How I went to Coban and came back with blood stains, stitches, and two prescription antibiotics

It actually was a lovely day. The rains had stopped after twelve straight hours and there was a nice breeze blowing through Chamelco as I boarded the microbus headed to Coban. I was not actually planning to go to Coban, but the rains had left the famous pools of Semuc Champey looking like chocolate milk and not their usual startlingly clear blue, and I was told by many not to even bother. Hence, I changed my weekend plans and decided to explore the city of Coban.

It happened not even 100 steps into the city. After the torrential downpour of the previous two days, there was a considerable amount of standing water in the street, but I was not deterred! Like the locals, I decided to suck it up, take off my shoes and wade through the mire. At this point you´re probably assuming, well the bare-footed idiot probably stepped on something. Wrong! To be safe, I decided to reach out and hold onto a metal fence on the edge of the murky water, just in case it was deeper than I thought or I stepped on one of the many broken bottles that litter the streets. I´m still not sure exactly how it happened, but as I stepped in I felt a odd sensation in my fingers. When I looked down at my hand I realized I was also looking at two exposed medial phalanges...and a lot of blood. At this point, I´m standing in swirling muck, holding my shoes, dripping blood at an alarming rate, trying to keep myself calm, and praying I don´t step on something in the thirty some feet of standing water between me and help.

I managed to keep myself calm enough to get through the water, struggle back into my shoes, and stumble into the nearest tienda just as the pain was starting to get intense. In Spanish I was able to explain to the slightly perplexed owner just what had happened, and she brought me a little stack of napkins to try and stop the bleeding, which had left my favorite shorts with dark reddish brown splotches. Then she ran upstairs to get a nurse who miraculously lived upstairs and was home. The nurse gave me a preliminary cleaning and helped me keep my hand elevated as the shock began to set in. I don´t remember ever experiencing shock before, but holy shit is it a frightening sensation. Within minutes my limbs had gone completely stiff, I couldn´t slow my breathing no matter how hard I tried and my fingers were totally immobilized. I momentarily convinced myself I´d also developed lock jaw, but then realized even the name implied I hadn´t. At that point I began to consciously attempt to talk myself out of shock mentally in English, while trying to maintain conversation with the people assisting me in Spanish. I didn´t fully comprehend at that point that not only had I cut through skin, but nerves as well.

All of the sudden I found myself on a stretcher heading for an little Guatemalan ambulance. It might seem a bit ridiculous, but at that point my legs definitely were not taking me anywhere. My medic was named Jose, and I think he got a kick out of my attempt to appear calm, cool, and collected, and probably my Spanish as well. Before I knew it I was explaining the situation all over again to the dozen aids who surrounded my hospital bed the second I made it off the stretcher. Apparently gringas with superficial finger injuries are a curiousity. My doctor was actually very nice and very efficient, although the shot of pain medication straight into my raw and exposed muscle made me want to throttle her. She had me cleaned up, sewn up, and sent off with two prescription medications in under 30 minutes. I must say, they did a wonderful job with me, and I was thrilled to be making it through the experience. There was a tiny part of me that desperately wished someone was there, not to help me through it, but just to witness it. I mean the situation really was ridiculous, I sliced my hand open on a fence that shouldn´t have been able to slice bread and wound up on a rural Guatemalan hospital bed,when the plan was to spend a day casually strolling through the museum and eating a good meal. Not only that, but I was getting through it all by myself, in Spanish, and not freaking out. I was oddly proud of myself.

After leaving the hospital and passing five closed pharmacies (it was a Sunday after all), I realized my next task might be harder than I´d like. Finally I found an open pharmacy, and since I had not anticipated on spending almost 300 quetzales on prescription medication, I had to bargain with the pharmacist to allow me to get half the medication but still hold onto the prescription, all in Spanish again. Roughly 200 Q later, I walked happily away with a few days supply of prescription painkillers and antibiotics. Then, since I had to take my pills with food anyway, I stopped at a slightly fancy restaurant to blow my last 30 Q on a piece of german chocolate cake the size of my head, and it was totally worth it.

