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Herein began the day of the ultimate adventure …traversing the mountains in a Guatemalan bus. I left the orphanage with a multitude of heartfelt ‘Adios’es, making my way to an unknown bus heading to Quetzaltenango (commonly and fondly referred to as Xela — pronounced Shela) at an unknown time and departure point. I was ferried by a staff member (who spoke NO English) to a point in town which seemed to be a popular stopping point for both 1st and 2nd class (called Chicken Buses) Buses. I really wanted to go to the bathroom before embarking on this 4 hour journey but I couldn’t seem to get my point across in a timely fashion … By the time I did, the bus to Xela had arrived and I was left to wonder how long I would be able to hold a burgeoning bladder. The bus was 1/2 full and the only window seat available was in the rear of the bus. The seat was like a platform in that it was elevated far above the others in a bench-like fashion. It was a pretty cool vantage point but I had to slouch down in an absurd manner to gaze out the window at the passing scenery. I must admit though, the first 2 hours I was too busy trying to figure out how I was going to ask the driver for a bathroom stop. Each stop that the driver makes is only long enough for the individuals to hop on or off and, if lucky, manage to enter the aisle before the bus takes off on a roaring terrifying gait. It was obvious that these bus trips are time-sensitive, and even with the best of Spanish mannerisms, a restroom stop seemed highly unlikely. Usually I have a pretty sturdy bladder, but being thrown back and forth in my seat as the bus screams around the non-stop hairpin mountain turns left me in dire need of a quick effective rush to service. After 2 hours I could hold it no longer. Someone must have been looking down on me with kindness and pity because the bus managed to stop for longer than 2 minutes — a small market was swarming with vendors ready to hop onboard and sell their wares. With a bravery that far exceeded my spoken skills, I rushed to the driver and begged ‘Necessito Banos!’. He pointed at his watch and shook his head (after I explained, ‘Hablo no Espanole’); he then grabbed my hand — in an effort to protect me from the onslaught of speedy oncoming traffic — and rushed me to a building behind the vendors stalls. Several men asked for quetzales to use the washrooms and the driver paid them in kind. I was ushered to a hole in the ground and in my speedy attempts at unbuckling my trousers, I dropped my phrasebook in this muddy little puddle. Ew!!! But with no time to fret over this messy inconvenience, I relieved myself and attempted to return to an incessantly honking bus awaiting my return. However, the man who managed to toilet huts beckoned for more money. Go figure that I had nothing small than a 100 quetzals bill ($15US). After a few futile attempts at explaining ‘No deniro’, the porter from my bus came to my aid and ushered me back, towing me with my soiled book and hands. Relief comes in the most basic of forms; it can make the difference between extreme discomfort and utter enjoyment and admiration. The rest of my trip was uneventful and I finally managed to snap off a few shots of the glorious mountainside and people.
My arrival at Juan Sissay was an event in itself! Trying to bargain with a taxi driver who was obviously trying to take advantage of my non-speaking Spanish status (obvious in that I was told taxi ride within the city were 10-20 quetzales and not the 50 qz he was insisting upon) was a lesson in steadfastness. The driver relented and accepted 25 qz as payment. Upon arrival, I was offered the option of attending the schools Salsa classes after they dropped my bags off at my homestay. Too tired to think twice, I agreed and enjoyed a lively session of sashaying and stumbling  . What a wonderful introduction to Xela! I look forward to improving my dance skills whilst here in Central America — something to add to my contact dance repertoire.
I was starving after the dance lesson and was stunned at reading the numerous house rules, one which stated that dinner each evening would be served no earlier than 8pm. Holy smokes! How was I going to make it that far? Eating that late seems pointless to me … 7pm is usually my latest preference. Boy, am I about to learn to adapt . Luckily Melegra (sp??) was understanding of my hand ramblings which attempted to explain my hunger, and she relented in saying that tonight only, dinner at 6pm. 8 pm from here thereafter. No worries …. I won’t waste away . Very much in tune with the bookmark that Lisa gave me quoting “Wisdom begins in wonder.” (Socrates), I will be an open vessel to all that surrounds me with the hopes of gaining wisdom and making the most of my stay here in Guatemala. If that means succumbing to local custom, so be it!!
Oh how difficult it is to say goodbye to the love of ones life. I’ve had to do that twice in my lifetime … farewell is so much less permanent, yet still heartbreaking in the moments of uncertainty. The debate of a time being a drop in the bucket versus a lifetime of moments will very much depend on the experience and our abilities to appreciate and enjoy the moments for what they are … small pieces that join a larger puzzle; ‘the big picture’ as one might say.
