Poverty

As I reflect on my time in Guatemala, I have been "comparing."  It is inevitable.  As we try to make sense out of our experiences, we hold them up to previous experiences.  How is the same or different?  Is it better or worse?

Paul and I outside of our house
in Downers Grove

Poverty.  My growing up years were set in the context of poverty brought on by my dad's alcoholism.  Things improved when my mom overcame years of depression and went to work at Wescom.  However, even with added income, our standard of living was much different than most people in affluent Downers Grove, Illinois.

At first I perceived that my host family in Guatemala lived in markedly deeper poverty than my family of origin.  Our house was bigger.  We had more furniture.  We all had bedrooms, even if Paul and Nick shared.  We had things like hot water and a functioning refrigerator and doors that closed - when there were doors.  While my mother broke her back washing clothes in a wringer washer for years, she never had to scrub our clothes on a washboard outside before hanging them on the line.

Rosario's shower and
"cover" for shower faucet

Even with my dad's illness, he had a "male" skill set that could fix leaking roofs, frozen pipes, and deteriorating linoleum flooring.  Rosario's household of four women had some ingenious fixes for doors that had no handles, roofs that leaked, and faucets that needed to be replaced.

Rosario, like my mother, controlled the finances.  While my mother kept the cash in her purse, Rosario had a jar.  Anyone who had income in Rosario's house, contributed to the household "account."  All expenditures also went through Rosario.  It was much the same at home, with Mom managing the checkbook and each of us, including Dad, asking for money as needed.

Sheet draped furniture at Rosario's

While we dealt with frozen pipes, mice, sewer backup, a typical musty, once-in-a-while flooded basement, my Guatemalan family faced mold on the walls, washing clothes and pots outside, and a general lack of space. Poverty manifests differently in different places.  People develop coping skills and clever "work arounds." Perhaps this similarity is why I was not too wigged-out about where I lived in Guatemala.  I pined for a hot shower.  I figured out where to sleep so the spring that was poking out of my mattress didn't scratch me.  My latent OCD wanted to "organize" the clutter much as I attempted to do occasionally while growing up.  But the sheets that covered old furniture reminded me of the sheets covering old furniture when I was a kid.  Mismatched, random plates looked just like ours.  The worn dresses of Rosario and the nice clothes of Yesica reminded me of my own mother's sacrifices for me.

Grandpa, Ida (Marilynn's Mom)
 Dad and Mom
On the normally sheet-draped couch

The biggest difference I think in the two households was the atmosphere.  In Guatemala I lived with a family who certainly struggled to make ends meet, but who also showed great love and support and a unity that made even cold mornings feel warm.  Without a doubt, we loved each other in my family and were there for each other when the chips were down, but there were also huge tensions brought on my dad's alcoholism and the collateral damage that often causes. There was no yelling at Rosario's although there were sharp inflections at times. Their lives were centered around their faith - Rosario, Abuelita, Natalie, and Yesica - all practiced an active faith. My family's lives were centered around making it through the day.  While there was faith, it was not the focal point - alcohol was.

Poverty is poverty.  Different but the same.  People trying their very best to make it through life using everything at their disposal and surviving.   Downers Grove.  Xela.  A three generation, female household or a two parent nuclear household.  God present everywhere.

Guatemala Smells

Someone asked me yesterday what Guatemala smelled like.  There are some who might think this a strange question or perhaps derisive, but I actually had a scribbled page in my pocket notebook about Guatemala smells.

Morning snack at PLQ

There are the food smells like the smell of bread wafting from the panaderías.  Bread was the snack served during morning and afternoon breaks at Proyecto Lingüistico Quetzalteco de Español. Bread in all different shapes and tastes with that wonderful yeasty smell.  Panaderías were equipped with fabric lined baskets with attached tongs so customers could load up on a wide variety of bread including recado, xeca, empanada, molletes Guatemaltecos, and many varieties that I cannot identify.

Rosario in her comedor

Rosario's diner was always a mixture of fried plantains, tortillas, sopa, Pepián and chuchitos. Savory meats and cooking vegetables from street vendors on almost every corner tempted me repeatedly in Guatemala.  Having been warned by several sources not to eat from street vendors, I resisted.  Reluctantly.  It always smelled so very good.

The smell of freshly roasted café beckoned me daily in Xela and Antigua.  With the purchases made at Casa de Fe on behalf of church members, I was able to bring that smell home with me.  My clothes still carry that rich, mouthwatering aroma.

Courtyard from my room
Note washboard/sink and cooker

There of course were household smells.  The smell of shampoo and soap in the bathroom at Rosario's house greeted me on those chilled mornings.  The scents were fruity and made me think of washing Jessica's hair when she was a pre-teen with her long locks. The sweet soap smells often were mingled with the smell of whitener from the freshly laundered clothes hanging on the line.  Each morning I awoke to the sound of Rosario scrubbing the clothes and linens, by hand, and the washboard before hanging them to dry.  Finally the acrid smell of smoke from the outdoor cooker where Rosario slow cooked the frijoles or maiz. The cooker was homemade from the wheel of a tire on a rickety stand with large hunks of charcoal for fuel.

