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Footprints in Peru, Day 4: appeasing the apus

Sunday, August 12th, 2007

“I knew you were better as soon as your laugh woke me up,” declares Javier.

Indeed, while my mental facilitates napped through a 13-hour siesta, my body, with the assistance of the antibiotics, regained control of my gut, stomach, head and mind territories. And when I am healthy, everyone knows it for I am a sensitive little creature, who is especially happy when she is healthy. So the sound of my echoing laugh wakes camp to its simultaneous relief and annoyance.

The tips of tents, noses and fingers are all nipped by the frost of 6am at 4,400 meters (14,520 ft), so as soon as the sun steps a foot in our valley, everyone in our party makes a dash for the growing gold streak that graces itself upon one of the rocky walls enclosing our camp. We’re all shifting our feet, stretching our fingers and otherwise encouraging blood to run its warming course when Javier raises his arm and voice to ask, “Would anyone like to learn how coca leaves are traditionally used here?”

This invitation is enough to coax me from the warm rock on which I sun towards the circle surrounding Feliciano, our head porter. I volunteer without hesitation, “Yes! Please. I would like to try!”

Feliciano pulls out a plastic bag full of muted-green and brittle looking leaves. He shows me the contents and then rifles through to find a choice few. I learn later that this process, of selecting the best leaves, is part of the ritual. But I am, as typical, still ignorant at this point, and so after he has carefully selected a few and then offers me the bag, I clumsily grab an ugly pinch full of small leaves and stems, which I now, looking back, realize must have been slightly insulting. Sometimes I have no choice but to forgive myself my clumsy, cultural fopaux.

Feliciano instructs me to put the little layered bundle into my mouth, chew just enough to put my saliva to the task of breaking down the leaves, and then push the little package for safe keeping to the side of my mouth. He then carefully selects another choice leaf and, with it between his two fingers, pinches off a small edge of a little black rock of tar-like substance. He sandwiches this scrape of black paste within the coca leaf and then hands it to me with the instruction to add it that which I have already amassed, like a chipmunk, in my cheek.

By now there is a very distinctive flavor being juiced by my teeth from the leaves. Unfortunately, because I do not have a refined leaf-eating or -distinguishing palette, I’m unable to classify this flavor as anything other than, “leaf.” I do, however, have experience in the dentist’s chair, and as an unmistakable numbness spreads from my cheek to my lips and chin and I begin to wonder if I’m drooling, I recognize the sensation as a sister of Novocain. Then my stomach starts to churn to the same tune as a shot of espresso and I’m overcome by that slightly jittery and attention-deficit symptom of caffeine overdose. Whew! Even a little heat flash passes over and I look around and ask if any the others participating in the experiment are feeling the same effects. They grimace at the flavor and shake their heads, “no,” which is not abnormal: I also get drunk off one glass of wine; as proof to the aforementioned: a sensitive little creature.

Bu the effects of the coca leaves don’t last long. Technically, the chewing process involves constantly selecting and adding perfect leaves and precise pinches of the catalyst (which, in this case, I learn, is the ash of burned quinoa) to keep this yanatin (sacred pair) effectively secreting the stimulant. But I’m still entertained by the buzz which seems quite equivalent to that which the average North American gets from sipping on coffee through a day in an office cube. The difference, I suppose, being that Peruvians don’t have desperate addictions to a drug whose base ingredient happens to be our normally harmless crop. And that Peruvians don’t, then, point the finger at us for being responsible for the bad habits that plague their social elite. And in response, Peruvians don’t declare a “war” and shadow our lowlands with warplanes that drop highly toxic pesticides on the innocent bushes that naturally grow like weeds around our gardens, houses and animals. Yes. I guess that would be the difference between the United States’ and Peruvian buzzes.

My shame and anger at my country make excellent fuel for my ascent up to the 4,672-meter (15,417 foot) pass. On my way, I overhear one woman exclaim that the climb is more difficult than childbirth. Another participant says it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. The air is thin, but I still manage an unbelieving sigh when I realize there is a 15-year old girl walking in front of me, a 72-year old man on my heels, and a shared goal that has managed to trump that 57 years of age difference with ease. Equally shocking is the fact that our ageless Peruvian porters are carrying twice our haul, yet climbing twice as fast, and doing all this in simple, leather, open-toed sandals. I laugh when I imagine the big mountain retailer brands shuddering at the sight of such tech-less efficiency.


one of our llamas looking over the pass

At the top of the pass, I remove the wad of chewed coca leaves and deposit them, delicately and with respect (as I’ve been instructed), on the ground. Javier and Jairo (another one our guides) wave me over to a cairn that the group has constructed by having each person carry and contribute one stone to the rock formation. Jairo hands me a small bunch of perfect coca leaves and says, “Raise it first to Veronica,” and I follow his instructions and raise the leaves into the air in the direction of the mountain Veronica. Jairo then rotates my arms about 40 degrees and says, “and now raise the offering to the Apus.”

At this I turn to him and ask, “What is Apu?”

And he answers, “The Apus are the mountain spirits. We’re asking for their blessing of good weather for our journey.”

I’m intrigued, but don’t ask questions.

Instead I just hold up the coca leaf offering and hope it will appease these mysterious Apus…

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in getting political (warned), peru | 6 Comments »

swallowing shame

Friday, April 13th, 2007

Nothing strikes me as particularly interesting or memorable about the US embassy in Dakar. It’s a formidable building, with the same broad shoulders of those that neighbor it, identified by a simple gold plaque on the wall, a red, white and blue flag flapping above, and a few extra men in uniform standing watch on its more exposed corners.

There is nothing special about the building, but there is of the day. Almost six months ago, subconsciously searching for a good reason to go to Senegal, I jumped at a mission mentioned casually by a co-worker in an email. She wrote:

“Hey! I heard you’re interested in visiting Senegal! Quick plea: I’m, right now, sitting with Mbouille, and we’ve been trying really hard to organize a visa to the United States so that he can attend our instructor orientation and then fly back with the group to lead the program here in Senegal. He’s already been rejected a visa two times. And we think that if there were a representative from the company here during his interview, to verify his employment and good character, then it might help him get the visa he needs for the short visit. What do you think? Would you be able to sit with him during his interview at the US embassy if we make an appointment and set a date?”

I grabbed onto the task like a winning ticket; the request may have been only a little physical push, but it provided lofty mental momentum in moving me to secure a seat on a plane to Africa. I didn’t have to seek my adventure; it had found me. I had no excuses now (nor wanted any); I could rationalize the entire trip as a favor for a friend! With no choice but to happily take haste on — what in my overly-optimistic mind I had decided to interpret as — a “clearly” auspicious omen, I purchased my ticket to Senegal.

Before leaving, my boss pulled together an impressive looking presentation of materials: catalogues, proposals on letterhead, business cards, program materials, employment contracts, evaluations of Mbouille’s past work for our organization; all clipped together in a professional little binder. The contents combined to sing a pretty little song of the merits of Mbouille’s exceptional record of service for our American company. The chorus ended with a request for his presence at a 10-day training seminar (all expenses paid by the company) in the United States, “essential to his professional development and our organizational objectives.”

