Returning to Guatemala: Part 1

Just ten days ago I was sitting in my friend's warm coffee shop, thinking about my impending life on the west coast, preparing for the next few weeks of cold that was about to hit Toronto, when my phone rang and I was offered a job in Guatemala.  It was just contract work, five days or so, but I was being sent back to Latin America, something I had been longing for, and it was being paid for.  I really couldn’t believe my luck, because really that is what it was.  Sure, I’ve worked hard to gain experience in international development and to become fluent in Spanish, but ultimately me getting this job came down to who I knew and where I was.  That’s how international development works, I suppose that is how most careers work.

I was as tired as usual, that same fatigued and sleepless zombie like state that I always seem to find myself in before I get on a plane and head overseas.  The excitement had kept me up the last two nights, and then waking at 4:45am to catch my flight didn’t help at all.  The three hours from Toronto to Houston was no good for sleep, aisle seats just don’t cut it.  I had to rush to my connecting flight and thankfully I had a window seat and an empty aisle.  I was able to stretch out a bit and catch a few minutes of half-sleep, but nothing substantial enough to change my overall demeanor.  I had a window for my attempted nap, and when I decided to open the shutter as the captain announced our starting descent, the bright sun filled my empty row of seats and the green mountains of Guatemala rolled away beyond the horizon.  I was here, and the open landscape brought with it a flood of memories that warmed my body and left me as anxious as ever to get off the plane.

I was greeted at the exit to the airport by Mardo, my local contact, and his son.  Mardo had the token kindness typical of most Guatemalans, and I instantly felt at ease with him and without hesitation accepted his offer to join him at his grand daughter’s first birthday party.  We drove through the city to what seemed a relatively poor but organized barrio where Mardo’s family lived.  There I was introduced to a flora of characters, from the “Doctor” who was working on commercializing his own take on recycled rubber and readily admitted to his alcoholic tendencies, to the “Captain”, an old navy man that was quick to dismiss the legalization of drugs in the U.S. as a solution to the narco-trafficking problem in Guatemala.  The party was for Mardo’s grand daughter who was turning just one year old, and the whole barrio came over to celebrate in the cul-de-sac that we had commandeered for a few hours.  No one could pass as we sat around in a big circle and watched the children destroy two large piñatas, each time candy fell the hordes of kids would surge to the middle in a mad dash, like seagulls fighting over food scraps.  I was tired and Mardo knew it, so after a few hours when the party had died down, he drove me downtown to a hotel where I quickly ate a snack and passed out to another restless sleep.

The next day we headed up to Chimaltenango, about an hour outside of the capital city, where the local organization that I would be working with was located.  My job was to observe an emergency food aid distribution for victims of the floodings, shoot photos, and write a story about it all.  So although I'll have to save the details for the official version, I'll try to share some of the more intimate moments.  That first day in Chimaltenango we visited the storage facilities where several people that were hired on for this project were bent over in the sun, counting and packing bags, then loading them onto the big truck to be transported the next morning to the various communities.  I took the photos that I needed then I jumped in, counting and hauling, but admittedly taking more breaks then the rest of them.  The work involved was exhausting, and I applaud the commitment of these people that were working to help others for what was likely very little remuneration.  The organization itself is a very progressive one, founded by Don Marco, a gentleman who I met that day and would later speak to at length.  He had lived through the civil war as an activist and supporter of the uprising against the oligarchic military government, he even played in integral role in the peace talks that ended the war.  The organization was originally created to assist victims of the war, but has since evolved into a diverse community development group of experts.  One employee that I spoke to told me that the name of the organization, Nuevo Amanecer (New Dawn), was named after the small pueblo where Che Guevara was killed in Bolivia.

That night I strolled through the Central Park tasting some of the different street foods and watching some local kids play soccer.  The cold of the night, the bustle of the park, and the smell of spiced meat brought me back to my early days in Guatemala, when I lived in a small town in the highlands.  It felt incredible to be back, and I was grateful that I was given such an opportunity.  The next few days would act as a stark reminder that as happy as I was with my life at that moment, there were people here simply struggling to live.

The Letter...

