruth’s instructions exactly, and followed the sign with the name of their church outside, which pointed down this alley. However, there are literally hundreds of little evangelical churches all throughout the area, so it wouldn’t be impossible that there were several in the vicinity, and I’d somehow detoured.
Unfortunately, the preacher made a big point of welcoming me into their service, and continued to point out “the new American sister” who was gracing their “humble little church, and Guatemala” with her “love of God and her kind heart.” It’s kinda tough to get up and walk out of a group of less than two dozen people once things like that have been said about you.
Still doubting my choice of locations, but now unable to quietly duck out, I was forced to stick around for the whole show. Our petite tin shack functioned as a wonderful oven, amplifying the heat of both our preacher’s passion and of the tropical air, ripening my freshly showered body to a disgusting state of sticky stink. I perspired in my pew, amused by the cries of excitement coming from our bite-sized congregation. My mind periodically wandered, pondering where I could possibly be, considering if Ruth was asking herself the same question. However, I was frequently brought back to focus on the sermon’s message of a unified body of Christ on earth (wasn’t that the whole idea of Catholicism to start with? Why’d ya go start your own church, evangelical preacher man, when someone else already thought of this idea, about 1,975 years ago?) by references to myself in the oration.
Finally, after a solid hour’s worth of “Hallelujahs,” “Amens” and rounds of applause in the name’o’the’Lord, our thoroughly sweat-drenched microphone wielding leader began showing signs of wearing down. He invited his wife to the front of the room, signifying family unity, and then insisted that I join them, as a symbol of international unity. I hesitantly stepped forward, and was glad to hear him soon encourage everyone to come forward together. We were instructed to join hands, close our eyes, and pray together.
That’s not too weird, I can do that.
Or so I thought.
Apparently the highly emotional nature of the homily extended far and wide into group prayer time. What began as insistence to pray aloud together, pledging to look favorably upon our fellow man, soon turned into passionate admonitions to never again speak negatively about our own family. As the people around me began to swear aloud along with their leader, vowing to never again speak against their family, I felt a bit confused. Sure, that’s a worthwhile oath to take, but to be honest I didn’t exactly find it necessary. Who are these people running around all day talking trash about their kids and parents? The preacher’s passion for the cause made it seem like a much more pressing issue than I hope it is. Really, I kept thinking to myself, I can’t remember the last time I said something bad about my family. How strange.
Regardless of my inability to connect to the cause, everyone else seemed thoroughly concerned with the current state of their familial relationships. It didn’t take long before our hand-holding circle was a full-on emotion-fest. As the sounds around me began increasing, I peeked a look around the circle. Everyone but me was loudly and fervently crying out, moaning, swaying and sobbing. Tears ran down the faces of men and women alike, left untouched to stream down their cheeks, pool at their jaw lines and drip onto clothes and sweat glistening collarbones. The woman beside me was shaking, weeping with a gusto which bordered on hysteria. Throughout it all, our tubby leader paced within the circle, shouting into the unnecessary microphone and crying unashamedly, apparently repentant of the innumerable times he’d recently called his kids little shits. That’s my best guess, anyways; in spite of all the very zealous encouragement to join in on the expressive jamboree, the details of our goal remained conspicuously nonexistent. I feel pretty confident that the idea was simply to get all worked up, in order to prove you were a’feelin’ the Holy Spirit.
I stifled laughter, and watched the clock.
Everyone else’s eyes were closed and streaming tears, so I don’t think they noticed my amusement.
Finally, after a good fifteen minutes of group emotion time, things wrapped up. This was after receiving a rather unfortunate embrace of welcome from the drippy, sticky minister, who eagerly invited me to come back. He also did something which surprised me, actually. He thanked me for being here, in Guatemala, and for leaving my family and home to serve others. It was strange, because even though I don’t necessarily feel like I deserve any thanks at all (am I really even doing anything constructive here? I honestly doubt that I am), it was nice to hear that.
The best part of all came at the very end, when a guy a few years older than me, who’d been sitting behind me the whole time, said “You’re here looking for Ruth, aren’t you?”