Now, as I amble around the cemented walkway in front of the US Embassy in Dakar, I clutch onto this tight little package of proof. As well, tucked away in my deepest pocket, is a folded wad of cash amounting to 100 US dollars – the “processing fee” to apply for an American visa. The day before, I had to scrounge the city for three separate ATMS, pulling the maximum withdrawal from each, in order to come up with this amount. This withdrawal limit is quite logical under the consideration that the $100 US dollar fee is roughly equivalent to 15% of the annual GNI per capita in Senegal.

I glance at my watch, as it’s notably abnormal for Mbouille to be late; especially for our date with an Embassy official. As I sink down the wall into a cross-legged sitting position, a stocky white man, with a close-cut of fair hair, briskly approaches me. He looks concerned and leans down to ask, “Are you okay? Do you need anything? Can I help you with something?”

I smile, shake my head and explain to him that I’m simply waiting for a friend of whom I hope to help organize a visa. His eyes narrow just enough to make wonder why. But before I can investigate, he makes a quick dismiss and enters the Embassy. Had I time to ponder his expression, I would have caught a clue, but I am distracted by a full-body wave of Mbouille’s extended arm in the air.

“Maimuna!” he mouths my name and shows me a smile that can barely be contained by his face.

I move to get up and he hand signals me down, motioning for patience.

I’m confused. And I feel ridiculous. Because I don’t understand what I’m seeing.

Mbouille is in a line of, perhaps, 30 or 40 persons. They are almost marching, single file, from some unidentified meeting spot, that I suppose to have originated from somewhere behind the Embassy. There are guards in uniform, and they actually shout at the people in line, urging them into a tighter row, instructing them, that if they move, they will lose their place and appointment. The commands seem especially demeaning, as those in line appear dressed for a fine dinner party. To the heel and with deliberate consciousness: shoes are shined, dresses pressed, shirts tucked, hair pinned, and finest jewelry presented. Mbouille himself is wearing a crisp and dirt-defying white dress shirt tucked into pressed pants with freshly shined shoes and a black briefcase.

As they march, the people fidget: adjusting ties, touching gold bracelets, fixing hair, holding tightly onto their own little matching folders of equally crisp, clean and organized papers.

I stand up and move to approach Mbouille, but one of the guards immediately barks at me to back off. As it is always Mbouille’s inclination, he wants to protect me, but he is not allowed out of line and so, without making a sound, he smiles softly behind the guard’s back and shows me hand signals to, “please, sit and wait.”

It’s my turn to fidget, and I pick at my fingernails and twist my ring in anxious confusion.

When the procession has lined up against the wall to the satisfaction of the guards, and after they have rattled off a new line of commands, Mbouille finally motions me over.

“Ah! Maimuna! I’m so happy to see you! No. No. No. Don’t worry about them. They are only doing their jobs. No, no, no. It’s okay. See. I’ve done this before. Why are they shouting? They are just giving instructions and explaining the process. This is just the way it works. Yes. I have to stay here in this line. Yes. I’m well. Please don’t tell anyone, but I have to confess, I am a little nervous. I don’t know why. I have no expectations. I hope my papers are all in order. Ah. You like the picture? One time I went through this whole process, and when I got up to the desk, they sent me away because the background of my picture was not white. Then they cancelled my appointment. I feel bad because there are no instructions that say the photo has to be on a white background, and I see others here who will be turned away today. Oh no. You shouldn’t get mad. It’s just part of the process. That’s the way it works. Today I know and have a proper picture, so it’s okay. Look! I brought a picture of my wife and son too. I hope it will help now that I am married, to prove that I would never leave my beautiful family and try to stay in the United States. Maimuna. The guards don’t want you to wait in this line with me. You must go wait by the door. When it is my turn, we’ll go in together okay?”

I squirm in my white skin as he hushes me away towards the front of the line and entrance to the Embassy. Our segregation, and my unquestioned “place” at the front door of the Embassy, makes my stomach turn. So I drag my feet as I reluctantly leave the line, turning every once in awhile to let Mbouille’s encouraging smile push me forward.

Finally he is called forward, and I run to his side as we are finally allowed to enter. Guards take our cell phones and my laptop and digital camera. After we empty our pockets of coin and step through the metal detectors, I’m given a cardboard number in exchange for my personal belongings, which I’ll be allowed to recollect on my way out.

We are ushered into a large waiting room full of chairs with corner-mounted televisions echoing mechanical instructions on how to proceed. People line the walls and shuffle their papers nervously.
Eventually we are called into a smaller room where ten chairs line a wall facing three booths. The booths are partially enclosed by flimsy dividing walls, and above each is an electronic box with a red number.

We are the day’s first round of applicants. All ten chairs are full of fidgeting, and immaculately dressed, people. There’s a clock on the wall that we watch until it tells us that we’ve waited three hours. An ever-excited and conversation-full person, Mbouille falls into an unusual silence as I watch him wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck and then clasp and wring his hands together.

I touch his shoulder and tell him not to worry. His case is totally solid. Why would there be any reason to turn him down? We have a letter of invitation from a US employer. He has three years of experience working for the company. We have all kinds of fancy paperwork. He’s married and has a child and a permanent job in Senegal. He is contracted to work this summer for us in this country. He has no reason to stay in the States and every reason to return to Senegal. And I will explain everything. They’ll listen to our case and everything will work out.

Finally, a window slides open and a name is called out.

An anxious young man jumps up, takes a moment to shake out his clothes, and then approaches the window. We all watch him nervously and, at once, wish and dread, the call of our own name.

The young man goes into the flimsy booth and introduces himself, and to my horror, I realize that we, in the waiting room, can hear everything: the curt introduction of the officer, the quick fire of personal questions, the stuttering replies, a very short pause and then…

“I’m sorry, but you are not qualified. Thank you for your time.”

*thump* *thump*

Papers are stamped with this final declaration.

The young man turns around with his shoulders slumped and face down. His nervous hands, emptied even of their paperwork, are left with no retreat, and are instead shoved embarrassedly into his pockets as he leaves.

No one in the waiting room has the courage to look up from their feet when the next name is called.

No more than five minutes pass…

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry…”

As the row of applicants each take a turn at standing, approaching the window, and shuffling sadly away, it becomes apparent that there is no variation to the theme:

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry.”

*thump* *thump*

“We’re sorry, but you are not qualified.”

Mbouille and I no longer speak. Silence demands all the space between us.

“MBOUILLE? Is there an Mbouille here? Please come to the window.”

Mbouille stands up proudly. He shakes himself into a confident stance. With admiration, I do the same. And together, a united front, we approach the window.

To my surprise, it’s the same young, fair man that approached me in the morning. For a naïve second, I cling to the hope that our prior meeting will open an unseen door into this interview, but these wishes are stomped when he shortly states, “Mam. You can take a seat. I will call you if I need you.”

Shoving my foot in a door too-quickly closing, I plead, “but we were told I would be able to join him for the interview. Is that not possible?”

He looks at Mbouille and asks, “Do you speak English?”

I can’t handle the belittling tone, step fully into the box, and before Mbouille has a chance to answer say, “Yes. Actually he speaks nine languages. I’m not here to speak for him. I only want to explain to you my company’s role in this request. Please, can I just have only a minute to explain the importance of this requested visa?”

“Mam. I will review all these documents. But you can sit down. I will call you if I need you.”

He shows me the front of his flat palm indicating that there will be no further discussion on the matter and then turns to Mbouille.

Mbouille smiles warmly and gives me a push with his eyes, knowing that only his instruction would move me.