Street traffic/exhaust

Unpleasant smells included sewer smells that leeched up from the storm sewers near Rosario's.  It is the same in most cities in the U.S.  Urine smells in corners along sidewalks where men relieved themselves.  Public urination is not uncommon, especially when there are few or no public restrooms.  And the exhaust.  Belching black diesel and gasoline exhaust from decrepit older cars, buses of various sorts, and swarms of motorbikes.  I was not the only one who had to cover her face when winding my way up towards Parque Central.  My asma was not impressed.

Courtyard at Hotel Casa Antigua

There were the smells of Reu - tropical and agricultural smells:  The fresh, peaceful smells of afternoon rain storms.  The smell of rich loam in wooded area or by recently turned soil.  The sweet smells of honeysuckle and exotic flowering plants.

Guatemala indeed smelled.   It smelled different and familiar.  It smelled inviting and repulsive.  It smelled savory and forbidden.  It smelled and I miss it. 

Antigua

I have spent the day as a tourist.  The shuttle from Xela was filled with young women finishing medical school.  The women, from different programs, had been in Xela for Spanish language school and clinical experience.  A very nice group with whom to travel.

One of the Courtyards
at Hotel Casa Antigua

I was dropped off at the hotel, glad to stretch my legs.  The gracious, smiling staff stowed my luggage for me until my room was ready. I then wandered about with my big backpack snapping shots and vaguely looking for something to eat.  I found an amazingly tranquil spot, Ventana Internet.  It was quiet, beautiful, with lovely wait staff (and a very nice panini).

With a full tummy, I wandered the streets, seeing old churches, market places, and LOTS of school kids out for the mid-day break.  The market place was huge with hundreds of stalls.  Next to the general market was an artisan's market with many, many tempting things.  Several of the venders were hard-sells who did not want to take, nada hoy, as an answer.

Detail of door
at La Merced Church

Meandering up the street from the market, I found a park with ruins. San Jerónimo was built in 1739 and ruined by an earthquake 1773.  It was later used by squatters, as a tannery and finally "restored" as a public park in the 20th century.  Again, a piece of tranquility in the midst of a busy city.

Ruins of San Jerónimo

Later, after getting a real live shower at the hotel, I wandered again.  This time, I was supposed to be on a direct route to an internet cafe, but strutted off in the wrong direction.  Because of my poor sense of direction, I found La Merced Church.  The church dates back to the 18th century as well.  I did not go in as it cost more than I wanted to spend at the time. (I had treated myself to an admission fee at San Jerónimo already.) After repeatedly asking parks people and security guards, ¿Qué calle es esta?,  I found my earlier internet cafe. They gave me good info, I just kept heading in a slightly wrong direction.  My internet cafe was closed. So now I write this from a very loud bar - Mitos - which has hot food and internet.  

Antigua is a drastically different experience than Xela.  If you open your eyes, you see poverty and the disparity between the indigenous people and the ladinos, but this is a town that caters to tourism.  Americans, Brits, Germans, and wealthier Guatemaltecos to name a few.  Today was nice for a break (and a real shower), but tomorrow we head to Reu!  In many ways, that feels more comfortable - at lease spiritually.  The team arrives in about an hour and a half.  The mission begins.

Good Bye Xela

Setting Sun

It's my last night in Xela.  I am filled with all sorts emotions - not surprising.  I went and took some last photos of my home for the last three weeks.  This has gotten to be the familiar and routine, but tomorrow, I begin a whole new adventure.

Spanish class today was less than spectacular.  It was as if I took my stupid pills this morning, I swear.  The subjunctive will kill me before I get it figured out.  Sonia was very patient.  During my wanderings this afternoon, I got her a small gift to say thank you for her efforts.

final visit to market

My "last meal" in the house was a a chuchito which was nice.  I presented my family with gifts as well - a scrunchy out of traditional materials for Yesica.  Small woven clothes for Rosario - she uses these for the tortillas in her diner.   A coin purse for Natalie with a shiny coin inside, just as my mother taught me.  And for Abuelita, I gave her my shawl which I thought she would like.

Very Serious Instructors at School

My experiences here will forever change me.  The negative effects of unholstered capitalism, the continued victimization of Native peoples, the disparity between all that we as Americans have and how little the rest of the world gets - these are issues that I will no longer breeze by as I read about them in some news report.  My "tut-tut" must change now to action.  God's preferential favor for the poor requires God's people to "do" their faith.

The Artist, Maria

La artista Maria

Tuesday, February 17, 2014  I felt this morning was productive.  After a shaky start, I seemed to be getting the hang of today's grammar lesson at school.  Sonia, this week's teacher, and I continued to have deep conversations on everything from education, to marriage, to politics, and even to family system's theory.