Thank God! Maybe I hadn’t been wrong after all! Perhaps something had come up, and she’d left early! But this was the right place!
I confirmed his suspicions, only to be informed that I had in fact showed up at the wrong church. We walked outside and turned the corner at the end of the alley where our basement was located. Lo and behold, had I walked another 10 feet to the end of the alley I’d have seen yet another hidden house of worship, clearly marked “Rios de Aguas Vivas.” I’d sat through that whole awkward, exaggerated service for nothing.
Already having come this far, I decided I may as well prove to Ruth that I had in fact shown up. The guy who’d approached me, apparently a friend of hers, walked me down the street, probably to ensure I didn’t screw up again. Ruth had said that their service would be from 4 to 6, and since it was not just a few minutes after 6, I assumed things would be wrapping up and I’d be able to say hi. She welcomed me into the Sunday school class she was leading, and invited me to stick around until the service was over.
That ended up being past 7 pm, instead of 6. Jesus. Really. I was about God’ed out by the end of it all, and finally explained that I was expected for dinner (a sort-of truth) and needed to get going.
After that silly Sunday ordeal, I think I’ve just got more encouragement to stick with my predictable ol’ faithful Catholic Mass, thank you very much.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Oopsi Do
Uh, yeah, that's what I meant. (Who needs a college degree when the internet exists?)
"Hi Jenna:
Sodium chloride is NaCl or common table salt. Where is that chemistry book when you need it?
Common chemical bleaches include household "chlorine bleach", a solution of approximately 3-6% sodium hypochlorite (NaOCl), and "oxygen bleach", which contains hydrogen peroxide or a peroxide-releasing compound such as sodium perborate or sodium percarbonate. Bleaching powder is calcium hypochlorite.
I found the bleach info on the Internet for you.
Merrill"
"Hi Jenna:
Sodium chloride is NaCl or common table salt. Where is that chemistry book when you need it?
Common chemical bleaches include household "chlorine bleach", a solution of approximately 3-6% sodium hypochlorite (NaOCl), and "oxygen bleach", which contains hydrogen peroxide or a peroxide-releasing compound such as sodium perborate or sodium percarbonate. Bleaching powder is calcium hypochlorite.
I found the bleach info on the Internet for you.
Merrill"
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Let us bow and give thanks to the power of sodium chloride….
Well, a word of warning to any loyal readership which I presumptuously assume exists…I’m afraid I haven’t been up to anything particularly notable of late, and have very few interesting things to report. Additionally, I’m now about to embark on about a week of traipsing around the country, skipping out on school, and probably not sitting down at a computer blogging away. A very good friend from way back (how way? We were babysat together before being old enough to attend preschool, if that gives you an idea) is currently running around Guatemala with two college friends. They’ve been in the country for two weeks while I’ve been occupied with educational pursuits and excretory system infections, and they’ve been exploring far away from here. However, Caleb and his traveling companions will be arriving in Antigua on Friday, and I’ll be there waiting for them. Apparently there’s some sort of sports-fun-day activity instead of school tomorrow, and so I’m just going to quietly skip out and hop on a bus to the city. Then, amazingly, all of next week is mid-term week. Around here, midterms are similar to our college finals, with a totally revised and adjusted schedule for everyone, Monday through Friday. Miraculously, my first final is Thursday afternoon, so I’m free to travel around until then. That being said, you can understand why there probably won’t be any blog updates for awhile.
Of course, none of this has anything to do with bleach. Why the strange blog title, you wonder?
As I looked around my room for items to throw into my strikingly empty backpack (apparently I’ve learned a thing or two about packing lightly and living sparsely; it’s only about half full!), I noticed a beloved, nearly forgotten item. My well worn Staggering Ox hat had been sitting, ignored, on the same shelf since I first unpacked. As something I generally consider a staple of summer-time attire, it surprised me to realize I hadn’t yet worn it. In fact, all of last summer, in my short-lived stint as a collegiate cross country runner in training, I’d used it nearly daily. The oppressive heat of New York City streets, choked with sticky smog, don’t have much tolerance for the stray runner adding their own sweat to the humidity. A hat was necessary if I wanted to keep my eyes clear of salty runoff, and this particular one saw frequent usage.