Rejected and with no other option, I fall back. Dazed, I collapse limply into the nearest chair and have no choice but to listen to the conversation…

“How do you know that woman?”

“She is a Director of the American company for whom I work. Here are my completed forms. This is my letter of invitation….”

“Yes. Please just give me everything. Thank you.”

Papers are shuffled for 30 seconds.

“What is your profession? You are a teacher, huh. And this is your salary? Do you have a bank account statement?”

Papers are shuffled for another 30 seconds.

*thump* *thump*

I can hold back no longer. I stand up and jump back into the box.

“Please! Wait! You haven’t even had time to look over these papers. Please let me explain!”

The officer ignores me.

“I’m sorry Sir. But you are simply not qualified.”

I interject, “Wait!”

The officer looks me in the eye and says, “MAM. I’m sorry but this applicant is simply not qualified.”

Mbouille smiles softly at me. He turns to the officer and warmly replies,

“Thank you so much for you time and consideration Sir. Thank you very much.”

Mbouille gives me a little half laugh and picks up his briefcase, closing my gaping mouth and ushering me out the door. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the sweat from his brow and neck, smiles at me, and says, “Whew. That’s a relief isn’t it? To have that over? Yes. Maimuna. Don’t worry. I didn’t get my expectations up. It’s okay.”

I haven’t the energy to keep up with his quick step, and fall back one behind him.

We collect our belongings from security and step outside. He tries to keep his smile on for me, but I can see a sadness behind his eyes that threatens to fill every moment not preoccupied with reassuring me that he’s okay. We walk fast through the city crowds. With our thoughts running as well, it feels that no time has passed before we reach our bus. We jump on through the back door, push our way through those standing, find an open seat, and fall, side-by-side, onto the shared bench.

Having stopped walking, our chasing minds catch up to us and a heavy silence fills the space between us.

I look out the window. I remember the line, the barking commands, the nervous people, the three hours of waiting, the curt questions, the humiliating open-aired booths, the ridiculously priced “processing fee”, the insulting interview….

My eyes well up with shame and embarrassment for the flag that colored and claimed the system through which we were just processed and spit out…

“Mbouille. The way they treated you…they didn’t listen at all…I’ve failed you….how could they….I’m so sorry…for my country….the way they treated you…”

He takes my hand and cuts my stutter, “Sister. Please. I’m okay. But your sadness will make me sad. Please don’t. Maybe I can apply again, yes? They never asked me the income question before. Maybe now we have learned something new and will be better prepared next time, okay? Now please, Maimuna. Don’t be sad. See? I’m only so happy that you are here. And that you are coming to my house to be with my family. And that is all that matters. But please, I can’t bear your sadness. Okay? Let’s not talk about it.”

He ends his plea with a smile and I agree.

I turn to the window to hide the tears that are welling again, wipe my eyes when I think he’s not looking, suck in a breath, hold it, swallow it, and follow his lead.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in getting political (warned), mis-adventures, on fear, senegal | 8 Comments »

& many things have happened contrary to the wishes and plans of governments"

Wednesday, May 10th, 2006

Sorry. But my biggest pet peeve is having to search online for hours just to find the original transcript of a letter that all the American press has decided it “their duty” to decipher for me.

If you too prefer to read, understand, and interpret for yourself, then I’ve (finally) found (a) transcript of the letter from Iran’s President Mahmood Ahmadi-Najad President to Mr. Bush. (The link, to a French website, is included after the excerpt below):

“Mr President, History tells us that repressive and cruel governments do not survive. God has entrusted The fate of man to them. The Almighty has not left the universe and humanity to their own devices. Many things have happened contrary to the wishes and plans of governments. These tell us that there is a higher power at work and all events are determined by Him.

Can one deny the signs of change in the world today? Is this situation of the world today comparable to that of ten years ago? Changes happen fast and come at a furious pace. The people of the world are not happy with the status quo and pay little heed to the promises and comments made by a number of influential world leaders. Many people around the world feel insecure and oppose the spreading of insecurity and war and do not approve of and accept dubious policies. The people are protesting the increasing gap between the haves and the have-nots and the rich and poor countries.

The people are disgusted with increasing corruption. The people of many countries are angry about the attacks on their cultural foundations and the disintegration of families. They are equally dismayed with the fading of care and compassion. The people of the world have no faith in international organisations, because their rights are not advocated by these organisations.

Liberalism and Western style democracy have not been able to help realize the ideals of humanity. Today these two concepts have failed. Those with insight can already hear the sounds of the shattering and fall of the ideology and thoughts of the liberal democratic systems.”

La lettre de Mahmoud Ahmadinejad à George W. Bush
LEMONDE.FR | 09.05.06 | 19h27 � Mis à jour le 09.05.06 | 19h30

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in getting political (warned) | No Comments »

dissident daisies

Sunday, February 19th, 2006

* This post references, and is in response to questions from, the prior.

“Why?” Jerry asks, “did you use your social security number instead of your name?”

And first may I just reassure, all those concerned, that it was not my real social security number (but I did edit the post when I came to the daydream-inspiring realization that the number most likely does, belong to someone.)

Daydreams aside, I used a social security number because it is normally by this sequence of numbers that I am identified in our System. But since I feel it’s high-tea-time that we humbled that upper-case “S” to a lowercase one and made a movement to bring symmetry to the little “h” in “Humanity,” I wrote the letter in cursive, put it into a pretty card, and signed the note with love. Autographing also with my SS# was simply a nudge of complimenting fun. For even in machines, I believe, there must be a string to pull for a punchline and laughter. And it is my theory that a machine will not stop acting like a machine until I stop treating it like one.

Does this make sense? I am American. That I was born an American will never change (although, with a little life-creativity, how I die might change). And since I currently am American, I am one tiny little cell of this massive organism called (the US of) America. But I am one tiny cell! And although I cannot mobilize the country towards change alone, I can mobilize my cell, my own being, with all my might. So I have to recognize that it is not enough for me to surrender to the machine or to type out a letter and check boxes and speak machine language; for then aren’t I only acting as part of the machine? And neither is it in my nature to be angry with, violent towards or fight against the machine. For I’ve realized that this, too, is speaking machine-language. So you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to hug the machine. And I’m going to be brutally honest with the machine. I’m going to humble myself in front of the machine. And I’m going to invite the machine to an open dialogue and tea. For THAT, is how I want to be treated by the machine. And after all, even the machine (or at least the machinery), is my neighbor.

Another reader asks, “but what about your neighbors?” And what about the cockroaches that might continue to infest apartments because I would not let them spray the chemicals necessary to kill them in mine? Am I so self-centered as to not keep in mind the good of my community?

Let me share two stories.

My grandfather was an exterminator. He worked with similar chemicals. I’m certain that everyone crossed their hearts and swore to him that those chemicals were safe. He used them. And he died when my mother was only 18 from a disease that was certainly linked to these chemicals.

In Darjeeling, India, one of my students lived with a family on a tea plantation. This plantation, like most farms, uses pesticides to keep up with the massive production goals that the international market demands. Now let me share with you a fact that makes something inside of my shrivel with fear; there are NO songbirds on this plantation. The chemicals have plucked from the ecosystem one of the most critical components to its natural and fluid self-regulation. Can you imagine waking up in the foothills of Himalayas to silence? The owners of this plantation have never been properly educated on how to use these chemicals that, when outlawed in the United States, were then too-conveniently dumped on this developing country. The family does not properly use or clean up after using the pesticides; discarded containers were spotted draining their last deadly contents into a nearby river and primary water source. The father of this household told a story of how their family dog once had an insect trapped in its nostril. The dog was going crazy. So the father took a single drop of the pesticide and put it in the dog’s nose. The dog instantly died. The main market for tea from this plantation is Europe and North America.

