In the Schoolyard

I love my job. Some days, I venture into a school in the local foothill communities to teach classes in health in nutrition. Other days, I stay in the clinic to see the groups of kids who first pass with the doctor and then come to our classroom to get a lesson in nutrition and hygiene, a snack, a toothbrush and a bar of soap. I spent two weeks riding daily in the back of a pick-up truck to a community about 45 minutes away, at the base of the local volcano Santa Maria. Once a year, the people of this remote community (provided the roads are accessible) are able to receive care from us, and I was able to be a part of providing that care this year. I loaded as many medicines and toothbrushes in to my backpack as I could, and went to the communities with Guatemalan med students and other volunteers to provide this essential care that they would not otherwise receive. Regardless of the location, I listen to little voices tell me what’s wrong with them in Spanish on a daily basis.

About a week ago, I went to a school in Xecaracoj to talk to first graders about health, hygiene, and values. I had been to this school before to teach lessons in various other topics- natural disasters, puberty, sex ed, etc. In fact, one of the first lessons I taught was on sex ed, with my sassy Spaniard colleague Sandra. She witnessed me on my first day of teaching, informing young Guatemalans about erections and wet dreams, and still talks to me. That’s got to be a resume skill.

I’m usually able to pick out who the talkers and leaders are of the class pretty quickly. In this first grade class, it was a skinny little kid to my right named Kevin. Kevin was sharp; he knew the answers to all my questions and was eager to participate. It was a fun class, the kids were energetic, knew a lot of what I was talking about, and wanted to participate.

During the hour long recess (?) I went out to the playground and talked to Kevin and some of his friends. They played the standard game with English speakers: ¿Cómo se dice ____ en inglés? Once we ran out of words (literally they were asking me how to say like dirt in English), the recess that lasts an eternity was over. I had made a friend out of tiny little Kevin.

I returned the next day and taught about something I can’t remember right now. Anyways, when recess time came, Kevin had brought a game to play. It was that game called memory, where you have cards and the cards have matching pictures and you have to match the pictures from memory. We played several rounds, and I stunk at it. I hope you don’t have to memorize anything in medical school (just kidding). Whenever I would lose, Kevin would show me where the matching pairs were because he wanted me to win. It was the cutest thing, the seven year old looking out for the twenty two year old. At the end of recess, Kevin came up to me, and extended his hand with the box of cards in it. “It’s a gift for you!” I was so touched I didn’t know what to say. I told him that I was very grateful, but I didn’t want to take his game from him. He ran back inside. It was the end of recess.

A week later, I felt like I had let Kevin down by not accepting his present. So, I went back to the school with a Frisbee that a traveler friend had given to me. During recess, I taught Kevin and his group of friends how to throw the Frisbee. They loved it, and ran around the schoolyard chasing it like maniacs. At the end of recess, I told the kids that the Frisbee was for them to have, but they needed to take good care of it. I told them that Kevin was the Frisbee’s caretaker, and was in charge of making sure it didn’t get lost. Kevin’s face lit up, and he jumped up and down, so excited by his new responsibility. I think what excited him more, though, was the fact that I “chose” him to have this responsibility. He did the Guatemalan handshake that all the kids do 3 times with me before I left.

I love my job because the people I work with are sometimes so refreshingly straightforward. They don’t ask for a thing, but are so grateful for anything they get. Kevin showed me this, that such an intangible gift can create such visible happiness.

On Becoming a Local

I think this place is beginning to accept me, the six foot four rubio.

A couple of weeks ago, a Tuesday or Wednesday I believe, I went with my teacher Lucy to this little presentation in the Quetzaltenango municipality building. The building is one of the oldest in Xela, what with a few hundred years or something. The presentation was on Marimba, the ancient art of xylophone-esque music that, as I learned, was created in Guatemala and later dispersed. It’s a very sacred art. I’m pretty sure I saw the same presentation a few days earlier in the Wal-Mart. I served as the translator for the group of gringos, and got my picture in the local Quetzalteco paper along with some quote that I didn’t actually say but was in pretty decent Spanish so I didn’t complain.

Speaking of Wal-Mart, I needed to purchase a cough medicine. The herbal remedies that my host-mom was making me from plants and flowers outside were helping, but I love a chemical remedy, so I decided the best thing to do would be to go to Wal-Mart and buy Robitussin.

