It has been another incredible week. I am now more than half-way through my stay here. My sister Janet comes tomorrow for a week in which we will travel to Lake Atitlan, Quetzaltenango, San Filipe and Guatemala City. This will be her first visit to Guatemala since she lived here for two years in the late seventies. I am really looking forward to our time together.
My studies continue to progress well, and I feel as if I am making great strides—and wish I had more time! Alas, I only have four more days of classes before I leave on May 15. But the real adventures have been outside class time.
The first, and most incredible, was an excursion last Saturday to the volcano Pacaya, one of the three active volcanoes in Guatemala. One of my housemates, a pediatrician named Terry from North Carolina, and I traveled by shuttle to the volcano, about an hour
away, which is in a national park. We were met by a guide who accompanied us to the base of the lava flow. At the entry gate there were several men and boys with horses offering to take us up. After our young guide, a woman of perhaps twenty who looked like she was out for an afternoon stroll, took off like a shot up the trail, Terry, who is in her late fifties, opted for the horse. I started off on foot, along with the others in our group, who all looked to be in their early twenties. I must have looked like an easy mark, because one of the boys followed me with his horse, and every time I stopped to take a breath, he would ask (in English), “Want a taxi?” After about twenty minutes of huffing and puffing in the high altitude, I finally asked “OK, how much?” For the price of 50 quetzales (about six bucks), I figured I would enjoy the ride. (My little guide, Luis, told me along the way that he was thirteen years old. He looked no older than nine. Malnutrition is a big problem in Guatemala, and many of the children are small.)
The “taxi” took us to the end of the trail, about another thirty minutes, where we began to climb up the hardened lava to the crater on foot. Our guide said it would be about twenty minutes more, something Terry and I concluded later would be true only if you were twenty years old. The terrain was treacherous, to say the least. It was a steep incline, with lots of small stones and shifting ground under your feet, and the hardened lava is sharp and jagged, so if you fall or brace yourself you will cut your hand. Fortunately, we had also bought walking sticks from the children hawking them at the gate (for about fifty cents).
Pacaya had only first erupted just last year, so the entire lava flow we traversed was new—and growing. After about ten minutes or so, the rocks became noticeably hot. It was the weirdest sensation to feel
the cool breeze on your face, and sauna-like heat rising at your feet. It was almost like you were walking on the surface of the moon, or like the winter ice formations I remember from the shores of Lake Michigan—except everything was black. Then we climbed over another small peak—we were about three hundred yards from the top—and there was the lava flow, coming slowly down the side of the volcano! I have never seen anything like it. Truly, an amazing experience.
On Sunday I ventured out by myself to attend one of the local Protestant churches, called simply “Iglesia Evangelica Centroamericana.” This is the oldest Protestant church in Antigua, and on the day I visited they were celebrating their 96th anniversary. I arrived as the prelude was concluding, and the sanctuary was only about half full (Pilgrims would have felt right at home!). By the end of the second hymn, the place was packed, with lots of children and young people. The service was quite different from the Roman Catholic service I had attended in the Cathedral the week before. Lots more singing, with several hymns to tunes I recognized and a few with more indigenous rhythms. They had a saxophone player in for the special occasion, and a couple of more contemporary songs were led by a trio of young people on guitar, drums and piano. The service had the feel of the Black church in the U. S., except with a Latin American rhythm. It was very participatory. Many different people offered prayers or shared in the readings. There were several spontaneous prayers offered as expressions of gratitude for different members of the congregation—the oldest member, who offered one of the prayers; the young people who led the singing; the deacons who collected the offering; the little children who were present. I even understood the sermon, or at least most of it! The only problem was that I arrived just after breakfast and two cups of coffee, and the service lasted two and half hours. Next time I will plan accordingly.