So what about my neighbors; do I really do them any disfavors by raising questions and doubts about how the, “good of the community” is defined?

When I am at the supermarket, I think of the field with no songbirds every time I opt, and pay the extra price, for organic (and fair trade) foods. And when the apartment manager tells me that the pesticides are totally safe, I share with her my stories of experience otherwise, follow my intuition, and make my own choices. And when I recognize that my dissent is contrary to the opinion of my community, I respond by opening an honest dialogue, from one human to another, with warmth, sincerity, and an invitation to tea.

And you know what happens?

Within 5 minutes of putting up that silly letter outside my apartment, there was a knock on my door. My neighbor (that I had yet to meet) from apartment 302 stood there. She pointed at my note and said, “me too.”

Dissidence is the seed of change. And it takes only a little creativity, an open mind and some good intention to reach inside, find, and start sowing those seeds.

I REALLY want to see change in this country. I have a feeling that I’m not the only one. And they may be daisies, but they are only the beginning of my field of efforts to, “be the change I want to see. “ (- Gandhi)

*****

And speaking of “being the change” or at least of learning about it — here’s an awesome opportunity to make a move for change, one mile at a time. (I’m trying to make room in my own schedule in order to be able to participate…)

*****
SUSTAINABLE ENERGY IN MOTION BIKE TOUR – www.portlandpeace.org
*****

Bike hundreds of miles. Meet incredible people. Participate in amazing service projects. Stay on organic farms and work to promote sustainable food growth practices. Study and work with Native American communities. Live with the land and camp under the stars. Change your world, one mile at a time.

web: www.portlandpeace.org
phone: 503-239-8426

This summer, you can take an extraordinary journey. Tune up your bike, pack your bags, and join fellow riders from all over the world for an incredible excursion across Oregon, utilizing the most sustainable method of transportation available: your own bike.

* Study and apply the philosophies of permaculture, alternative building, appropriate technology and sustainable energy.

* Spend time with Native American communities, work with salmon restoration and indigenous building practices.

* Gain a deeper understanding of how organic food is grown, and distributed.

* Explore some of the most beautiful places in Oregon while learning about natural history, deep ecology, and environmental ethics.

* Observe local economics projects and grassroots democracy struggles in places through which you travel.

* Participate in a traveling community of cyclists coming from all over North America with a variety of backgrounds but with a shared longing for a better world.

* Discover consensus decision-making and use it to make collective decisions within your community.

* Learn about nutrition, health and fitness through long-distance cycling.

Visit our website for more informati
on and to enter to win one of our one-week tours! www.portlandpeace.org / 503-239-8426

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in getting political (warned) | 2 Comments »

now don’t worry

Thursday, February 16th, 2006

*****

Dear Exterminator,

Although I have received your notice, I ask that you do NOT exterminate in my apartment, Unit 307. I have contacted the property management office and explained to them my personal reasons for why I wish to have no spraying of chemicals, or killing of small creatures, take place in my daily living space. I thank you in advance for respecting my decision, rights, and health and spiritual beliefs – no matter how silly they are.

sorry for being so annoying,

The Occupant of Unit 307

*****

Who’d have thought that a girl who’s happiest living out of a 60-liter backpack could be so high-maintenance?

How about another note that’s about to go out in the mail:

*****

Dear Student Loan Office,

I got a paying job. You may temporarily lift my state of forbearance for, as promised, I will make payments on my loans for any time period that I subscribe to the System. Now don’t worry about me. I plan to leave for India again this summer and I still dedicate my life to voluntary service, learning, teaching, and living without respect to monetary and materialistic notions. And of course, your invitation to have tea with me and discuss the issue further remains open.

with love,

Social Security ###-##-####

*****

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and MercuryFrog for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Posted in getting political (warned) | No Comments »

the last turtle

Thursday, December 15th, 2005

14.1, 3.1, 2.1

15.2, 3.4, 2.3

12.5, 2.7, 2.0

“Oh my gosh, this one’s so little!” I put the slide rule down and, with two careful fingers, lift the little creature up. His width, as measured exactly to be 2.0 centimeters, is small enough to make my eyes cross when I hold him up to my nose for closer examination.

His little eyes blink back at mine but, blinded by will power, he shows no fear. For with the clockwork and inexhaustible motion of a wind-up toy, this flawless miniature replica of an adult Olive Ridley turtle paddles with impressive and indiscriminate strength against sand or hand in search of the swim in the sea that he will spend the rest of his life in.

I look into the wire mesh enclosure that circles the sand where this nest hatches and a dozen tiny sea turtle heads poke their exhausted beaks from the sand. Despite that they appear to be identical hund-lets, here already the hatchlings begin to demonstrate their individual character as, upon the same first breath of fresh sea air, some collapse in relief and other are re-invigorated to a new full charge towards the sea. And both are quite validated responses, for after being abandoned by my mother, breaking out of my egg and spending the next 48 hours digging out of my own birth-grave, I too would fancy myself deserving of a break — either from work or for the water.

Although instinct (alone) has taught this hatchling the dangers of the swooping shadows of predators, the collective unconscious of this species has yet to imprint the intuitive instructions on how to swerve the myriad traps human beings have put in place to successfully impede the survival of these little life seedlings. The literal “dead ends” of the sea turtle’s life path are extensive, and almost exclusively the fault of fallout from (what I can only assume is) man’s suicide mission here on earth. Pesticides and heavy metals from the mass pollutants dumped in the sea cause a multitude of mutations and fatal diseases. Heavy ship traffic results in numerous propeller collisions. Shrimp trawling and fishing drift nets entangle and drown untold thousands of adult turtles. Trash, particularly plastic bags, are confused with jellyfish which are then eaten and cause suffocation. Nests are excavated at industrial levels with the eggs sold as purported aphrodisiacs throughout Latin America. Pregnant turtles are captured on their way to nest and are slaughtered for their meat, liver oils and/or shells which are used in making jewelry marketed to tourists. Artificial lighting caused by developments on beaches both dissuade mothers from nesting and disorientate hatchlings, leaving them lost so long that they die from dehydration in their unsuccessful quests to find the ocean.

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I put the hatchling into the bucket and as he crawls upon the backs of his brothers and struggles so desperately to climb the impossibly slick walls, his frustration with this woman-made obstacle is obvious. But what the hatchling doesn’t know is that 45 days ago, a poacher followed his mother during her annual adventure from the sea, waited for her to give birth, stole her eggs from the nest, and saved his chance of survival. Yes, saved. For another fact unknown to this hatchling is that that thanks to our massive global pollution of the Earth and a phenomenon that men in suits to this day deny, the black sand beaches of Guatemala have warmed to temperatures that make the land nothing but an underground oven that bakes the nest at lethal temperatures and cooks each and every hatchling alive. The poacher that spared this hatchling only did so because he is mandated by Guatemalan law to donate a percentage of the eggs he collects to the local hatchery (the one I am volunteering at).