I've been corresponding with my grandmother for some time now via hand-written letters.  It is an age old tradition that is cherished by the well-read of her generation, but nearly lost now in the virtual frenzy of the 21st century.  While studying medieval history in university I had the opportunity to read many primary sources - often letters between loved ones - which gave us a candid glimpse into the ordinary lives of people almost one thousand years ago.  Today,with hard copies few and far between, and our correspondences simply floating around in cyber space, I wonder where future generations will look in their own attempts to unravel the past.  It is said that the internet is the way of the future, but as we continue to clean up our in-boxes and hit the delete icons, it seems the future will be sparse of the most revealing vestige of time - the letter.

Perhaps it is with such thoughts in my mind that I chose to continue corresponding with my grandmother.  She has a long and eventful history, born and raised in Germany, she survived the second World War before immigrating to Canada.  As a child, she would show me black and white photos taken in Europe in the early part of the 20th century while my grandfather told me war stories.  She lives in a large house alone with her cherished cats, every room filled with articles from years gone by.  Antique furniture clean of dust and mysterious boxes containing secret histories.  I know that it is contrary to her nature to throw away such things as personal letters, and so there is a comfort that I gain from knowing that my words will forever be a part of her legacy, a part of her house so full of mementos.

When I read her letters I picture her as a beautiful young lady with dark hair, those black and white photos of her come alive, for her written words speak with a wise youthfulness that is not so apparent when I see her and talk to her.  Her mind is as sharp and as sound as ever it has been, even as time creeps upon her body year after year.  Through her letters, she has often provided me with words of wisdom and a voice of assurance while I've taken difficult steps in my own life.  I know our letters provide a mutual and reciprocating comfort, and I smile when I think of her opening my letters with excitement, as I do when I open hers.

Lately I've been rather anxious, ready to take the next step in my life and move on again.  I've found it hard to enjoy the moment, to enjoy the everyday things.  As if she was reading my mind, the last letter that my grandmother sent me included the following words:

"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things."
-Robert Brault

I'm going to do my best to take her advice.

Occupied

"What are these people protesting? What do they want to accomplish? I think that these people need to stop occupying and instead get occupations."  This was what a good friend of mine said to me as I called him from St.James park to tell him about the protest taking place.  While I gave him a well deserved chuckle for his wit, I also took note that his understanding of the protest was obviously quite poor.  I'm not one to get out and join a protest.  I've always found that there are other ways for me to express my discontent, like through writing for example.  That is not to say that I don't sympathize or understand those who choose to join mass protests.  The feeling of solidarity and connectedness that a positive protest promotes is unparalleled, and for many that feeling is the whole purpose.  I still remember vividly the protests that I witnessed in Honduras as a human rights observer.  People were protesting against a coup government, an illegal and false election, and a terrifying state of repression where activists were disappearing and ending up dead.  The final protest that I witnessed was a caravan through the hilly streets of the city of Tegulcigalpa where people came out in thousands raising their fingers in the air to show that they had no stamp, meaning they chose to boycott the elections.  It was a movement that stirred something inside of me, that forever left me with an appreciation for different forms of dissent.  Yet as the Occupy Wall Street protest arrived in Toronto, I found myself searching for answers to those questions that my friend asked me.  What is the point? What do you want to accomplish? I can't say I have a definitive answer, I don't think anyone can.  But just because such answers are elusive does not mean the protest is a failure.  On the contrary, the fact that such questions are being asked is a clear sign of success.

Simply put, everyone has their own reasons for protesting, and with experience comes perspective.  Many of my friends who have good jobs and who have always lived pretty comfortably can't understand why people are protesting.  There is this idea amongst many middle class North Americans that somehow everyone has it great in this country, that no one has a right to protest against our system because it provides so much.  Well it is true that compared to poor countries, one like Honduras for example, we do have it pretty good, but should relative prosperity on a global scale condemn us to a state of inactivity? Should we not always strive for something better?  I grew up in a middle class family and I know that I have a good life - that I am lucky.  But I've also witnessed the way we create class distinctions and inequalities within this very system that we call fair.  I spent the last six months doing manual labour, working in one of the most physically demanding positions there is, yet for minimal remuneration.  I provided a service that this society requires in order to function, yet the very people that we helped often looked down upon us, because our occupation implied that we were at the lowest of classes.  I worked with people who had no other options, and who struggled from week to week to provide for their families even though they were working harder than most people.  All because this great system that we call fair has deemed their labour as unskilled and therefore undeserving of fair remuneration.

It is these personal circumstances of different people that have fueled the fire of these protests, and regardless of whether the discontent will bring about a change in our system is irrelevant.  They will bring about awareness and discussion, and they will cause people who don't think about such things, like my witty friend, to do so.