So it seems as if my body is hinting that it might be time to get out of the jungle. A false stint with scabbies, and then actually getting scabbies (I think,) and the recent removal of what seems to be known as a nigua, or a small bug that lives in pigs and plants itself in humans top my recent laundry list of ailments. Lovely, I know. Better yet, it lays eggs. Fortunately, my friend here made several strong comments and made me ashamed. Later that day I went to the health clinic to see que onda (what's up?) This poem is the result of that visit.
The Stubbed Toe That Wasn’t
When walking with a friend of mine from her village to another,
She asked if I had stubbed my toe,
I said she needn’t be my mother.
The toe hadn’t crossed my mind, but the thought had entered quick.
And when I tried to let it go,
The thought managed to stick.
Days went by and just by chance the thought I’m glad to say,
Left me lonely,
Afterall, the thought had gone away.
But a few more days had come to pass,
“What’s on your toe?”
Friends began to ask.
Unfortunately as fast as the thought had gone away,
To me it seemed to look
As if the thought was back to stay.
There’s a little black dot that’s set up shop on the tip of my toe,
A squatter that pays no rent,
It was decided time for the dot to go.
What could it be? Where did it come from? How can I rid me of it?
Dried blood, an ulcer, or nothing at all?
I’d begun to throw a fit.
To the clinic I went to resolve my worries and they asked if I was ready?
Off with the toe they told me at once,
Will chop it with the nearest machete.
When all was finally said and done and rest put to the bother
Eggs and mama bug were extracted from the toe,
And I am now a happy father.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Language
After a couple months of teaching English at Ak’Tenamit’s school for indigenous students, I have come to some realizations. Several students at our project come from an orphanage in Guatemala City. Often, these young people come from dire circumstances having been brought up in broken homes, been abused, and some on the streets. Knowing the reality for the majority of their lives was an existence on the street, it should be no surprise that these members of our community are as clever and street smart as they are. They learned to survive by any means necessary. Along with their trickster pranks (some certainly more serious than others) these ten kids or so, speak the best English at the project. The scary thing: they aren’t in the English classes. Yesterday, after five hours of trips on the boat as a chaperone, I think I might have come to some sort of a conclusion on the matter. The capitalinos have spent their lives – even while on the streets – surrounded by the globalized world and mass media. Television and movies in English, music in the streets and on the radios. For some time, this left me somewhere between blown away and ashamed. Blown away because these kids picked this language up living on the streets. Ashamed because these kids speak significantly better than the students in my class.
Chaperoning this trip gave me five hours on a boat with my students. Many asked me questions; there favorite being “como se dice…” followed by a complete sentence in Spanish, or “how do you say…” I want to play soccer today. It was a bit disheartening, especially knowing that many of the words they asked me to translate were words we had already learned. Ok, that aside. On this boat ride I began to feel these students need a “real teacher;” someone with experience because I felt helpless. It dawned on me at one point some time ago though that I have to begin to take each disadvantage that I see and turn it in to a positive, not only for myself, but for the students as well. Why did the students from Guate have a better level? Why haven’t my students the least bit of an idea to pronounce some of these words we have been learning for two months? In part the answer has to do with globalization. To this point, the extended arms of the western world, its media and money making machine have yet to completely infiltrate the communities where most of my children grew up. Television still isn’t prevalent, and even when it is, English doesn’t dominate the airwaves.
So although frustrated – often, by the low level of my students in the classroom – the reality is that we too, can flip this into a positive. Unlike many parts of the developing world which have been pillaged of resources, culture, and everything down to their language, the indigenous Maya communities where we work, where my students come from, have been able to maintain the aforementioned aspects of life. And had the same process occurred in these communities, yes, it is true that the level of English would be substantially better, even if driven by mass media. My job would be much easier, and the kids would probably have more fun, self-esteem, and determination to learn as they could measure their own progress by the results that were built upon their initial level of the language.
This, however, is not the case. And I realized too, on this trip, that if I had a classroom full of Mayan students who spoke at the level of English that those same students from the Capital speak, it may very well result in the loss of their own language. I’m always so proud to see my students proud of themselves, their culture, and their identity. If their lack of English is a trade-off for that pride, I should begin to welcome it openly and just work a bit harder to find a better balance to life.