I had a cough for about three weeks. I felt like the “Karen” in the room that everyone hates from that Dane Cook bit. “Here comes Warren, the jackass who coughs all the time and interrupts my classes.”

Circa week three of the cough, I was sitting at the computer with my lovely teacher Antonietta. She was having me listen to some song about Jesus or something, I wasn’t really paying attention because I was concentrating on not coughing. I was doing that thing where you hold the cough in, but end up looking like you are choking, thereby causing more of scene than you would if you just let the stupid cough out.

Towards the end of the song, I finally decided it was time to release the demons inside me. And out it came like molten lava from an erupting volcano. But then all of the sudden I simultaneously hear and feel a “pop” from my lower thoracic area. A rib. Antonietta detects that something is wrong, seeing as I am writhing in pain in my chair and gasping for air. I continue to listen to the song.

After struggling to catch my breath all afternoon I decided it was a good idea to go visit Dr. Cifuentes, the kind orthopedic surgeon whom I charmed into giving me her personal cell phone number. She tells me I need to get an X-ray and gives me some pill that will “help the pain.” I walk like 20 minutes to find the hospital to get the X-ray, but I feel really good at this point so I don’t care that I have no idea where the hospital is. Eventually I found it because I asked a man changing his tire where it was. It was the building next to his broken-down car.

Suffice it to say that for the equivalent of 50 American dollars, I rapidly received 2 X-rays, a diagnosis from a radiologist, and a consultation with Dr. Cifuentes. I cracked my rib and tore a muscle in my chest, and had congestion in my lower lungs. I was in and out of the hospital/Doctor’s office in time to make it to the Quetzaltrekker’s fiesta that evening, albeit I was wearing this chest brace but I didn’t mind too much because it made my pecks look super toned.

Navigating the Guatemalan health care system made me feel like I was beginning to become a local. It also made me feel like an idiot because I had to explain to people that I broke a rib from coughing.

That’s right folks, I broke a rib from coughing. Happy (belated) Independence Day.

Los Cuetes, The Firecrackers

One thing you can count on in Guatemala is a continuous supply of noise. Dirt bikes and motorcycles are popular forms of transportation, chickens and turkeys and stray dogs loiter in my back yard, and firecrackers explode literally every half hour, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. These are not like firecrackers in the US. No, these things are like little artillery shells that go “bang bang bang” one after another for like ten seconds. You can hear them half-way across the city. The firecrackers are used in celebration of any occasion, from birthdays to Father’s Day to weddings to Holy days. People put them in the street or on the sidewalks and light them. There is no cheering or gawking, just listening. Yep, there they go again in the distance. And again. I swear I am not making this up. It sounds like a war zone.

I was sitting in a local café with my Spanish teacher Tania and another Spanish teacher named Jessica. It was Friday, so we decided to take the second half of the day a little easier and enjoy conversation over a cup of chocolate con leche. We crossed through el Parque Central (Central Park) to arrive at a little café popular to many locals.

I don’t entirely remember how the conversation began, but somehow Jessica and I got on the topic of premonitions and premonitory dreams. She told us about a dream she had a couple of years back, and how after she had it the events unfolded in real life exactly as she had seen them in her dream. I didn’t really know what to say so I told her about this UFO show I watched once and how it chronicled like three Latino families that claimed to have seen UFOs around their homes. I’m not sure how, but in my mind this somehow connected the cultural construct of superstition or something. She joked about how her family called her a witch because of her psychic powers. I told her that I was really enjoying the conversation because I was reading Harry Potter in Spanish knew how to say witch and sorcerer and other related words. I really contributed a lot to this conversation.

Around this point, I saw two things out of the corner of my right eye. The first was a woman outside the window of the café with a long, red, rectangular object about half a centimeter thick and probably five centimeters wide. Firecrackers. The other was the man seated to my right, who I had seen scoffing and laughing silently to himself a few moments earlier. Now, he was in a clear position of prayer, with his hands together and upper body bent over his empty table. Curious.

