“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme,
and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to
change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s
going to happen next. Delicious
ambiguity.” - Gilda Radner
During my initial Peace Corps training, in August and
September, I was repeatedly reminded that my entire Peace Corps experience
would be studded with sharp emotional ups and downs. I thought I understood what I was being told, given that,
despite my desire to be in Guatemala, I was liable to break down crying at the
slightest reminder of home. But
the past few weeks have shown me what emotional ups and downs really are. Completely unremarkable events can push
me over the edge, into anger or sadness or shock; at the same time, many of the
things that would have shocked me in the United States barely register.
Some examples:
Barking dogs: Barking
dogs are totally passé, both in the U.S. and here in Guatemala. But my host family’s dog, which splits
its time between the roof and the landing outside my door, yips with a
vengeance, at all hours of the day and night. I can no longer count on my hands the number of nights I
have spent lying awake in bed, listening to Muñeca’s barking wars with the dogs
next door. As my friend Hannah put
it, “If I could kill that dog with no one knowing it was me, I would do
it.” Ok, I probably wouldn’t kill
Muñeca. I think that would
probably go against my whole personal-philosophy-of-pacifism thing. But I wouldn’t be too upset if she got
struck by lightning, or wandered off, or in some other way disappeared from my
life. In any case, the sound of
dogs barking, which I hardly noticed before leaving the U.S., has now become a
sort of psychological trigger, sending me into an immediate panic and/or rage.
Homicidal dogs:
As you may have guessed from the fact that my host family keeps a creature as
annoying as Muñeca, my host dad has a soft spot for dogs. I honestly don’t understand why anyone
in Guatemala keeps dogs as pets, because a) all the dogs are flea-ridden and
quite likely to infest one’s house with the parasites, b) dogs therefore
generally aren’t allowed to come inside, c) they bark constantly, and d) they
cost money, and most of the Guatemalans I know spend a lot of time bemoaning
their meager finances. So it’s a
bit of a mystery to me why my host dad keeps picking up new dogs. Allow me to explain. When I first came to Guatemala, there
was only Muñeca. But my host dad
soon adopted “Bobby,” a giant black mutt he found in the road, nursing two
broken legs (my host dad did not seek medical treatment for Bobby, but gave him
some pills in the hope that they would “make him better”). Shortly after Bobby arrived, my host
dad bought my host brother a puppy.
This puppy, dubbed Osita or “little bear,” was positively crawling with fleas, and frequently bore
signs of recent fighting—torn ears, bleeding paws, etc. Then, a couple weeks ago, my host dad
adopted another street dog, bringing our total tally to four. After the adoption of this most recent
“chucho” or street dog, Osita disappeared. I finally asked my host dad what happened to her. His response: “Se fue.” “Se fue” literally translates as “she
left,” but Guatemalans also use it to express that someone has died (this is
very confusing). I foolishly
concluded that Osita had run away, until my host dad continued, “Yeah, that new
street dog and Muñeca killed her.”
I fully recognize that this is absurd and terrifying, but I barely
batted an eyelash, even when I found Osita’s severed paws hanging out on the
kitchen windowsill a few days later.
Constant questions
and stares: I totally understand that I’m an anomaly here. I don’t look like the locals, I don’t
dress like them, and I don’t act like them. So it’s completely natural for Guatemalans to stare at me,
or ask me questions about my behavior.
But, after so many months of constant curious attention, I hate it. I’m sick of Guatemalans walking up to
me in the park, introducing themselves, and enthusiastically shaking my hand
while assuring me, “It’s such a pleasure.
An absolute pleasure. Such
a pleasure to know you.” I’m tired
of seven-year-old Guatemalan boys staring at me for five to ten minutes at a
time on public transportation (smiles, winks, and waves have no effect on their
deadpan expressions; it’s creepy).
And I’m over the constant stream of questions every day: How old are
you? How much do you weigh? Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Why don’t you wear skirts? When are you going to have kids? Your hair is dyed, right? Are you walking (always asked while I am walking)? You made it home (always asked when I walk in the door)? What did you do to your eyelashes/are
they real? When I examine all
these questions rationally, after the fact, I know that they should just make me
chuckle, and appreciate Guatemalans’ curiosity. But in the moment, the questioning frustrates me to no end.
The curious incident
of the pregnant woman in the daytime: My fellow volunteer Paul, also known
as Twinnesota, recently told me the following bizarre story: A woman in his
town, who had planned a home birth, decided, in the middle of labor, that she
would prefer to deliver at the health post. She set off, alone and with a baby IN HER BIRTH CANAL. She did not make it to the health post,
but instead squatted in the town’s central park and proceeded with the whole
giving birth thing. The health
post staff, on learning of the active labor on their town’s green, told Paul to
try to get their single stretcher, which they keep in a locked room with no key. The only way to open it is for a tall
person to reach in, grope around for a tiny string tied to the lock, and pull
on said string with all his or her might.