The rest of the day actually went quite well. I fulfilled my plans to walk up the hundreds of steps to the Templo Calvario, and made it there just in time for afternoon mass (during which I made sure to say plenty of prayers of thanks). Then I wandered around the city a bit, and tried to get used to my bandaged and basically useless pointer and middle fingers. As the initial pain meds wore off the injury, although relatively minor as injuries go, became achingly intense.

It´s now been over two weeks, and I can tell the scars will be small, but they´ll always be there. They didn´t heal as quickly as my doctor had anticipated, and the stitches had to remain in for almost a full week after the original estimate. After spending another hour in the Red Cross waiting room here in Xela, I decided to remove the stitches myself and despite a little pain was successful. The feeling is fine in both fingers, but the mobility will take time. The stitches were actually an interesting topic of conversation here in Xela and at Bezaleel School as well. They were an odd way to break the ice with the students in both locations, and I got used to living life with 8 fingers very quickly. Now that they´re gone it feels a little funny. It´s strange, but it´s one of those life experiences that, after the fact, I didn´t really mind having. I´ve given a little blood to Guatemala, and Guatemala in turn will leave me with two scars, one jagged and one smooth and straight. I can´t think of a better metaphor for my experiences here.

Leaving CASAS, Leaving Guatemala City

I´m writing this post from the small city of Chamelco in the Alta Verapaz department (similar to state) of Guatemala. I´ve been living just outside of Chamelco in a Mennonite-sponsored, Guatemala-operated boarding school for Kekchi students for the past week. This is a pretty extreme change from the life I lead in Guatemala City, and this actually was not the original plan at all. I decided to depart from the CASAS program a little early in order to give myself a little more freedom and flexibility with my time here. I realized before I came to Guatemala that I was enrolling in a structured program, but what I could not have known then was that remaining in the CASAS program would mean I wouldn´t have the opportunity to experience Guatemala the way I wanted to in my short time here. It´s a wonderful program and I have plenty of respect for the way it´s run, but if you´re not a college student earning credit for your time, it can feel a bit stifling. Thankfully the staff was understanding of my situation and feelings and helped me work out a new plan.

I left the program one week early and came to Chamelco (near Coban) to do two weeks of ¨service¨at Bezaleel School. The more I am here in Guatemala the less I agree with coming here with the idea of ¨serving¨the people here, so I don´t really like to use that term. My days this past week have mostly consisted of eating, helping students whose first language is Kekchi and second language is Spanish translate their English homework, learning Kekchi phrases, helping out in the huge vegetable and herb garden, and studying Spanish independently. It´s a great experience for me, and wonderful for my Spanish comprehension skills. At first I was crushed when I couldn´t understand a word anyone was saying, then I realized they were all speaking their native Kekchi. Then I realized I was always a little relieved when they stuck to Kekchi because it took all the pressure off me to keep up with what was going on. Then I became frustrated that I couldn´t understand Kekchi and wished they would just be nice and speak a little Spanish. One word that translated no matter what though, was ¨Gringa.¨

Leaving Guatemala City actually wasn´t the least bit sad, leaving the people I have been surrounded by for the last seven weeks definitely was. Luckily we were just coming off a wonderful weekend at Lake Atitlan, so I went out on a very high note. I still feel very lucky and grateful to have experienced as much of Guatemala City as I did. Had I chosen to study in the more mainstream Spanish study towns I would have missed out on a huge chunk of Guatemalan life. Guatemala City is the reality of more than 3 million people, and had I gone the Antigua route I would have had a very skewed perception of this country. Being in Guatemala gave me a very solid foundation for the exploring the rest of the country, and forced me consider the issues the average Guatemalan faces on a daily basis.

Bezeleel will be home for only another week, and then I´m on to Xela for two more weeks of language study with another school. Honestly, even though this is a beautiful place with a beautiful native culture, I don´t think I´ll be too sad to leave. Being around three hundred Guatemalan teenagers has made me realize that teenagers are teenagers no matter where you are in the world, and it´s even worse when they have two languages to use against you. Most are extremely sweet and welcoming, but others...not so much. I definitely value this experience despite, but part of me is thrilled that I am not staying here the entire four weeks I had planned on earlier.