As we segued into a new topic, the man got up from his table and came to our table, apologizing for interrupting. Guatemalans are very polite people. He addressed Jessica and said, “Pardon me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation earlier. Here is my card. If you would ever be interested in talking please give me a call.” Turns out, the man was not only an Engineer, but also a spiritual healer, an energist (does he know Danielle?). Weird combination. Anyways, for some reason I thought this was really funny so I made a joke about him throwing Holy water on her and chanting “the power of Christ compels you.” Turns out The Exorcist is not as popular down here as it is in the States.

There seemed to be a bit of commotion on the street. People noticed the firecrackers on the ground. It appeared they had not lit. It was a rainy day, so they must have been duds.

Not.

Right away the things went off in a cloud of smoke, light, and unfathomable noise. I jumped out of my chair and nearly fell on the ground. The entire restaurant, including the teachers and employees, erupted in laughter. Too bad there couldn’t have been a premonition about this one. No, these things are not like the American toys. Firecrackers fill an entire square with smoke and leave a ringing noise in your ears for minutes after. Firecrackers can blow off your extremities. Firecrackers simultaneously create joy and terror.

I hear them again in the distance from my bedroom, probably about 5 times in the last 15 minutes. Happy Birthday, amigos.

A Guatemalan Date Function?

Every Friday Celas Maya hosts a “graduation” for the students who will be leaving the school that week. There is usually some sort of fiesta, the teachers hand out diplomas, and the students chat and can give a presentation showcasing their recently acquired Spanish skills.

I wake up to the crowing of the rooster outside my window at 4am, 5am, 6am and finally 7am to go to Spanish class from 8am to 1pm every weekday. 8am classes are surprisingly bearable when you’re not in college. During our 30-minute recess at 10:30 on Mondays, a member of the staff announces the weekly activities. Spanish school is like an all-inclusive resort, or I guess you could say summer camp. This week, the offerings included a visit to a sulfur spring, a hike up a rocky mountain, and lessons in Quiche, the local Mayan language (there are 23 dialects of indigenous Mayan languages in Guatemala- wow!). Wednesday night was a salsa lesson at La Parranda, the local hot spot. And finally, of course, there was the Friday graduation fiesta.

I am going to describe this week’s graduation theme exactly as the staff member explained it to my fellow Celas Maya students and me Monday morning. I will provide parenthetical interpretations of his spoken words. You tell me what it sounds like.

“This Friday is graduation (party)! We are having a theme (themed party) this week. There will be a prize for the best-dressed person (Golf on Grounds?). We encourage you to go to the store across the street where they sell cheap used clothing (Goodwill) and stock up on some costume items (toga/tie-die/golf pros/tennis hos). We will provide light snacks (sorority on a budget/social probation), but feel free to bring wine to share (BYOB). Should be a lot of fun!”

If you thought this sounds like an organized event where a guy and a girl get dressed up and go a few blocks off campus to pretend like they haven’t seen their best friends in months, ¡Tienes razón, it’s a Date Function!

When I graduated, I accepted that the next date function I would attend would be a wedding. In fact, I came to think of a wedding as a giant “wed-func” where my friends converge from all corners of the world and dance and carry on instead of witnessing the sacred matrimony and throwing rice at the newlywed couple. Perhaps this notion will fade in time, but I am holding on to it because I just graduated like 3 weeks ago.

I walked to the graduation with my home stay hermano Zach. He is from Philadelphia, and has apparently been coming to Guatemala and Central America on and off for the last 3 years. He is my height and his hair is a few tints blonder than mine. As such, we are quite the spectacle when walking down the street to Celas Maya. We briskly passed through the ill-lit alley of transvestites and safely arrived. After a couple hours of salsa dancing and loud music, it was time to vamonos. To more “salsa” dancing and loud music.

Denny, Ashley, Jenny (all from UVA), my Australian mate Oliver, this rando girl whose name I can’t remember, and I went to King and Queen, home of (allegedly) the best Mojito in Xela. It was crawling with gringos, probably because it’s listed in Lonely Planet or something. We quickly bounced to Pool and Beer.

Being two feet taller than everyone around you has certain implications. You can see everyone surrounding you in a crowd, which is generally helpful for safety and vigilance. Also, everyone around you can see you, which means that when you go to a place like Pool and Beer, it’s not easy to be anonymous. So I danced a few salsa steps and pretended like I had to make a phone call, which I actually did because I wanted to get home for tequila night, plus Oliver had ordered a pizza. According to UVA terms, when pizza is ordered (Christian’s), it’s usually time to go home.