But the good fortune of this hatchling neither starts nor stops here. For his mother was the very lucky one in 5,000 of her species siblings to reach the age of sexual maturity that brought her back to nest on this beach. This beach, by the way, is the exact same beach that she herself was born on. Despite the fact that it’s been over a dozen years and thousands of annual miles migrating to far and foreign seas since she hatched and crawled across this sand to her first swim, she still knows her way back and returns to the very same beach that she herself was born on. This navigational marvel still humbles the best of human scientist: some say sea turtles travel in alignment to the stars, others hypothesize that they feel the subtle gravitation pulls of the moon, and still others theorize that they simply follow their noses recognizing the most delicate and directional smells of the sand that once housed the outer womb of their first home. In any case, it’s a mystery we do not, and most likely will never, solve. For every single type of sea turtle found in the ocean today is endangered. Leatherback turtles have been swimming in the Earth’s oceans for over 150 million years; they actually swam with the dinosaurs! Yet on my last night strolling the beach scouting for nesting females (while volunteering for the Leatherback Conservation Project in Costa Rica in 2003), I asked one of the long-term local workers if he thought the leatherbacks had any real chance of surviving the age of humanity and he replied, “if things continue the way they are now, there won’t be a single leatherback in the ocean in ten years.”

I turn my attention back to the next hatchling I pull out of the nest. I struggle to hold her still as she tirelessly does consecutive push-ups on my palm in her impressive attempt to paddle herself out of my hand.

When and by what hand was this adamant will to live wound, I, with admiration, wonder?!

I don’t know. But I pledge to her my support. The statistics are indeed dismal, but quite an equal match for the enormous will exhibited in my palm. And if she thinks she can do it, or even only asks for a chance, I will match her instinctual willpower with my intentional optimism.

Finally I manage to measure her weight, length and width…

14.9, 3.1, 2.2

She is the last turtle. I mark down her measurements, put her into the bucket and carry her out to the sea, whereupon I find a nice spot a few meters from the water line and delicately dump the pile of hatchlings out. I turn those upside-down right-side up and then quickly walk down into the water and turn my flashlight on to help guide their way, on this moonless night, towards (what would be) the natural light of the sea. The salty air and damp sand instantly invigorate even the sleepers and the race towards the water, towards a lifetime, towards opportunity, is on. Their hydrodynamic and streamlined flippers are hardly appropriate for land travel, but they make so light of the first of many disadvantages they will encounter in this life. They struggle forth making fast and outstanding gain towards the water and finally, the first far-reaching wave and fastest paddling hatchling collide. As she catches that wave and rides, I swear I hear her sigh. I watch her tumble with a wicked current into the adventure of her lifetime and realize that the shared sigh of longing and hope for life — was mine.

Feeling inspired to adopt a turtle nest of your own?

< Adopt a turtle nest at the ARCAS Hawaii Hatchery in Monterrico, Guatemala.
They do not yet have any way to receive online donations, so if you trust me (I do), I’m very happy to collect donations ($15 USD per nest) through paypal and will make sure the name and donation are handed over to my friends running the center in Guatemala. For a detailed explanation on what it means to, “Sponsor A Nest” at Parque Hawaii in Guatemala, go to: www.sponsoranest.com.

Official PayPal Seal

OR…

< Adopt a nest at the Clearwater Marine Aquarium in Florida

< Adopt a nest at the Sea Turtle Restoration Project in San Diego

< Be a turtle benefactor at Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge

Posted in NGOs & service learning, central america, getting political (warned), on nature, on tears & loss | 1 Comment »

a day in the life

Sunday, November 6th, 2005

Sometime in the last few months I picked up a new personal meal-prompted ritual. And it only slightly (and admittedly irrationally) bothers me that onlookers might presume I’m Christian (which I, although a fan of Jesus “the pilgrim,” am not) when I bow my head, close my eyes, and whisper down the inner halls of awareness my gratitude for and debt (in some currency divine) to all the people, events and natural elements that conspired in order to provide the offering at my table.

However this exercise is often a stretch of the imagination for me (as well as others raised in “developed” countries) where the distance that my food has travelled is so far that it often leaves me an equal number of emotional miles distant from knowing anything of the source of my sustenance. This fact evidenced by the fruit in the photo above, which, contrary to many 1st-world-first-guesses is not a cranberry, but the colorful coat of the very same coffee bean (coming in equally flamboyant shades of yellow as well) that fuels the entire of the developed worlds’ digestive fire; moving along board meetings, news readings, exam studying and, in general, the full flush of the other bowel movements of (at least) the American social, political, work and educational systems.

So in an effort to follow the umbilical cord of our addiction to “happy-ccinos” (as my co-leader likes to call cappuccinos) back to the pachamama (“mother earth”) source, we (me and my students) wrapped palm-thatched baskets around our waists and took to the fields of a local Guatemalan coffee finca (“farm”) for an exercise that those of us working in “experiential education” like to call, “A Day In The Life”; which is essentially our own little “life-swapping” reality TV series — minus the cameras, crew, cast and lack of credibility.

In order to combat reverse discrimination by the bugs (which consider the blood under our lighter skin of a tastier blend) we slather ourselves in mosquito and sun repellents. As I smear the cream across my neck and face I feel quite like I’m preparing for the frontline of a war. And why not? With statistics like the fact that the Guatemalans that I will be working alongside will spend a full day filling a single 100-pound sack, for which they will receive a daily wage of 25 Quetzales (or $3.33 USD) which will, in turn, need to be spread thin enough to feed an (average) family with five or more children — well warring countries might not be involved, but a daily and frontline fight for survival certainly is.

But as is usually the case with all my assumptions about the lives of those living in “undeveloped countries,” instead of the bugs and sun, I should have come better prepared for my personal battle against the stuck-up and self-centered nature of statistics and stereotypes. Thinking back, I’m not sure what exactly I expected, but as soon as the camion (“carrier truck”) drops us off on the most beautiful sloping hillside with panoramic views of looming volcanoes and lush valleys, I immediately begin to question if we could really call the boring synthetic box of an office cubicle a more “civilized” or “healthy” working environment. Breathing in the tropical forest is like drinking water and the breathtaking views inspire such heavy inhalations of an air so sweet, rich and refreshing that even the thought of an air-conditioned office closes my throat on a choke.

One of the Guatemalans with us suddenly yodels into a valley of the rainforest. And to my dismay and delight, a dozen yodels, from all sides of the hills and in all tones of the human vocal rainbow, sing echoing yodels of geographic location and greeting right back. Based on the information relayed in the secret yodel code (of which we are hardly privy to comprehending), our group tromps to our destination with the ungraceful and shuffling step of those foreign to the jungle and ignorant of the language it, too, speaks.

When I finally I arrive at my first coffee bush, a sweet woman, with wrinkles appropriately placed in proof that she spends more time smiling than not, quickly explains to me the dynamics and detail of a full and efficient pick. Her hands move with expert quickness as she demonstrates the art of defining that which is ripe and that which is not; “See? More red than green. This one, yes. This one, yes. The black ones, yes. This green one, no.” Her hands move like a wand over each branch, turning a heavy red mass to a thin and trim green one. With each swipe of her magic hands limbs bounce up and lift with new lightness and life. My imagination is (ever) active and I fancy myself hearing the branches, when they spring, sighing with appreciative unburdened relief.