The Things I´ve Seen

This post is an attempt to make up for all the things I have not yet written about during my time in Guatemala. I think now I avoided writing for the first month because relaying everything I was seeing, thinking, and feeling literally seemed exhausting. As a result, so much has happened that I have yet to record.

First of all, I must say one thing I really enjoy and appreciate about the CASAS program is the fact that it´s not just language, it´s social justice and human rights education. During our first week in the city we took a little field trip to Zona Uno to visit the National Cemetary, National Palace, city dump and Catholic Cathedral. At the National Cemetary we were greeted by both the simple shrine to President Arbenz Guzman, a true defender of the people and champion of shared wealth and resources, and the ridiculously ornate, and ironically Egyptian pyramid-styled, tomb of the Castillo family, arguably the most powerful family in the country with considerable land holdings. Only feet away stood rows and rows of stacked, rented tombs for those too poor for a more permanent burial plot. Only several minutes walk from this point, we came upon a large grave devoted to a former military leader which had been a favorite clandestine trial and execution spot of the paramilitary due to it´s close proximity to prime body-dumping sites. I realized I stood on the site where people, most like good, innocent, peace-loving people, had their last thought in the name of peace and justice.

We then continued on to the city dump where the bodies had been tossed for so many years, to see the bodies of the poor, ïnformal sector¨workers digging feverishly to recover recyclable, reusable treasures. They sorted through our garbage, amongst our used toilet paper - Guatemalans are not able to flush toilet paper due to bad pipe systems - and other horrid-smelling refuse to eek out an existence. Vultures circled overhead and the stench was overwhelming. It was only several years ago that the city mandated people could no longer live directly in the dump, and children were not allowed to work in it.

Then there was the National Palace, site of the signing of the historic - and largely ignored - Peace Accords, with murals depicting Mayan people as naked savages alongside beautiful stained glass representations of the 12 pillars of a just government. Directly across the square from the National Palace was the Cathedral where Monsignor Juan Gerardi declared guilty numerous military and government officials during the reading of the historic REMHI report, which also included the name of every known victim of every documented massacre or attack. He was bludgeoned in his garage three days later. ¨Presente¨was ringing in my ears.

Of course this is only an abbreviated version of these experiences. It´s only now that I´m beginning to feel I have the proper context and mental grasp of these places and events, and even this country, to process and write about them. Naturally there is so much more I have to say, as this was all just within the first week. Additional entries will come later, but in the meantime I will be seeing and experiencing even more. I thought this journal would end when my time in Guatemala ends, but I understand now that there is a considerable delay in terms of processing and understanding. These are things I´ll be puzzling over and straining to appreciate for months and years. It´s not possible to truly understand 400 plus years of oppression and cultural upheaval in just 12 weeks. I think this blog might end up needing a new name.

Crime Culture in La Brigada

There have been two violent murders within two blocks of my home within the past three weeks. Both victims were young boys, 12 and 16, and were both involved in local gangs. Both took place in the morning on a Saturday, and I unknowingly came upon each crime scene only minutes after the crowd had started to gather. I had never seen the dead body of a child before, and honestly I never imagined a situation in which I would. The first boy was wearing high top sneakers, which were poking out from beneath the small green blanket with which his body was covered. His ankles were so thin. I didn't even understand what I was looking at at first. By the time we encountered the second two weeks later, I didn't look.

The first one was gone in one shot that we heard that morning as we were getting ready to leave for a day downtown. The second was the same, but he had scrambled into a local shop hoping for sanctuary. Both were close range. The odd thing is how disaffected the community is. Within moments a crowd gathers within inches of the corpse to see what's happening, and most people know exactly who was holding the gun. The police take their time, even though the station is literally five blocks away. Only 3 out of 100 murders are ever even investigated in Guatemala City, .05% are solved.

Strangely enough, I don't feel scared to be here, but I do feel that I've been living under a false sense of security. I understand the desire of my program coordinators and my host family not to scare me, but no information or suggestions were ever given in terms of safety and security other than never take your eyes off your bag and don't flash your cash. We've been told that because we're not involved in any gangs we don't have much to worry about, except of course getting caught in a crossfire. Oddly enough it seems as though the killers take care not to get anyone else involved. The murders are generally very close range, early in the morning before the streets are full, and bystanders are not targeted, how nice of them.