Eager to plop it on my head, glance in the mirror and reminisce about what I was doing last July, I lifted my hat from the shelf. Imagine my dismay when I was greeted with this sight:
(Click on the hat for more pictures...)
Apparently the slight discoloration around the hat band, earned through many hours of long, sweaty runs, had discovered a new purpose in life: growing. With vigor. I’ve certainly recognized the humidity of this steamy little school in the mountains, but it hadn’t occurred to me that inanimate possessions (my hair notwithstanding) would also take note.
After a quick scrub session with (this is where the title comes in) a rather stiff bleach solution, my hat has a new lease on life. There’s nothing like the nose-hair singeing scent and tenacious slippery sensation of strong chemical base on the hands to certify cleanliness! It’s a slightly pinker life thanks to the, well, bleaching powers of the cleaning agent of choice, but I’m unconcerned. Ball caps of this nature earn their position into an owner’s heart thanks to trials and tribulations exactly like this. It’s drying this weekend, instead of traveling, but it’ll get another chance.
Of course, none of this has anything to do with bleach. Why the strange blog title, you wonder?
As I looked around my room for items to throw into my strikingly empty backpack (apparently I’ve learned a thing or two about packing lightly and living sparsely; it’s only about half full!), I noticed a beloved, nearly forgotten item. My well worn Staggering Ox hat had been sitting, ignored, on the same shelf since I first unpacked. As something I generally consider a staple of summer-time attire, it surprised me to realize I hadn’t yet worn it. In fact, all of last summer, in my short-lived stint as a collegiate cross country runner in training, I’d used it nearly daily. The oppressive heat of New York City streets, choked with sticky smog, don’t have much tolerance for the stray runner adding their own sweat to the humidity. A hat was necessary if I wanted to keep my eyes clear of salty runoff, and this particular one saw frequent usage.
Eager to plop it on my head, glance in the mirror and reminisce about what I was doing last July, I lifted my hat from the shelf. Imagine my dismay when I was greeted with this sight:
 |
| A Moldy Hat. |
(Click on the hat for more pictures...)
Apparently the slight discoloration around the hat band, earned through many hours of long, sweaty runs, had discovered a new purpose in life: growing. With vigor. I’ve certainly recognized the humidity of this steamy little school in the mountains, but it hadn’t occurred to me that inanimate possessions (my hair notwithstanding) would also take note.
After a quick scrub session with (this is where the title comes in) a rather stiff bleach solution, my hat has a new lease on life. There’s nothing like the nose-hair singeing scent and tenacious slippery sensation of strong chemical base on the hands to certify cleanliness! It’s a slightly pinker life thanks to the, well, bleaching powers of the cleaning agent of choice, but I’m unconcerned. Ball caps of this nature earn their position into an owner’s heart thanks to trials and tribulations exactly like this. It’s drying this weekend, instead of traveling, but it’ll get another chance.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Pictures from the Beach
Last Sunday, Sheila and I drove down to the beach for the afternoon. It's a little over an hour away, and she had some errands to run along the way. Here are a couple of pictures I took while there...
 |
| The Beach |
An Assortment of Uncomfortable Conditions
Well, in case you feel like keeping count, I’ll provide the current tally:
Jenna: 0
Tropical Diseases: 3
1. I, er, pushed my way through the unpleasantries of living several weeks as the host of an intestinal amoeba without commenting on the matter in this public forum. It didn’t exactly seem necessary to share details, although really the worst of it was just a chronic, mono-style exhaustion. I’m pretty certain I started my job as happy hostess rather shortly after arriving here, and failed to acknowledge the reality of my parasitic infestation for an extended period of time. I expected much more concrete (or, perhaps, liquid) signs of a digestive tenant, so when Sheila mentioned off-hand one day that amoebas mostly just suck all of your energy, it suddenly clicked. When the effort required to get out of bed, eat breakfast and return to your room requires a nap to recharge, maybe there’s a problem there. She put me on a five-day course of anti-gut-bug medicine, and I started feeling better immediately. I have to wonder if that didn’t have something to do with my immense frustration at the start – after all, dealing with 5 huge classes like these would wear out a healthy person!