When 1 p.m. rolled around, though, I was ready for a break.  Outside of the school, an indigenous woman had set up "shop" with her many textiles on display while busily working on her waist loom.  She quickly spied another woman, Jenny, and myself as potential customers.  Maria's (different last week's Maria) wares were not cheap by Guatemalan standards, but more than reasonable by American.  Barefoot with hands stained by dyes, she set aside her loom and enticed me with her work.  To establish there was great variety, she repeated "muy differentes, muy differentes."  I commented that I thought she was an artist, to which she proudly replied, "Sí soy una artista."  However, at that moment, I did not have the cash on me for a purchase. (I try not to carry more than I need.) She offered deferred payment, but I declined.

some of Maria's many textiles

Back at Rosario's, the restaurant was teeming.  Electricity was out in our area of town which is not unusual.  Luckily Rosario cooks with a small tank of propane and a charcoal warmer made out of half of a metal barrel.  The "pata cerdo" (pork patty) was mostly bones and batter, but the spinach soup and  rice were filling.

I headed back to the school after lunch to pick up a book of "cuentas" (stories) in Spanish and English.  I especially need practice on my pronunciation.  Maria was still there as she said she would be.  I had resolved to politely tell her that I couldn't purchase anything.  Her excited tones upon seeing me, however, weakened my resolve.  Then I spied new and smaller merchandise.  Before I knew what happened she had separated me from Q60 (less than $10).

Watching Maria made me wonder at her life.  To walk the rough broken cobblestoned streets with no shoes.  To work so hard at making her complex textile pieces.  To be such an earnest sales person for so few Quetzals in return for that hard work.

Lord, help me to always respect others.  Their lives are different than mine, not necessarily worse.  Grant me ears to listen, eyes to see, and a heart of compassion.

Wednesday update - Maria separated me from more Quetzals today.  

Wednesday Night Church

Wednesday, February 12 I accepted an invitation to Wednesday night services at Rosario's church.  Rosario, Yesica, and Rosario's sister, Natalie, and I headed out shortly after la cena (dinner.)  For only Q5 (less that a dollar) we traveled by chicken bus across town.  I stood hanging on for dear life to the overhead bar.  It is really best not to see where the bus is headed or at what speed - the ride is stressful enough.

Church was in progress when we arrived.  I could hear the music more than a block away.  Rosario is a Christiana Evangelica (Evangelical Christian). Aposento Alto - Una Iglesia de la Nueva Generación.  (Upper Room Church of a New Generation - I think). The music was lead by an energetic man with about five women singing backup.  The band was off to my right.  Hands were raised, people jumped up and down, raised Allelujahs, and sang.  It appeared that everyone knew the words but me.  I had a difficult time understanding the lyrics as the leader had the microphone so close to his mouth, and the P.A. turned all the way up.  All of which meant that the words were garbled for someone unfamiliar with the tunes The praise music seemed to move the people.  

Worship Service in Guatemala - generic

After some time - perhaps 30 minutes - the leader moved from the upbeat tunes to something slower and more somber to prayer.  In this Pentecostal type setting, prayer is noisy.  Everyone was praying out loud in response to the leader.  As he moved through the prayer time, I could grasp that it was lament.  Confession and entreatment melded together.  The noise rose.  Rosario was sobbing and praying out loud.  I looked around and saw that many were sobbing.  The music matched the mood.  Eventually, another man (the pastor?) thanked the musicians as they left the stage.  In soft tones he acknowledged the timbre of the moment and softly reassured the congregation of God's love and embrace.

The speaker for the night was a woman with an inviting, Bette Midler style smile.  At some point, I realized that I was catching a lot of what she was saying.  I could get the gist of what she said as I struggled to identify tenses and particular words.  All I can say is that I absolutely felt the presence of the Holy Spirit in that place. She witnessed from her own experiences.  She reminded the congregation that God has something more for us than just what we see.  She acknowledged repression and oppression in the lives of the people.  The speaker continually preached God's forgiveness and love.

I went from feeling confused, left out, and generally uncomfortable to being in the moment.  I was drawn into the speaker's words and indeed felt el Espíritu en esa lugar ( the Spirit in that place).  I don't know what I expected the night to look like.  I do know that I was glad to worship among these followers of Christ.  Praise be to God. Alabaré

(I will praise).

Arrived in Guatemala City

Below is the post I wrote last night but was unable to post because of internet issues.

I'm here.  I'm really in Guatemala.  Dos Lunas is a lovely hostel.  There is a large group of young women staying here from the Rochester area in New York.  They are headed to Quetzaltenango to a different language school.  Then there is the young dad from Portland, Russell, who is going to the same school as me - Proyecto Linguistico. 

People have been gracious and understanding, especially of my "only the present tense" Spanish.  The wifi at the hostel is not the greatest, so I will most likely be posting this tomorrow in Xela (Quetzaltenango).  

For now, buenos noches.