Chaperoning this trip gave me five hours on a boat with my students. Many asked me questions; there favorite being “como se dice…” followed by a complete sentence in Spanish, or “how do you say…” I want to play soccer today. It was a bit disheartening, especially knowing that many of the words they asked me to translate were words we had already learned. Ok, that aside. On this boat ride I began to feel these students need a “real teacher;” someone with experience because I felt helpless. It dawned on me at one point some time ago though that I have to begin to take each disadvantage that I see and turn it in to a positive, not only for myself, but for the students as well. Why did the students from Guate have a better level? Why haven’t my students the least bit of an idea to pronounce some of these words we have been learning for two months? In part the answer has to do with globalization. To this point, the extended arms of the western world, its media and money making machine have yet to completely infiltrate the communities where most of my children grew up. Television still isn’t prevalent, and even when it is, English doesn’t dominate the airwaves.
So although frustrated – often, by the low level of my students in the classroom – the reality is that we too, can flip this into a positive. Unlike many parts of the developing world which have been pillaged of resources, culture, and everything down to their language, the indigenous Maya communities where we work, where my students come from, have been able to maintain the aforementioned aspects of life. And had the same process occurred in these communities, yes, it is true that the level of English would be substantially better, even if driven by mass media. My job would be much easier, and the kids would probably have more fun, self-esteem, and determination to learn as they could measure their own progress by the results that were built upon their initial level of the language.
This, however, is not the case. And I realized too, on this trip, that if I had a classroom full of Mayan students who spoke at the level of English that those same students from the Capital speak, it may very well result in the loss of their own language. I’m always so proud to see my students proud of themselves, their culture, and their identity. If their lack of English is a trade-off for that pride, I should begin to welcome it openly and just work a bit harder to find a better balance to life.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Filtered Water
My experience at Ak'Tenamit and Guatemala is coming to a close. The reality is that I still have a little more than three months, but after having grown accustom to my life here, I must face the facts that soon, some things must change. Part of this process includes the inevitable job search. One job asked me to write about cross-cultural experience that showed my ability to adapt to new circumstances. This story is much less about me than the power of communication, and for that, wanted to share it with you all.
Coming to work in the Guatemalan jungle, I realized that many pleasures, luxuries, and some things I previously had defined as necessities would be left behind. With a decent level of Spanish, however, communication was not a worry that I had heavily dwelled upon. Starting at Ak’Tenamit, one of my first weeks was spent in the aldeas, or villages, where our organization does much of its community and gender development work. Told that I could accompany my new co-workers on their several-day journey, I eagerly packed what I was told would be essential for the trip. We were delivering potable water filters to every family and each school in two communities. With no actual knowledge of how the filters functioned, I figured that my role would be purely observatory. That was until I was told by my co-workers that they too, were unfamiliar with the process. Together with the community members, we began to unpack the filters and begin their assembly. The most important aspect of this was the educational component, knowing that a member of each community must have a full understanding of how to properly use the filter in order to improve the health of their families.
For one reason or another, it had not dawned upon me that there was one major obstacle I had failed to see. My co-workers – all members of the same indigenous group as the communities we visited – gave their charlas, or lectures, in Q’eqchi (their Mayan dialect). The community members paid attention, but being new to the organization, I figured that these people, as my co-workers did, would speak both the Mayan language and Spanish. After explaining the process of how to properly use the filters in Spanish only to receive a handful of blank stares in my direction, I realized my earlier oversight and knew that our communication technique would have to change. Having been a long-time believer in the power of non-verbal communication, I put on a brave face and welcomed the challenge openly, although was truly concerned that none of us actually really knew what we were doing.