Although I readily recovered from this situation, I ironically developed my next malady the day of my last amoeba-cidil pill.
2. Monday morning, I noticed a strange mark resembling a burn on my chin. “How does one burn their chin?” I wondered to the mirror. I certainly had no recollection of such an event occurring. It was about quarter-sized, and stayed on my face like a large Popsicle stain for the entire day. A bit embarrassing, but without a mirror in front of me it was easy enough to pretend it didn’t exist.
Until I awoke on Tuesday. There, where once a strange red mark had been, was undoubtedly the largest, ugliest blister I have ever seen. The original spot hadn’t hurt or been hot at all, but it was definitely angry at my face now. Not only that, but it had spread to other, non-contiguous locations near my lips and other parts of my chin, and a familiar looking red-spot was forming on my hand wear I habitually rest my face while sleeping. This, I thought, is just great.
Reluctant to play the part of hypersensitive, sheltered American, I tried to will it away for a few hours. Eventually, however, I called Sheila, and described the condition to her. She was immediately convinced that a visit to a doctor was in order, a response which made me feel both better and worse.
The doctor in Santo Tomas glanced at me from across the desk and said “You don’t have herpes, do you?”
“GOOD LORD!!! I HOPE NOT!!! HOW??!?!?!” (Accompanied by a brief panic attack)…
...was my level-headed response. Hallelujah and glory be, an actual inspection of my swollen pustule eliminated that consideration. Although it probably is a viral condition, he declared it to be contracted from a bug bite, and not herpes. That’s more like it.
I was sent home with a cream made in France and told to return on Friday. The blister disappeared by the next morning, and has now been replaced with a giant brown scab. I’m still trying to decide which is worse. I considered taking a picture, but to be honest, I don’t really want to share this embarrassment through visual aids. I’ll let you use your imagination.
3. Kidney Infection (OK, so technically, this isn’t a specifically “tropical” disease, but since I’ve never had any sort of urinary track issues previous to being here, and this one has hit me like a head on collision with a brick wall, I think I’m going to count it.)
I spent the second half of this week trying to ignore fever chills, weakness, aching muscles, nausea and a general feeling of yuckiness. On Friday, when I hurt so bad I stayed in bed until noon, I decided that maybe I had come down with a little illness. Luckily the doctor in Santo Tomas was expecting me anyways, wanting to check up on my skin condition. After suffering through my classes, where just taking role call was nearly enough to wipe me out, I jumped in one of my favorite covered truck transports to Santo Tomas. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant ride; I spent all of my energy focusing on not vomiting on the polite man trying to talk politics and immigration with me.
It didn’t take the doctor long to determine that my skin seemed to be healing fine, while my liquid excretory system was another story. I was just happy to have some pain medicine, and to get started on antibiotics. Theoretically I’m on the path to wellness now, although my intense fever chills and sweat-soaked sheets last night make it hard to believe. I had no idea something as normal sounding as a kidney infection could be this miserable!! Thank God it’s the weekend, at least!
Although I don’t exactly look forward to maintaining this scoreboard, I have a sneaking suspicion it may continue to receive updates. I’ve yet to determine how I’ll win points…
Jenna: 0
Tropical Diseases: 3
1. I, er, pushed my way through the unpleasantries of living several weeks as the host of an intestinal amoeba without commenting on the matter in this public forum. It didn’t exactly seem necessary to share details, although really the worst of it was just a chronic, mono-style exhaustion. I’m pretty certain I started my job as happy hostess rather shortly after arriving here, and failed to acknowledge the reality of my parasitic infestation for an extended period of time. I expected much more concrete (or, perhaps, liquid) signs of a digestive tenant, so when Sheila mentioned off-hand one day that amoebas mostly just suck all of your energy, it suddenly clicked. When the effort required to get out of bed, eat breakfast and return to your room requires a nap to recharge, maybe there’s a problem there. She put me on a five-day course of anti-gut-bug medicine, and I started feeling better immediately. I have to wonder if that didn’t have something to do with my immense frustration at the start – after all, dealing with 5 huge classes like these would wear out a healthy person!