The woman’s magic-wand hands stop and it takes me awhile for my fascination to wear and my imagination to wander back to reality before I realize that she’s looking at me expectedly and offering me my turn at a try. I move my hand to the bush but I’m slow and I stumble; “This one, yes. This one, um, no. This one is equal in green and red, yes or no?” The woman is immensely patient; a virtue, I fathom, in which she’s a practiced expert given the amount of time she studies in the shade of her guru, Mother Nature.

I’m not a quick learner. In fact, I pride myself on being a slow one. And so at the expense of swiftness and with deliberate concentration to detail, I diligently begin to clean my first bush of berries. And as I do so I realize that, contrary to all my petty presumptions, this is surprisingly pleasant work! My SPF 35 war paint was hardly necessary for, had I asked instead of assuming, I would have learned that this is shade-grown coffee — and thus the sun pleasantly trickles down its warmth between the tall macadamia nut trees planted and placed specifically for the purpose. Work songs, location yodels and laughter bounce and banter with the songbirds of the valley. Children too work alongside us but against all my “big bad” notions of “child labor laws,” these kids are talking, laughing and playing with their parents and neighbors, and I question if the children in neighboring continents could really be better off putting an equal amount of finger power into navigating a gameboy or television remote control. This being one of the very few organic farms in the country, no masks or gloves or worries over future birth weights and cancers are necessary. (Although at this thought, I do look up and envision for a minute, an American plane flying overhead and, without warning, darkening my sky with billowing clouds of poisonous powder. This “plan” as part of some covert and corrupt “aid” package devised — in misguided aim to eliminate the naturally thriving coca plants that grow innocently in lands Latin American — by the upturned and addicted noses of Northern neighbors wrongfully projecting blame.) But back to the berries — they are beautiful! And compared to their red fruit cousins of the forest and field they are (thankfully) thorn-free and come off the bush with incredible ease. And yes, it might be true that I have a touch of OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) that’s being tickled with a curious feather of fancy by each green and lean branch picked (so obviously!) clean. But recognizing the satisfaction as not so different from that which I feel after sorting a full email inbox, I muse that productivity and organization perhaps are universally innate human inclinations met by many, and/or any, repetitive motion.

But I am only a silly American girl worthy a place to observe, but none to judge. And so I turn to the woman working beside me and ask her instead, “Do you like working here?”

Her mouth slips back into the smile that fits her face so well and she responds, “Of course! I love it here. But it wasn’t always this way. The owner of this finca did not pay us for two years and during those years it was very, very hard. But we organized ourselves and brought him to trial, and the banks, they didn’t get him to give us our money, but they did decide to hand over the land to us, the workers. And we still owe so much money to the bank. But this land is ours. And all the work we put into it comes back to us. And I am so happy to work my own land — with my own people — that it doesn’t matter if I only make 25 Q per day. Because I know that it is fair and that I am investing in the future of this land for my children and for our community.”

I mentally pinch myself a reminder that this story is unique, special and single; that the majority of coffee pickers in Guatemala are discriminated against for being indigenous and work in dire conditions under corrupt and manipulative ladino management for far under the (un-enforced) national minimum wage.

And then I revisit a memory of myself in high school; skipping sixth period for a jaunt to the Starbucks down the street, where I place an order for a non-fat, extra-froth, tall vanilla latte…and slap down an amount of cash that easily surpasses this woman’s entire daily wage. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder under what corrupt and manipulative management the ladino finca owners succumb. I wander up the chain of responsibility, above the ladino owners, above the slick-talking multilingual middlemen, above the multi-national and mega-corporations, and there, on top of my pyramid, I find myself — the ignorant consumer. I hang my head in shame with the realization that slavery in America wasn’t outlawed; it was simply exported. And with this new consciousness, I can no longer hide my culpability in either ignorance or distance.

“Do you like picking coffee?” the woman wakes me from my shame with this question rooted in piercingly pure curiosity.

“Yes I do,” I eagerly and honestly respond, “especially because I’ll never drink another cup of coffee again without, first, a pause and prayer of respect, responsibility, awareness and appreciation.”

In response to my pledge, the warm smile of the woman spreads, and with this wave of expressed emotion, her magic wand goes again into action to relieve me too of my shame and guilt burden. Wordlessly forgiven, I gratefully sigh and then spring up light with renewed right intention.

*****

< More information on the “Nueva Alianza” fair trade coffee finca in Guatemala.

*****

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on the altar of humility

Wednesday, October 12th, 2005

October 13th, 2005
Xela, Guatemala
Tropical Storm Stan Evacuee Camp

“psssst!”

I look around the room, but there is only an old woman stooped over a broom sweeping the floor.

People have been hissing at me all day, discretely calling me over to this or that corner and whispering a request to politely fetch them an additional bag of beans, extra bottle of water or second sweater beyond that which has been sanctioned to them.

Hesitant to source the hiss and address its subsequent plea, I return to my task of untying a difficult knot that cinches together another black bag of donated clothing. I pull out a tiny pair of jeans fit for either an 13-year old or an American celebrity and deliberate which pile, “girls” or “women,” is appropriate…

“pssssst!”

The woman with the broom is now standing erect and points at something on the floor near me. I follow her finger and find the destination of its direction to be that of a naked doll which, with no appropriate pile, lay abandoned, awkward and alone on the floor. The old woman’s manner is that of an experienced grandmother with a command and resolve that negates all hesitation and demands only immediate attention.

“Well pick it up!” she furrows her brow and says with noted impatience for my delayed comprehension.

With the loyalty and respect of a granddaughter of an age fitting into the jeans I hold, I immediately obey her command. The old woman resumes sweeping and when I collect the doll and hand it to her, she looks up at me as if I have gravely disturbed both her sacred work and sanity and then rolls her eyes at my obvious idiocy. “Not for me! Go upstairs and give it to the child! Give it to the girl taking care of her baby brother!”

Not because I can’t find the right words in Spanish, but because I can’t find my comprehension in any language, I stand silenced between my desire to comply and confusion over the command. Accentuated by an exhausted sigh, the old woman finally realizes the foreign nature of whom she is addressing; she gracefully leans her broom against the way and then gathers both her compassion and my hand and leads me through a door.

As she leads me up the stairs she explains, “You see, there is a child here that I want to have this doll. Her mother went back to their house to recover what items she could before they fled during the storm to take rescue in this evacuee center. The mother left her young daughter here to care for her baby son, but the girl is too young to be caring for the child, and she keeps leaving her brother alone, and I think that perhaps if she has a toy, she will not go straying out into the hallways and will instead stay in the room and care for her brother.”

When we reach the top of the stairs, we begin to walk down the hallway of, what appears to be, an old school building. The old woman, still holding my hand, pulls me into one of the classrooms. Against one wall a dozen miniature-people-sized school desks that are piled upside down on top of each other confirm that the building is indeed a school in its off-Storm-Stan-evacuee-house hours. On the floor thick blankets are spread marking the territory, and fencing the limited rescued possessions, of each family of evacuees that occupy the room. The old woman shakes her head that this room is not the one she seeks and tugs on my sleeve and wandering eyes to move along.

When we move back into the hall, the old woman’s ears suddenly perk and her steps fall with renewed certainty as we follow the wail of a small child towards a neighboring classroom. Blankets, here too, patchwork the floor into individual camps marked by one or more sleeping bodies sprawled across each site. On the blanket nearest the door, a child, owning not more than two years, sits with back erect and mouth open, crying for the return of familiar company that’s evidently disappeared.