Paul, at over six feet, had found his true calling. Sadly, by the time the stretcher was retrieved
and brought to the park, it was no longer needed. The woman and her (thankfully healthy) newborn were chilling
on the grass. Again, there’s a part
of me that knows that everything about this story is crazy. But there’s also a part that just feels,
Eh. Guatemala.
It’s not only my emotions that are rollercoastering these
days; it’s also my projects at work.
I’m really happy to say I have a lot going on these days (finally), but
I must admit my success with said goings-on really varies.
To elaborate, over the past two weeks I have started four
big new work activities:
1. An Espacio Amigable, or “Safe Space,” for local
youth. The gender-segregated
Espacio Amigable meets every other week in the municipal library, and is
intended as a place/time for high school kids to learn about sexual and
reproductive health, seek advice from trusted adults (read: me), and get help
on homework. By the way, I’m
joking about that whole me-as-the-trusted-adult thing. While I am active in the Espacio
Amigable, and definitely consider myself a resource for the young men and women
attending, the meetings are held as a joint effort by the health educators, my
site mate Laura, and me.
At our very first meeting, I was shocked and incredibly
pleased to find several teenage girls waiting outside the locked library, eager
for the session to start. They
loved the video we showed them about the importance of self esteem, and we were
even able to facilitate a little bit of discussion with the notoriously shy
ladyfolk.
Our second meeting, for the chicos, was less
successful. Maybe they had a
harder time relating to the video, given that the main character is a girl and
machismo is not portrayed in a positive light. Maybe they were afraid of coming off as overly sensitive in front
of their peers. Or maybe they’re
just not that interested in the Espacio Amigable. Whatever the cause, getting them to participate in a
discussion after the video was worse than pulling teeth. I tried to start them off with easy
questions, and to address specific boys to get them to talk. Their response was to stare at me in
silence for minutes at a time. So,
not the most comfortable or productive meeting. I’m hoping that as they get more comfortable with each
other, and with the weird gringas in their midst, they’ll open up.
 |
| Desperately trying to get local high school boys to speak |
2. A Club de Embarazadas, or pregnancy club, for—you guessed
it—local pregnant women. The idea
here is a sort of support group that meets once a month at the CAP to share
advice, learn about health during and after pregnancy, and eat healthy
snacks. This initiative takes a
bit more planning than the Espacio Amigable, because the health center staff
and I have to look for outside funding.
In addition to the healthy snacks, we want to provide each woman with a
small gift basket when she gives birth—nothing fancy, just some diapers and a
toy and an outfit, or some such.
The health post can’t afford these things (given that we can’t even
afford thread for sutures), and we can’t ask the municipal government, because
they already cover a lot of our needs (i.e. gas for the ambulance, medications
for patients who cannot pay, etc.).
We therefore wrote a letter to a separate governmental organization,
located in Sololá and dedicated to nutrition, soliciting financial aid. I went to deliver the letter in person
and plead our case (twice), but was told the organization has absolutely no
money. We’re now working on
similar solicitations to the local bank, the grocery story (run by Walmart),
and the Sololá governor. I thought
about applying for a special type of Peace Corps grant allowing Americans
(largely friends and family) to donate to the cause, but I really want this
club to be entirely sustainable within Guatemala.
The point of this long-winded financial rambling is to
relate that, by the time our first meeting rolled around, we still had no
money. The educators and I agreed
to foot the bill for the first healthy snack (a giant fruit salad), and to
explain to the pregnant women that we are doing all we can to find funding for
the gift baskets. The day before
the meeting, I learned that the educators had forgotten to spread the news of
the club on their house visits to pregnant women, meaning that none of the
pregnant women in our community knew about the club. The educators frantically went door-to-door that day, and I
rested easy.
The morning of our first meeting, I learned that there was
educator confusion about who would be running the club with me, and that three
of the four educators in charge of the club did not know they were
involved. This made me feel very
stupid indeed. But, we worked
through the morning to orient ourselves and to prepare lesson materials, and by
the afternoon I was again feeling hopeful.
My hope quickly died when only one pregnant woman showed up
(she got a very large serving of fruit salad). We decided to continue with the lesson plan, but that too
ran amok: the attendee was Kaqchikel Mayan, and spoke only baseline Spanish. One of the educators stepped in to
translate, which would have been great except for the fact that she got quite
overenthusiastic with her teaching.
I would say one sentence, like, “One warning sign during pregnancy is
vaginal bleeding,” and this educator would expound upon the point for 3-5
minutes. I know this doesn’t sound
like a problem; it sounds like she’s just being super educational. But due to childhood malnutrition, the
vast majority of Guatemalans don’t process information like you or I do. They learn best in small doses, and
basically can’t handle too much information at one time. So, as the lesson went on, this poor
pregnant woman just got more and more confused.