Although I readily recovered from this situation, I ironically developed my next malady the day of my last amoeba-cidil pill.
2. Monday morning, I noticed a strange mark resembling a burn on my chin. “How does one burn their chin?” I wondered to the mirror. I certainly had no recollection of such an event occurring. It was about quarter-sized, and stayed on my face like a large Popsicle stain for the entire day. A bit embarrassing, but without a mirror in front of me it was easy enough to pretend it didn’t exist.
Until I awoke on Tuesday. There, where once a strange red mark had been, was undoubtedly the largest, ugliest blister I have ever seen. The original spot hadn’t hurt or been hot at all, but it was definitely angry at my face now. Not only that, but it had spread to other, non-contiguous locations near my lips and other parts of my chin, and a familiar looking red-spot was forming on my hand wear I habitually rest my face while sleeping. This, I thought, is just great.
Reluctant to play the part of hypersensitive, sheltered American, I tried to will it away for a few hours. Eventually, however, I called Sheila, and described the condition to her. She was immediately convinced that a visit to a doctor was in order, a response which made me feel both better and worse.
The doctor in Santo Tomas glanced at me from across the desk and said “You don’t have herpes, do you?”
“GOOD LORD!!! I HOPE NOT!!! HOW??!?!?!” (Accompanied by a brief panic attack)…
...was my level-headed response. Hallelujah and glory be, an actual inspection of my swollen pustule eliminated that consideration. Although it probably is a viral condition, he declared it to be contracted from a bug bite, and not herpes. That’s more like it.
I was sent home with a cream made in France and told to return on Friday. The blister disappeared by the next morning, and has now been replaced with a giant brown scab. I’m still trying to decide which is worse. I considered taking a picture, but to be honest, I don’t really want to share this embarrassment through visual aids. I’ll let you use your imagination.
3. Kidney Infection (OK, so technically, this isn’t a specifically “tropical” disease, but since I’ve never had any sort of urinary track issues previous to being here, and this one has hit me like a head on collision with a brick wall, I think I’m going to count it.)
I spent the second half of this week trying to ignore fever chills, weakness, aching muscles, nausea and a general feeling of yuckiness. On Friday, when I hurt so bad I stayed in bed until noon, I decided that maybe I had come down with a little illness. Luckily the doctor in Santo Tomas was expecting me anyways, wanting to check up on my skin condition. After suffering through my classes, where just taking role call was nearly enough to wipe me out, I jumped in one of my favorite covered truck transports to Santo Tomas. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant ride; I spent all of my energy focusing on not vomiting on the polite man trying to talk politics and immigration with me.
It didn’t take the doctor long to determine that my skin seemed to be healing fine, while my liquid excretory system was another story. I was just happy to have some pain medicine, and to get started on antibiotics. Theoretically I’m on the path to wellness now, although my intense fever chills and sweat-soaked sheets last night make it hard to believe. I had no idea something as normal sounding as a kidney infection could be this miserable!! Thank God it’s the weekend, at least!
Although I don’t exactly look forward to maintaining this scoreboard, I have a sneaking suspicion it may continue to receive updates. I’ve yet to determine how I’ll win points…
Monday, July 07, 2008
Rain rain go away...
I came down to Santo Tomas on Thursday, in order to use the internet and take care of a few errands. After eating lunch at the clinic with Sheila, I was ready to go back to the school. It usually doesn’t start raining until 2 or 3 in the afternoon, but unfortunately the downpour decided to start earlier on this particular day. The sky was darkening ominously as I washed our dishes, and by the time I was leaving the clinic clouds had already opened to flood the world. I have to walk several hilly blocks to the street where trucks depart for Xejuyup, so I popped open my umbrella, clutched my bag to my body, and pressed forward.