After several hours of working with the elderly, the young boys and girls, the mothers holding new-born children, we finished arming each last filter. Yes, there were ups and downs, points of frustration and points of joy. But after having spent this time, this experience, with the community, I was fortunate to share a moment with a woman, child in arms. On her contract she marked her thumb print in ink where a line was reserved for signatures. While we could not formally exchange words, she smiled, which I interpreted as a “thank you,” which I returned to her. But she held her gaze and I realized that this woman was for the first time envisioning the possibility of life without contaminated water; both her children’s and her own health being exponentially improved by this plastic that she and I had shared to create. No, I know not what words she would have chosen for this moment, nor what I would have said to her. But we shared something more powerful than words, and that moment lives on through their improved health and water of her community.
Coming to work in the Guatemalan jungle, I realized that many pleasures, luxuries, and some things I previously had defined as necessities would be left behind. With a decent level of Spanish, however, communication was not a worry that I had heavily dwelled upon. Starting at Ak’Tenamit, one of my first weeks was spent in the aldeas, or villages, where our organization does much of its community and gender development work. Told that I could accompany my new co-workers on their several-day journey, I eagerly packed what I was told would be essential for the trip. We were delivering potable water filters to every family and each school in two communities. With no actual knowledge of how the filters functioned, I figured that my role would be purely observatory. That was until I was told by my co-workers that they too, were unfamiliar with the process. Together with the community members, we began to unpack the filters and begin their assembly. The most important aspect of this was the educational component, knowing that a member of each community must have a full understanding of how to properly use the filter in order to improve the health of their families.
For one reason or another, it had not dawned upon me that there was one major obstacle I had failed to see. My co-workers – all members of the same indigenous group as the communities we visited – gave their charlas, or lectures, in Q’eqchi (their Mayan dialect). The community members paid attention, but being new to the organization, I figured that these people, as my co-workers did, would speak both the Mayan language and Spanish. After explaining the process of how to properly use the filters in Spanish only to receive a handful of blank stares in my direction, I realized my earlier oversight and knew that our communication technique would have to change. Having been a long-time believer in the power of non-verbal communication, I put on a brave face and welcomed the challenge openly, although was truly concerned that none of us actually really knew what we were doing.
After several hours of working with the elderly, the young boys and girls, the mothers holding new-born children, we finished arming each last filter. Yes, there were ups and downs, points of frustration and points of joy. But after having spent this time, this experience, with the community, I was fortunate to share a moment with a woman, child in arms. On her contract she marked her thumb print in ink where a line was reserved for signatures. While we could not formally exchange words, she smiled, which I interpreted as a “thank you,” which I returned to her. But she held her gaze and I realized that this woman was for the first time envisioning the possibility of life without contaminated water; both her children’s and her own health being exponentially improved by this plastic that she and I had shared to create. No, I know not what words she would have chosen for this moment, nor what I would have said to her. But we shared something more powerful than words, and that moment lives on through their improved health and water of her community.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Safety
The other day our project, like many other places, was hit with the panic of the Swine Flu. Volunteer doctors, teachers, program coordinators gathered together with inclined pressure from all sides with the realization that this influenza was actually capable of, and probably had killed people. Clearly our own mortality was brought to the forefront, being in a foreign, developing country, that may lack the necessary and often plentiful resources of our homelands. With such limited information about the flu (where it might have started, and where known cases have been confirmed) it dawned on us as a group that we have 550 students coming back from vacation in the next couple days from every corner of Guatemala. What happens if one of them brings the Swine? With all of the students - and ourseleves - living on top of each other, the flu would undoubtedly travel swiftly from one dormitory to the next, devestating many in its path and possibly leaving some for dead in its wake. The doctors processed the situation, informed themselves through news outlets reporting up to date information, and made the conscious decision to let the students come back.
I did not fear for my life during this episode. No. However, being here in Guatemala, without the safety net of my past in sight, I was forced to face the concept of mortality, even if not of my own. How could I best support our students? My co-workers? The community at-large? This swine flu really confronted me about how the bubble of my childhood and even time at the University allowed me to be passive to such events; to think in myself more than others, and how I was rarely ever (consciously) presented with feeling unsafe.
I went to a friend's hotel for a few days only to encounter a 20-year-old American with flu-like symptoms... talk about a nice escape from the drama! He seems to be improving in health.