The flights to Guatemala were uneventful … I chose space and quiet solitude on both legs of the journey, deep in thought and wanting to enjoy my last fragment of possible privacy. Flying into Guatemala City revealed flashbacks of days when I’ve visited other Third World countries. Poverty, disparity and desperation rings true no matter where one goes across this giant globe. I’ve been to India, Africa and now Guatemala, but no matter how often I visit such domains, I think, the culture shock rings deep and rattles my inner cages of security and familiarity. Dirt and filth abound but yet the colour of clashing neighbourhoods stand awry amidst haphazard structures of concrete height and cardboard caverns lined with tin. Timeless portraits of poverty in a crazy world of imbalance between those that have and those that have not.
Christine, a volunteer from NPH, was waving madly at me as I tenderly made my way through a sea of unknown faces. I recognized the sign with NPH’s logo and felt a wave of relief. Surprise! I had my own private pickup truck and driver to whisk me straight to the orphanage. I previously had a taste of death-defying driving in India so I wasn’t as shocked or as frightened as I had been last year. However, the maddening throng of black-exhaust-belching vehicles swerving chaotically and manoeuvring on the edge of existence did little to ease my sense of nervousness at being in another foreign land, overwhelmed by a new language of which I had no knowledge. All part of the thrill of travel I suppose . Once out of the main throng of the city, the towering mountains and volcanoes proved to be an inspiring vision that left me awestruck at their sight. Wow, I heard that this land could be beautiful, but with no real expectations or previous glimpses, I was impressed by the scenery and greenery that pervaded my senses. The road was incredibly well-maintained (putting many North American roads to shame!) and the vehicles travelled at a crazy pace, all apparently trying to overrun each other. I felt like a mouse being chased by a multitude of cats . Once in Chimaltenango (Chimal for short) we headed south towards the orphanage. The entrance to NPH Guatemala was heavily gated and securely attended by a diligent man who took note of the time and license of every driver that passed through his domain. How wonderful to see this level of security!! I’m told that every week all 355+ children are led through these gates on the short walk to a local Catholic Church for Sunday mass. I can’t imagine a building holding that many children at once … and the noise level? How behaved are they precious angels??! I’ll see in a few months time I suppose.
Wow, wow, wow. The buildings are so new and clean, pristine yet sparse. White tile line the floors of all the buildings (my guess as to help maintain its cleanliness, especially during times of the wet season just around the corner) and wrought iron decorates all the windows and entrance ways. I was introduced to a multitude of volunteers upon placing my bags in the female volunteer dorm. I would share a room with Christine for the evening but come July, I was unsure as to where I would be placed … 12 new volunteers would be providing a year of service at that time. I was given the ‘grande’ tour by a lovely 16 year old girl named Lucia. Carlos, the current Director (a very gentle and appreciative man) gave me an incredibly warm and generous welcome. He suggested that Lucia practice her English skills in being my tour guide, and I in return enjoyed the complete tour, from the special needs area housed within the health clinic to the music room to the boys dorms (where 5 years olds ran gleefully naked from shower to open bedroom) to the kitchen and bakery. Everything (but the babies housing) is contained within this large complex. I was soulfully impressed by everything I came across. I’ve never visited an orphanage before — and to see so many children (dependant on their age group and sex) packed into age specific houses (I think 30 was the largest number in one large hall) was a little overwhelming — in the sense that I couldn’t even imagine such a lifestyle, feeling very spoiled in my upbringing … it’s going to be an emotionally challenging but fascinating year!
I shared dinner (frijoles = black beans + fried pancakes) and conversation with the female volunteers, and was deeply enlightened by all the stories and information that came my way. I can’t even begin to pass on their stories … You’ll have to wait to read my own experiences! Exhausted, I fell into bed, only to be awoken at 2am by a group of Women who were giggling and speaking rapid German (too fast too translate). A good reminder to always have my earplugs handy at night. I’m really quite intrigued at the possibility of not only becoming conversant (fluent??) in Spanish but also improving my French and German (I can only hope!).
- be open to possibility
- know that it’s hard work and worth the effort involved
- focus (use a keyword – breath)
- it’s not the winning, but rather the process, the fight to get there
- be on the edge of doing your best
- don’t be defensive; admit to and think about both the positive and negative
- have the drive to admit to own faults
- find youth (gumption, hungry drive)
- drop everything for the goal
- go into battle and come out the other end, stronger
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