The rain came with vigor, pounding at the streets, drops beating their way to the bottom of filthy puddles. Thin sheets of water rushed down the steep roads, pushing against the shoes of the besieged pedestrians and soaking our feet. I wielded my umbrella like a shield, determined in protecting my backpack (containing my laptop) and myself. My hand gripped the shaft handle, holding my little tent aloft, creating a small haven of near-dryness in this suddenly underwater world.
And then, just as abruptly as it had arrived, the rain stopped. It took a moment to process, after spending several minutes committed to the mission of traveling through the aquatic onslaught, after dedicating all of my energies to the simple goal of staying dry. It was like a small window into the psychology of retirement: after throwing all of your being into one specific aim, you suddenly find yourself without that objective. In short, momentarily shocking.
I climbed into the back of one of the Xejuyup-bound trucks, hoping that the rain would hold off until I arrived back at the school. My desire alone, however, was not enough to control the weather. Shortly after boarding the back of an empty pickup, I felt the fat drops recommence their fall. I stood, waiting, unsure of what to do. So far, sheer luck had kept me from traveling via pickup in serious rain; I wasn’t sure what the protocol was. I could put my umbrella up, but other people were beginning to get in around me, and an umbrella would surely bump into them. Besides, I’d seen pickups like this with tarps draped over the top, protecting the passengers from a sure soaking.
These public-transport trucks have metal frames around the bed, extending up to about mid-chest height. They stand up straight from the sides, and additional bars extend inward and slightly upward toward the middle. Meeting there, they form an inverted “V” down the back with a single metal shaft joining the lateral beams. The tarps drape over these tent skeletons. Hopefully we’d soon be using ours.
No one else was opening their umbrellas, and I didn’t want to stand out as the single strange gringa anymore than I already do. I hoped that someone would soon make a move to pull a tarp over us, as my backpack was getting drenched. Finally, our chauffer, the man in charge of making all the big decisions, a short pimply kid who was probably fifteen, came to the conclusion that the rain was hard enough to warrant breaking out some protection. He scrambled into the truck bed and began tying and untying an elaborate system of knots behind the cab, finally freeing a tarp to cover us.
Once our shelter had been created, I reached a much greater understanding of its bittersweet nature. Yes, I was no longer being pelted by ping-pong ball sized drops of rain, and my computer was momentarily safe from heaven’s own inundation.
However, I was standing near the side of the truck, at the lowest level of the cover’s frame. This meant that I had to bend over steeply, attempting to balance my backpack on a tiny ledge above the flooded floor and limiting my available air supply to only the hot, sticky, stagnant air squeezed in between the bodies of human and fowl which crowded the truck. Upon filling with enough passengers to satisfy the driver, our ride lurched forward, jostling the pack of damp bodies into one another.
Normally, I love the truck rides up and down the mountains, delighting in the great flying leaps which we take over potholes, the sudden zigzagging maneuvers executed with precision to avoid animals, other vehicles and temporary rivers running through the street. However, all of this is only fun when accompanied with the benefit of anticipation. When blind to your surroundings, uncomfortably soggy, ungraciously twisted and left with little to grasp for support, things are different.
I rode along in misery, violently wobbling and wondering how I would ever know when we’d reached Xejuyup. With no ability to gauge our relative position in the world, and distracted by the stench of the drunken crazy to my left, I was sure it would be difficult at best. I resigned myself to the inevitability of a long, agonizing journey, and tried to find reassurance in imagining worse possible scenarios. At least no one seemed to be hacking a TB cough into our close, contained quarters. And although people had brought birds aboard, there certainly weren’t any stinky goats or sheep running around. Yeah, this wasn’t so bad.
Mercifully, a mere quarter of an hour into our trip, the rain ceded its campaign against our comfort. As we jolted along the bumpy road, the passengers began pushing the tarp forward, uncovering the load of human cargo, exposing us all to the great outdoors.