These experiences have started me thinking about the amazing contrasts we've experienced here in Guatemala. On the day we encountered the first murder, we were leaving our extremely poor - in money, resources, and representation- neighborhood to have lunch downtown in the posh, very westernized Zona Viva neighborhood in the heart of the city. On the day we came upon the second, we were on our way to spend a quick weekend in the touristy, colonial city of Antigua because we were craving a certain restaurant. On the day we came back from a women's cooperative in Chichicastenango in which bullet holes are still visible in the walls, we went straight to the national theatre to see an opera with the Guatemalan elite, and sat across from President Alvaro Colom.

Although we are part of this place, we don't exactly factor in, if that even makes sense. We tell ourselves that this is our home for two months and try and act as though we belong here, but none of us can understand it and truly know it. We're peripheral. However, I don't think any of us have gone in with a grandiose plan to change the world starting with the community hosting us. We're pretty well set in reality and recognize that observation and understanding is better than service and western-ways evangelism. One thing I can say for this program is that I feel I have a deeper, more realistic understanding of what Guatemala is at this moment than any of the travelers I have met along the way. This post probably seems pretty disjointed, but when I think about these murders, the true face of my neighborhood, the silence of my program directors, the possible fate of my two little host brothers, and the two socio-economic extremes of Guatemala City, I can't help but feel scattered.

A Typical Day

After almost six weeks in the city, we CASAS students have developed a pretty regular daily routine. Even though I use the word regular, there are generally plenty of things that happen on a daily basis to remind me that this experience is like no other in my life thus far.

I have stopped waking up with the roosters and firecrackers, and now drag myself out of bed a few minutes after six. Learning a new language takes more mental energy than I ever could have imagined! If there is water available I shower, but if not I use the cold water out of a large basin in my family´s partially exposed sink area. My mother usually has a simple breakfast of beans, eggs, and sometimes pancakes ready for me at six thirty. After picking up the other students in my area, we are lucky to catch a factory bus a little after seven. I say lucky because when we first board the bus it is packed to the ceiling, but five blocks down the street the entire bus will empty as almost everyone on these morning buses is an employee of one of the large ¨fabricas¨in the neighborhood. After that we´re able to enjoy our own seats, which is lucky because we generally ride bus number 1 for about 40 minutes. We catch the second bus around 8 and get to CASAS around eight thirty, just in time for our first session of morning classes.

During class, Fjaere and I practice new vocabulary, reflexive verbs, indirect objects, and other grammar with our teacher Abigail. Although I'm not a huge fan of her teaching style, we get to do fun things like take trips around the city, watch movies, play games, cook, etc...all in Spanish of course. We eat lunch on site at the school after four hours of Spanish instruction. It's wonderful because everything is made from scratch on site, and we get delicious, fresh corn tortillas with almost every meal. I've really grown to love those things.

Afternoons are spent with the 9 other CASAS students either catching up in internet cafes, exploring the city, or taking little field trips to places like women´s cooperatives, museums, forensic anthropology centers, and other sites of cultural or historical importance. It´s one of my favorite parts of the program, and I feel I´m getting a very well-rounded idea of the current state of affairs in Guatemala. This program is geared almost specifically toward college students earning college credit, which sadly doesn´t apply to me at all. I think if I could do it over again I would have selected a more flexible program.

We catch the bus home around 4 or 5 in the afternoon and are lucky to get home about an hour later. I spend about an hour hanging out in the small living room of my family´s home doing homework with my little brothers. My mom usually has dinner ready around 7, and I´m generally famished. During dinner I pretty much just sit by while my family talks to each other at warp speed, but honestly after a long day of trying to speak Spanish my brain is fried. Sometimes we watch TV after dinner, usually the Guatemalan equivalent of E! or telenovelas. It´s actually really good for practice and learning sentence structure. After that it´s bedtime. Being here has kind of turned me into an old woman. Come 9 pm I can´t wait to crawl into bed. I barely even have those minutes to lay in bed and consider the day and the one to come before I´m out until 6 am.