I called Carlos the Cabbie, who is becoming a fast friend, to drive me home. He drives this junky little white taxi a little bigger than a breadbox, and we bounced up and down the cobblestone streets back to the Casa Lopez. I wanted to make it home at a reasonable hour because this was a night of fiesta at my home stay. My host family enjoys tequila, and Zach is leaving this weekend so they wanted to celebrate. I got home a bit late, but my host madre was still up chatting with her friend at the dining table. I joined for a bit and talked about her ex-marido over a table covered with limes, tequila, and margarita mix. It was very Real Housewives of Xela.

Bedtime came at a reasonable hour. Who knew you get so tired when you maintain a normal weekly schedule.

And there concludes a night out in Xela, Guatemala. Feel free to come join.

Warren, not Wayne.

My entire life has been a hyperbolized struggle to communicate my name in its entirety. Warren Currie Mackie-Jenkins. It never fits on the scantron. I must always repeat it at least once to explain that it is hyphenated. It’s “Warren Mackie-Jenki” on my credit card. But never have I had trouble with my first name until my arrival in Xela.

I traveled más o menos a day and a half and stepped off my bus to breathe my first breath of Quetzaltenangan air. The 4.5 hour bus ride passed very pleasantly with the new friends I had made from Columbia’s Teacher College. We made casual small talk about the things you would expect—“What brings you here?” “Do you speak Spanish?” “What do you study.”

Guatemala makes the Blue Ridge Mountains seem like mere speed bumps over a smooth plateau. Its horizon is accented with a handful of volcanoes (some active, some dormant) and expanses of mountains and summits and foothills. The only flat spaces are the lakes that have filled in craters created by volcanic eruptions in both the near and distant past. As such, the 200km trip from Guatemala City to Xela tracks up and down laterally through the mountains, but our bus driver flanked the precipices with ease and finesse unmatched to any American driver I have seen.

I stepped off the bus, birthed into a new, though not foreign, world. I was at last in the city where I would spend the next 8 months of my life. My gap year.

I peered anxiously to my left and right, having no idea who would be picking me up at the Linea Dorada luxury bus stop. Would it be my host family? Would it be Jessica, the person I had spoke to on the phone and Skype for the last several months? What excitement!

I heard over my should a Guatemalan man say (phonetically) “Wan.” Unsure if he was talking to me, I turned around. “¿Perdón?” I asked. “¿Wan, es Usted él?” Yes! That’s me! To be honest, I was expecting to have to wait a bit on the side of the road, approaching anyone who appeared to be expecting a passenger from the bus.

I walked to the car with the very nice man and found his wife and adorable daughter waiting for me. We exchanged introductions. They were so excited to see me, especially the little girl of probably 8 years. They helped me schlep my luggage to the car and put it in the trunk. And not that I am a heavy packer, but I am staying for 8 months after all, so I had a lot of crap.

We drove around the city, with my driver and passengers explaining the city and some of the essentials to get my foot in the colloquial door of Guatemalan life. It was an enjoyable conversation. If my host family was anything like this family, I thought, I was off to a good beginning.

We arrive at the Spanish school to meet my real host family. El Quetzal was the name. This was not the name of the Spanish School I was to be attending (Celas Maya). I politely told them I didn’t think this was the right school. “Of course it is, you’ve already paid for it!” Uhhh, I hadn’t paid for anything save the bag of cashews I bought for the bus ride over. In the words Hamlet or whatever, something was rotten in the State of Denmark, and it wasn’t my piss-poor attitude. “You are Wayne, aren’t you?”

“No, I am Warren. W-a-r-r-e-n.” Silence. I proceeded to explain in my nervous, broken Spanish that I thought they were saying “Warren” and mispronouncing it back at the bus stop. The double r is, after all, pronounced differently in Spanish. We drove back to the bus stop to find Wayne standing like a deer in headlights. He didn’t speak a lick of Spanish, so the nice family agreed to take me to my Spanish School if I would recreate the conversation of the previous car ride in English. Of course, I graciously obliged. 5 minutes in Guatemala and I had made a fatal error. Gracias a Dios that Guatemalans are the nicest people in the World.

Warren Currie Mackie-Jenkins. Here’s to an 8 month adventure. Cheers!