A small group of young boys kick at a makeshift ball nearby and the old woman grabs the attention of one with a firm hand. The boy stands quickly to attention and I see that I’m not the only one that falls into order under the observation of my companion commandant.

“Who is the guardian of this crying child?!” she assertively questions. The young boy turns and takes notice, as if for the first time, of the toddler with the red and tear-stained face sitting nearby. Suddenly silenced by a binky of unaccustomed attention, the toddler’s wail stops as he too falls into the same silent trance graced upon all by the old woman’s grandmotherly gaze.

“Well?!,” she continues in demand of an answer.

The boy lowers his head, heavied by grandmotherly-inspired guilt, and shrugs his shoulders in shamed uncertainty. One of his playmates jumps to his rescue and says, “I think his sister is caring for him, she’s in the hall.”

Perhaps intuitively sensing that she was being called upon the small sister makes an appearance in the doorway.

I am shocked. The girl could not be any older than six years old. She’s a year younger than my little niece who isn’t allowed on the street sidewalk alone. And this child’s duty is to care for a toddler of whom she is, at the most, four years senior?

“Come here child,” the old woman commands softly and the girl obeys.

In a voice on a bed of compassion and love the old woman instructs, “You are a very good girl to be taking care of your little brother when your mother is gone. But you must stay close to him, in this room, so that he knows that you are near and doesn’t feel lonely. Now look, we’ve brought you a present…”

The woman cues me with a nudge to offer the doll. I squat to the girl’s height and offer her the gift. The small girl’s eyes widen with wonder and delight as she eagerly embraces her new toy.

“So you stay in this room and take good care of these babies okay?” she finishes with a loving pat on the girl’s shoulder. Then with the safe soft hand she takes mine again and leads me out to the hallway.

On my way out, I turn and look back at the mat where the baby brother is now gurgling giggles of joy at the dancing doll that the small girl bounces in front of him in a successful effort to entertain them both.

Three babies.

Sometimes I think that humanity is long overdue for a huge dose of Humility that Pachamama (Mother Earth) will be all too happy to administer with a reality -crashing and -questioning course of tsunamis, hurricanes and earthquakes. Having to silently witness the rape of the world on a daily basis, I find myself sometimes secretly cheering for her well deserved slaps back. Very aware of the red on my own hands, each morning, I offer my own existence for sacrifice on the Altar of Humanly Humility, alerting the Earth that I would be honored to donate my life to the lesson that will humble humans to their proper earth-kissing place on this planet.

But it’s never me.

It’s always the poor, the young, the sick, the old, the homeless, the dark-skinned, the disadvantaged and those that live closest to the earth that get humbled to it first. Babies, today, sit innocently on altars in Guatemala, Mexico, India, Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan and in every other country, state, county and camp in the world. So what will are we willing to sacrifice before we finally learn our lesson?

For in (merely our) end, even if we Humans continue to discriminate, Pachamama, teaching by example, will not.

And oddly enough, that brings me peace.

******

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silence squeaks

Tuesday, October 4th, 2005


bean and corn field outside of Nebaj

Like a child who has witnessed a tragedy beyond their vocabulary of comprehension, my mouth has been closed in silent surrender of the search for fitting words that don’t exist.

For who am I to speak? In every country I travel to, and with every firsthand story I hear, I am forced to look at the color of my skin, my country’s obvious inheritance, my deafness to ugly truths, my addiction to numbness, my aversion to action and realize that although I may be a witness, I am anything but innocent.

The following words aren’t mine; they belong to Santos and Santiago, our Guatemalan walking guides that led us through the Cuchumatanes mountains (and the history of the “civil” war) in the highlands of the Ixil Triangle in North Western Guatemala.

******

I indicate to the long grass growing in thick patches along the trail. Santos kneels down, grabs a patch of it, pulls on it to demonstrate its strength and begins to explain to me its history as he has done every other plant on the path…

“This is an excellent grass. It’s very, very strong. We used to use this grass to make roofs for our houses. The roofs would last through more than thirty years of sun and rain before needing to be replaced. But in the 80’s, when the army came, they too realized how functional these roofs were to their needs. They learned that by setting fire to these roofs, they could burn an entire village down with one torch. This grass still makes for a perfect roof, but we don’t ever dare use this grass for construction of our houses again. Now we use concrete, because it doesn’t burn.”

When Santos finds me admiring a purple flower with vines crawling low to the ground he explains, “Yes, it’s a beautiful flower. Its roots are edible. After the army burned down the villages, the survivors escaped by hiding in these mountains. The army killed all our livestock and burned down our bean, potato and cornfields as well, so we had nothing to eat. But our ancestors lived in these mountains, and we remembered how to live off of what grew wild. This flower’s roots are similar to that of a potato. We had no salt, but we mixed it with wild herbs and ate this for sustenance for the years that we hid in the mountains.”

When we pass through a small town, Santos stops to explain, “This is Acul. After they bombed it and burned it down, the Guatemalan government returned, resurrected it and called it the first “model village,” an example of a new order of discipline and development. They forced every man in the town to join the, “civil patrols,” which they instructed on how to clean the town of “subversives.” Anyone suspected of siding with or aiding the guerillas was tortured, murdered or “disappeared.” In this way the government turned neighbor upon neighbor and brother upon brother. In this way, they turned our people upon our people.”

We sit down to dinner in a small wooden house with dimensions no bigger than 20 by 8 feet. A brand new and full drum set takes up half the space of the house and an American flag spans the width of one wall. Obviously a son of this household has successfully crossed the border and is sending cash and presents home. I ask Santiago, our other guide, of the risks of trying to cross the border into the United States.

“Risks? Yes. There are risks. Many people die trying to cross the border. But what is that risk when you face death every single day of your life in Guatemala? When you watch your brothers and sisters die here of malnutrition, what is the risk of crossing the border to a country where you can make in one month more than what a Guatemalan can toil for twelve hours a day in manual labor to make in one year? “

He continues…

“When I was seven years old, my parents both died. I had four younger siblings. But they all died from malnutrition. To survive I went to the market and stole fruit; a mango, some bananas, a melon. I used to cut down branches from avocados trees and bury the fruits in the ground like a dog. Then I’d return in a few days and dig them up. I didn’t have salt. I didn’t even have tortillas. But I would eat the ripened avocados and they kept me alive. When I was 11, I went to the coast of Guatemala where I found work on a sugar cane plantation . After working for a month, I got my first money. I went out and used all that I had earned to buy two pairs of pants and two new shirts. And the next month, I had enough money to buy myself a pair of shoes. Wow, do I remember that day! I felt like I was in heaven. I was so proud that my new shoes felt like they never touched the ground.

It was always my dream to travel on ships to far away lands, so one day I went to the boat docks and asked for a job on one of the fishing boats. The boss gave me a job. And I was so happy. There, I met my wife. Before I knew it, I was married and had a new baby son. I was 18 years old. But I had nothing. No house. No land. We moved back to the highlands. My wife was pregnant again. I wanted to go to school and study. But then, one day, I realized that I didn’t want my children to live such a hard life as I did. I realized that they didn’t know how to work hard, but I did. So I decided that I would work hard my whole life so that I could provide a life to my children where they could go to school and reach the dreams that I always wanted for myself.