It was like being born. I stretched my face upward, extended the crooked muscles in my neck and back, and breathed in the fresh breeze blowing past. It was a drastic change from the moribund, tepid air which had been slowly suffocating us. Instead, it was clear, crisp, cool, tinted with whiffs of smoke from nearby cooking fires and the sweet jasmine-esque flower held by a man standing beside me. Filthy, skinny children and their filthy, skinny dogs played in the dirt outside homes as we sped past. Despite our period of isolation beneath a blue nylon prison, the world had continued around us. In no time at all, I was reunited with the joy and excitement of flying over the earth, the adrenaline rush created by constantly feeling out of control of my own safety. I thought to myself, as I leaned forward over the truck cab, “This is how Christopher Reeves would have felt had he ever regained the ability to walk. Suddenly, preciously, unequivocally alive.”
The rain came with vigor, pounding at the streets, drops beating their way to the bottom of filthy puddles. Thin sheets of water rushed down the steep roads, pushing against the shoes of the besieged pedestrians and soaking our feet. I wielded my umbrella like a shield, determined in protecting my backpack (containing my laptop) and myself. My hand gripped the shaft handle, holding my little tent aloft, creating a small haven of near-dryness in this suddenly underwater world.
And then, just as abruptly as it had arrived, the rain stopped. It took a moment to process, after spending several minutes committed to the mission of traveling through the aquatic onslaught, after dedicating all of my energies to the simple goal of staying dry. It was like a small window into the psychology of retirement: after throwing all of your being into one specific aim, you suddenly find yourself without that objective. In short, momentarily shocking.
I climbed into the back of one of the Xejuyup-bound trucks, hoping that the rain would hold off until I arrived back at the school. My desire alone, however, was not enough to control the weather. Shortly after boarding the back of an empty pickup, I felt the fat drops recommence their fall. I stood, waiting, unsure of what to do. So far, sheer luck had kept me from traveling via pickup in serious rain; I wasn’t sure what the protocol was. I could put my umbrella up, but other people were beginning to get in around me, and an umbrella would surely bump into them. Besides, I’d seen pickups like this with tarps draped over the top, protecting the passengers from a sure soaking.
These public-transport trucks have metal frames around the bed, extending up to about mid-chest height. They stand up straight from the sides, and additional bars extend inward and slightly upward toward the middle. Meeting there, they form an inverted “V” down the back with a single metal shaft joining the lateral beams. The tarps drape over these tent skeletons. Hopefully we’d soon be using ours.
No one else was opening their umbrellas, and I didn’t want to stand out as the single strange gringa anymore than I already do. I hoped that someone would soon make a move to pull a tarp over us, as my backpack was getting drenched. Finally, our chauffer, the man in charge of making all the big decisions, a short pimply kid who was probably fifteen, came to the conclusion that the rain was hard enough to warrant breaking out some protection. He scrambled into the truck bed and began tying and untying an elaborate system of knots behind the cab, finally freeing a tarp to cover us.
Once our shelter had been created, I reached a much greater understanding of its bittersweet nature. Yes, I was no longer being pelted by ping-pong ball sized drops of rain, and my computer was momentarily safe from heaven’s own inundation.
However, I was standing near the side of the truck, at the lowest level of the cover’s frame. This meant that I had to bend over steeply, attempting to balance my backpack on a tiny ledge above the flooded floor and limiting my available air supply to only the hot, sticky, stagnant air squeezed in between the bodies of human and fowl which crowded the truck. Upon filling with enough passengers to satisfy the driver, our ride lurched forward, jostling the pack of damp bodies into one another.
Normally, I love the truck rides up and down the mountains, delighting in the great flying leaps which we take over potholes, the sudden zigzagging maneuvers executed with precision to avoid animals, other vehicles and temporary rivers running through the street. However, all of this is only fun when accompanied with the benefit of anticipation. When blind to your surroundings, uncomfortably soggy, ungraciously twisted and left with little to grasp for support, things are different.