When my lesson had finally ended (the ten-minute plan
extending into a 30-minute execution), a visiting lecturer on nutrition stepped
up and told me she would now be giving her own lesson to this single pregnant
woman (who had already told us she was in a hurry to leave). I was kind of mortified, but also felt
completely powerless to stop the visitor from giving her lecture.
The pregnant woman finally left (read: fled), and the
visiting lecturer sat down with my educators and I to talk. She asked me if I often gave lessons to
locals or to the educators, and I explained to her that my project was really
just starting to take off, today being the first meeting of the Club de
Embarazadas. I’m also starting to
plan lessons for my educators, at the request of my boss at the CAP, but
haven’t given any lectures to them yet.
This visitor then turned to my educators and said, “Well, if you ever
want me to come and give you lessons, since Ann can’t, let me know.” What?! The educators then rubbed salt in the wound by telling her
how great that would be. I felt
like I had been kicked in the stomach.
I literally ask the health post staff every day what I can do to help
them, and they always tell me, “Nothing,” or, “Just be.” I was embarrassed that this visiting
nutrition expert thought that I was so useless, and ashamed that I hadn’t done
more at the CAP to make myself useful.
In summary, the first Pregnancy Club really sucked.
3. A year-long “diplomado,” or workshop, dedicated to
training health educators on better education methods (I mentioned this in my
Christmas post, I believe). Two
other volunteers and I have spent the past month preparing lessons on teamwork
and respect in the workplace, printing and organizing follow-along worksheets
and homework, and generally slaving over logistics (lists of attendees, venue
preparation, lunch arrangements, etc.).
I’m happy to say that the result was…pretty good. There were a few snags in the day-long
presentation (the Guatemalan in charge of the entire project had invited a
guest speaker without telling us), but overall things went well. We made it through all the necessary
talking points in the time allotted, and in a fun/interactive way. All the food was delivered on
time. The Guatemalans scored, on
average, 22% higher on the post-test than on the pre-test. I felt proud of what we had
accomplished, and am looking forward to next month’s session.
A quick aside: the one thing the Guatemalans really didn’t like about the training
event was the food (I think it’s a good sign that the food was the worst part,
don’t you? It’s probably the
easiest thing to fix). We had
ordered them a pizza party lunch, thinking that this would be great fun for all
involved. But we had made a great
cultural misstep. In Guatemala,
pizza is a snack food, not a meal.
The comment cards the Guatemalans turned in at the end of the day
featured such suggestions as, “No pizza.
Only tortillas,” and, “Next time we would appreciate an actual
lunch.” (Just FYI, Guatemalans
insist on eating pizza with ketchup, mayonnaise, and spicy green sauce. Must make all food as unhealthy as
possible.)
4. Assisting the social worker at the Sololá Hospital. The head of the diplomado committee
(see #3 above) is married to the social worker at the Sololá Hospital, and my
boss at Peace Corps suggested I take advantage of my proximity to Sololá and
try working with her. I’m not
entirely sure what I’ll be doing with her (she mentioned doing education on
exclusive breastfeeding), but on my first day she threw me into social work
headfirst. She showed me to the
neonatal care ward, where tiny stick-figure babies breathed tiny ragged breaths
in tiny beeping incubators. This
was another moment when I felt like I had been punched; I was overwhelmed by
the sadness and desperation of the scene, and by the fact that there were no
nurses around. Shouldn’t these
babies, most of which seemed to be barely clinging to life, be receiving
round-the-clock attention?
The social worker led me to one baby in particular, which
happened to be from San José Chacayá.
She had been born extremely premature two months previously, and her
parents had basically abandoned her immediately postpartum. She now needed to undergo cardiac
testing in Guatemala City, an ambulance journey that required the presence of
at least one parent. Despite
multiple calls and even appointments set up by the social worker, the parents
had failed to return to the hospital.
The social worker wanted me to seek out the parents back in my community
and find out what exactly they were playing at.
So, the next day, back in San José Chacayá, I corralled a
few educators to accompany me, and trekked the two and a half miles to this
woman’s house. It turned out that
the educators were a necessity, because the woman spoke Kaqchikel. We spent about an hour at her house,
explaining the situation/scolding her/pleading with her to go care for her
baby. She finally agreed to go to
the hospital that afternoon. I
followed up with the social worker a few days later, and I’m happy to say that
both parents went to the hospital to accompany the baby to Guatemala City.
I know that getting a single pair of parents to reclaim
their abandoned baby isn’t the sustainable or widespread work that Peace Corps
is looking for, but I can’t help feeling like it’s the most important thing
I’ve done so far in country. It
makes me feel like even with my failed Pregnancy Club attempt, I’m doing good
here. With all these
rollercoastering emotions and day-to-day activities, it’s things like this that
keep me sane.