My first son, now he’s a policeman with a uniform and a motorcycle and a helmet and dark glasses. And my second son? In two years he will finish his schooling to become a teacher. And my baby girl; she knows how to type and is very good on computers. And you know what I have in my house? We have a toilet made out of white porcelain. Not even the teacher in my village has a toilet made out of white porcelain.

All I’ve ever wanted is for my children to have what I didn’t; for them to be able to purse the dreams that I couldn’t. You must respect your parents. For this is the desire of every parent, in Guatemala or in the United States; for their children to have the opportunities that they didn’t. It makes me crazy to see people fighting with their mother or father or brother or sister. For this is the only thing I still wish with all my heart. I would give anything to only be able to say to my family, “I love you, Mom.” “I love you, Dad.” “I love you, brother.” “I love you, sister.”

They are not here, and so I cannot tell them these things. But yours are. So don’t fight. Give thanks to God that you have your family. Respect them and tell them you love them.”

******

<More information on the massacres that took place in the Nebaj area in the early 1980s.

******

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all saints

Monday, August 29th, 2005

The bus ungracefully bumbles its way along a long unpaved road. Its full load of passengers jiggles and jostle more to the tune of the bumps on the gravel path than that of the reggaeton blasting from the stereo. We are packed four to each side’s bench seat (where a decade ago two American children sat) with two or three standing on either side of where the center-sitters’ hips meet. Although there are many hypotheses as to why these modes of transportation are called, “chicken busses,” the one that theorizes that it’s because passengers are packed like poultry in a coop, at the present moment, seems most suiting.

I lean forward and fold my arms across the back of the seat in front of me and as I do so, I feel the lungs of my neighbors expand as the absence of my shoulders, suddenly pulled out from the horizontally stacked backbone of wall to wall bodies, relieves some of the pressure and gives way for some well-needed wiggles.

Using my folded arms as a cushion, I rest my forehead against the back of the seat in front of me and quickly fall back into a perforated sleep of exhaustion. I don’t usually sleep on busses but for some reason find this case of sleepiness, which is shared by all the other tired souls that fill this space, contagious

The bus breaks over a particularly large crack in the road and as the wheels clunk down, a majority of the heads all stir awake from slumber for just a single brief moment before they find their chins again bobbing towards their chests.

My head too turns up. But a fleeting image of that which I saw last behind my closed eyes and on the stage of my subconscious startles me awake. It was a vision of a baby’s face; eyes rolled back under closed lids, black charred skin flaking black and grey, facial features bloated out of grotesque proportion.

I look around the bus. It’s a flood of reds, greens, pinks, yellows and blues; the striking and beautiful colors of the traditional “traje” (suit/costume) of the indigenous Mayans that people these highlands.

I close my eyes again and find that the child’s face has branded the blackness with its image. The vision, scarred into my memory, silently stares back at me.

My mind suddenly races. Where would I ever get such an image? Have I seen it before? On the television while lunching at a local comedor? In a movie? Or book? I search my memory, but can find no source for the vision so three-dimensional that it couldn’t possibly fit into any picture I’ve seen in a movie or magazine.

“Just a dream,” I tell myself. And I fall asleep again.

The bus bumbles on. Passengers with swaddled children or sacks of corn get on and off. It’s market day and delicately wrapped baskets are carefully heaved on and off the roof of the bus, which both above and inside packs tighter and tighter as we arrive closer to our destination.

A pig squeals from somewhere up front and I am rustled awake from a sleep I never realized I’d entered. I don’t lift my head but I turn my face and look into the isle; and there I see a masked man; his features heavy and so defined it seems to me they must be hollow, as if only bones give shape to the black hood that hides his face. He’s holding a rifle. And although his eyes are hidden by the mask, I know he’s starring at me.

I close my eyes as fast as they blinked open and calm my racing heart with a intuitive meditation that I drop into out of both instinct and routine. It’s a prayer that I make regularly, not for my health and not for my safety, but that, “if this be the day I die, may I do so with grace, compassion and consciousness.” I don’t want to, but I open my eyes again.

And the man is gone.

The bus comes to a final jolting halt, the doors open and people begin to flood out of both ends of the bus. One of my travel mates, previously lost in the sea of seated people, climbs her way to my seat and wakes me from my startled state; “We’re here!”

In the evening I crawl into bed and my thoughts are finally granted the freedom to wander and wonder about the visions of the burnt child and masked man I’d seen on the bus. One voice inside dismisses them as dreams. Another smiles and says, “you’re crazy” (which I’m perfectly fine with being). Another voice is silent, but wants desperately to cry for a reason I’m not yet allowed to know. And then there is another voice. One that claims she is of Reason. And she says this:

“Guatemala’s 36-year civil war officially “stopped” nine years ago. The Peace Accords were perhaps signed, but the war continues for little has changed and nothing has been erased from the memories and hearts of the people who surround you and the land which grounds you. The terror, brutality, torture and rampant murdering and massacres (of which many would call genocide) that left over 200,000 people dead, over 1,000,000 displaced and countless others “disappeared” touched the lives (with a knife) of every single person in this town and on that bus. You are furious. You are furious because of the fact that the Guatemalan military has been recognized as responsible for the majority of these murders. You are enraged that in 1954, your very own country, The United States, started this civil war when the CIA orchestrated, trained and equipped an invasion from Honduras led by two exiled Guatemalan military officers who ousted the democratically nominated President Juan Jose Arevalo, who (how dare he!) tried to re-distribute unused lands “owned” by the American United Fruit company that had wrongfully and violently been seized from the indigenous Mayans in the first place. In the hills that your bus climbed through today lie mass graves, some without a single cross to mark the sites of massacres where the military, with American-made and paid arms, buried entire villages of civilians into a brutal history that went without mention in the American press aside from a few headlines to the sound of the, “Peaceful Liberation of Guatemala” (from communism!), which rings *deafeningly* in your ear at the same tone of China’s “Peaceful Liberation of Tibet” (1.2 million murdered) and America’s current, “Peaceful Liberation of Iraq” (25,000 *and counting* civilians reported killed by military intervention in Iraq). You are disgusted. You are furious. You are devastated. You are horrified. You are raw. And you didn’t even see it. Your mother was not raped in it. Your brother was not tortured by it. Your sister did not flee to Mexico from it. Your father was not “disappeared” in it. Your child was not orphaned by it. But every person in this town was cut and numbed by it. And did you really think you could travel untouched by it? When the scars of the war have not even yet scabbed, but still actively bleed from the souls of those (living and dead) that surround you?”

My travel mate drops into the room and I confess to her my visions, frustrations, furiousity and fears. She confesses her own, shares with me a heavy sigh, and notes how suiting the name of the town we’re in is; “Todos Santos”…

“All Saints.”

*****

(The US’s malicious involvement in Guatemala is by no means conspiracy theory. It’s all a quite well documented hisory that even ex-President Clinton finally eventually admitted was a “mistake” (but this “apology” of sorts saw so little press, I can’t find a direct quote online). For more information, an excellent movie documentary is, When The Mountains Tremble or pick up a copy of Unfinished Conquest: The Guatemalan Tragedy by Victor Perera or, I Rigoberta Menchu: An Indian Woman in Guatemala which finally brought international attention to the plight of Guaemala’s indigenous population and won Menchu the Nobel Prize for Peace in 1992. Although the “mistake” is never mentioned in any of our history books, it’s considered enough as common-known-fact to be documented even in the Lonely Planet Guatemala guidebook.)

*****

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