I rode along in misery, violently wobbling and wondering how I would ever know when we’d reached Xejuyup. With no ability to gauge our relative position in the world, and distracted by the stench of the drunken crazy to my left, I was sure it would be difficult at best. I resigned myself to the inevitability of a long, agonizing journey, and tried to find reassurance in imagining worse possible scenarios. At least no one seemed to be hacking a TB cough into our close, contained quarters. And although people had brought birds aboard, there certainly weren’t any stinky goats or sheep running around. Yeah, this wasn’t so bad.
Mercifully, a mere quarter of an hour into our trip, the rain ceded its campaign against our comfort. As we jolted along the bumpy road, the passengers began pushing the tarp forward, uncovering the load of human cargo, exposing us all to the great outdoors.
It was like being born. I stretched my face upward, extended the crooked muscles in my neck and back, and breathed in the fresh breeze blowing past. It was a drastic change from the moribund, tepid air which had been slowly suffocating us. Instead, it was clear, crisp, cool, tinted with whiffs of smoke from nearby cooking fires and the sweet jasmine-esque flower held by a man standing beside me. Filthy, skinny children and their filthy, skinny dogs played in the dirt outside homes as we sped past. Despite our period of isolation beneath a blue nylon prison, the world had continued around us. In no time at all, I was reunited with the joy and excitement of flying over the earth, the adrenaline rush created by constantly feeling out of control of my own safety. I thought to myself, as I leaned forward over the truck cab, “This is how Christopher Reeves would have felt had he ever regained the ability to walk. Suddenly, preciously, unequivocally alive.”
Saturday, July 05, 2008
A few pictures, finally
I´ve finally resolved the problem with getting photos off of my camera and onto a computer. My personal favorite album is ¨Bugs.¨
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| Bugs |
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| My room |
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| The School, Countrysid |
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Well, that’s embarrassing….
Welp, I’ve succeeded in committing a particularly humiliating Ki’che’ faux paus. The mistake I made was entirely my own fault, entirely avoidable, and completely predictable. Keep in mind that I work with 50+ student classes, with most of the kids being in their mid- and late-teens. That means that at any given moment, I’m in charge of twenty-five seventeen year old boys. If that’s not playing with fire, I don’t know what is!
I’ve been proudly practicing my incredibly limited Ki’che’ vocabulary with the students, teachers, and guard/janitors. Mostly this consists of saying “Xequij” (pronounced “cher-ear,” it means good afternoon) or “Xokaq’ab” (shok-a-ap, good evening) when appropriate. However, another easy and quick word which I’ve been able to remember is “Jo,” (pronounced “ho,” “Let’s go,”). When one of my male students at the end of the day today said “ya es la hora, let’s go,” (It’s time, let’s go), I responded back with an affirmative “jo!” Amused by the fact that I was using Ki’che’ words, another of the boys started in on a long diatribe which began with the word “jo.” I responded to his expectant look at the end of what was obviously a question with a blank stare, then a good-naturedly sarcastic “yeah, of course!” (in Spanish. Whew, all of this specifying which language things are taking place in can get exhausting!)
No one wasted any time in explaining to me that he’d just propositioned me with the eloquent statement “let’s go … sleep together.” Crap. I’m certainly on the fast track to earning these kids’ respect.
I’ve been proudly practicing my incredibly limited Ki’che’ vocabulary with the students, teachers, and guard/janitors. Mostly this consists of saying “Xequij” (pronounced “cher-ear,” it means good afternoon) or “Xokaq’ab” (shok-a-ap, good evening) when appropriate. However, another easy and quick word which I’ve been able to remember is “Jo,” (pronounced “ho,” “Let’s go,”). When one of my male students at the end of the day today said “ya es la hora, let’s go,” (It’s time, let’s go), I responded back with an affirmative “jo!” Amused by the fact that I was using Ki’che’ words, another of the boys started in on a long diatribe which began with the word “jo.” I responded to his expectant look at the end of what was obviously a question with a blank stare, then a good-naturedly sarcastic “yeah, of course!” (in Spanish. Whew, all of this specifying which language things are taking place in can get exhausting!)
No one wasted any time in explaining to me that he’d just propositioned me with the eloquent statement “let’s go … sleep together.” Crap. I’m certainly on the fast track to earning these kids’ respect.
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