This thought led me to another. 13 months ago there was a kidnapping of six tourists five minutes from where I live. With an on-going dispute over land rights, a radical indigenous group protested - what they saw as the unlawful imprisonment of their leader - by kidnapping a tour group. The tourists, according to all reports, were treated well while held hostage, but learning this story certainly was a bit shocking. The shock would continue to grow when I was informed that some people from my own organization were involved in the kidnapping itself. They were fired upon the organization's learning of their role. As of late, this group has been stirring again because the said leader was sentenced to eight years in jail for his role in the organization. I do not pretend to understand the nuances of the situation, nor would feel comfortable casting judgement on this group, as I know that people pushed into corners and compromising circumstances often take extreme measures. That said, the knowledge that this group plans retaliation for the sentencing is much like the swine flu. Whom will they attack? When? Where? There is a feeling of helplessness that comes along with this news, but also cognizance that it, these threats of violence, these outbreaks of illness, cannot stop us from living our lives. And being part of a community, especially in a position of responsibility for young people, my perspective on safety has changed.
Who knows how all these events will pan out. I certainly do not, and in part am happy not to have a script of the future, albeit a scary one at times. We can only put ourselves in the best positions possible, and hope to guide those around us to do the same. While it seems the swine flu will imminently affect some gravely, we hope for the best, safety, and health of all. And in reading this post, I hope all realize that I do not feel in danger in Guatemala. In fact there are more confirmed cases in New York than here; there is more radical or gang related violence from coast to coast in the States than the Mexican and Guatemalan drug cartels jockeying for power or radical indigenous groups could possibly fathom. While the aforementioned safety net may no longer be seen, and very possibly no longer exist, I think that is part of life. And it is there where I find myself.
Thanks for reading, posting comments, and loving those around you.
To a better world,
Jesse
I did not fear for my life during this episode. No. However, being here in Guatemala, without the safety net of my past in sight, I was forced to face the concept of mortality, even if not of my own. How could I best support our students? My co-workers? The community at-large? This swine flu really confronted me about how the bubble of my childhood and even time at the University allowed me to be passive to such events; to think in myself more than others, and how I was rarely ever (consciously) presented with feeling unsafe.
I went to a friend's hotel for a few days only to encounter a 20-year-old American with flu-like symptoms... talk about a nice escape from the drama! He seems to be improving in health.
This thought led me to another. 13 months ago there was a kidnapping of six tourists five minutes from where I live. With an on-going dispute over land rights, a radical indigenous group protested - what they saw as the unlawful imprisonment of their leader - by kidnapping a tour group. The tourists, according to all reports, were treated well while held hostage, but learning this story certainly was a bit shocking. The shock would continue to grow when I was informed that some people from my own organization were involved in the kidnapping itself. They were fired upon the organization's learning of their role. As of late, this group has been stirring again because the said leader was sentenced to eight years in jail for his role in the organization. I do not pretend to understand the nuances of the situation, nor would feel comfortable casting judgement on this group, as I know that people pushed into corners and compromising circumstances often take extreme measures. That said, the knowledge that this group plans retaliation for the sentencing is much like the swine flu. Whom will they attack? When? Where? There is a feeling of helplessness that comes along with this news, but also cognizance that it, these threats of violence, these outbreaks of illness, cannot stop us from living our lives. And being part of a community, especially in a position of responsibility for young people, my perspective on safety has changed.
Who knows how all these events will pan out. I certainly do not, and in part am happy not to have a script of the future, albeit a scary one at times. We can only put ourselves in the best positions possible, and hope to guide those around us to do the same. While it seems the swine flu will imminently affect some gravely, we hope for the best, safety, and health of all. And in reading this post, I hope all realize that I do not feel in danger in Guatemala. In fact there are more confirmed cases in New York than here; there is more radical or gang related violence from coast to coast in the States than the Mexican and Guatemalan drug cartels jockeying for power or radical indigenous groups could possibly fathom. While the aforementioned safety net may no longer be seen, and very possibly no longer exist, I think that is part of life. And it is there where I find myself.
Thanks for reading, posting comments, and loving those around you.
To a better world,
Jesse
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