Yesterday was Labor Day, a national holiday, so the school was closed. Terry and I went over to the hospital I had visited earlier with the Houstons. We met the director, a Franciscan named Brother Jose, who gave us a detailed tour. Named after Hermano Pedro, who as I mentioned in my last blog, is sort of the “Mother Teresa” of Guatemala, almost all of the patients are indigent. The hospital does not provide acute care, but only chronic care. There are many disabled children and older adults, most abandoned by their families. The surgical center on the second floor is organized most of the year by volunteers from the Memorial Drive Presbyterian Church in Houston, through their “Faith in Practice” program. People come from the entire region to receive care. They also run a drug and alcohol rehab center in another facility.
Last night I went with the family to see the circus. It was, actually, a little sad. Let’s just say “Cirque de Solei” it was not. The opening act was a little girl, who looked like she was five or six years old, doing acrobatics. Terry left after that. She said she didn’t feel well, but I suspect as a pediatrician she found the act a little hard to watch. In between acts some of the same children hawked food and trinkets. It kind of reminded me of the motorcycle-riding-bear act at the Catskill Game Farm in upstate New York—and I left with the same ambivalent feeling, wondering if this wa
s the sort of entertainment I should be supporting. But there were lots of clowns with silly slapstick, and the kids all enjoyed it. Another little slice of Guatemalan life.
My final picture is of my favorite little oasis, a courtyard of a nearby hotel where I often sit to read or do my homework after class (and enjoy one of the local beverages). Like many of the buildings here, the beautiful part is on the inside. You have to enter in order to find out, and more often than not secreted inside a bleak gray exterior is a beautiful garden. This one is my favorite. Not a bad place to spend an hour or two.
My studies continue to progress well, and I feel as if I am making great strides—and wish I had more time! Alas, I only have four more days of classes before I leave on May 15. But the real adventures have been outside class time.
The first, and most incredible, was an excursion last Saturday to the volcano Pacaya, one of the three active volcanoes in Guatemala. One of my housemates, a pediatrician named Terry from North Carolina, and I traveled by shuttle to the volcano, about an hour
away, which is in a national park. We were met by a guide who accompanied us to the base of the lava flow. At the entry gate there were several men and boys with horses offering to take us up. After our young guide, a woman of perhaps twenty who looked like she was out for an afternoon stroll, took off like a shot up the trail, Terry, who is in her late fifties, opted for the horse. I started off on foot, along with the others in our group, who all looked to be in their early twenties. I must have looked like an easy mark, because one of the boys followed me with his horse, and every time I stopped to take a breath, he would ask (in English), “Want a taxi?” After about twenty minutes of huffing and puffing in the high altitude, I finally asked “OK, how much?” For the price of 50 quetzales (about six bucks), I figured I would enjoy the ride. (My little guide, Luis, told me along the way that he was thirteen years old. He looked no older than nine. Malnutrition is a big problem in Guatemala, and many of the children are small.)
The “taxi” took us to the end of the trail, about another thirty minutes, where we began to climb up the hardened lava to the crater on foot. Our guide said it would be about twenty minutes more, something Terry and I concluded later would be true only if you were twenty years old. The terrain was treacherous, to say the least. It was a steep incline, with lots of small stones and shifting ground under your feet, and the hardened lava is sharp and jagged, so if you fall or brace yourself you will cut your hand. Fortunately, we had also bought walking sticks from the children hawking them at the gate (for about fifty cents).
Pacaya had only first erupted just last year, so the entire lava flow we traversed was new—and growing. After about ten minutes or so, the rocks became noticeably hot. It was the weirdest sensation to feel
the cool breeze on your face, and sauna-like heat rising at your feet. It was almost like you were walking on the surface of the moon, or like the winter ice formations I remember from the shores of Lake Michigan—except everything was black. Then we climbed over another small peak—we were about three hundred yards from the top—and there was the lava flow, coming slowly down the side of the volcano! I have never seen anything like it. Truly, an amazing experience.On Sunday I ventured out by myself to attend one of the local Protestant churches, called simply “Iglesia Evangelica Centroamericana.” This is the oldest Protestant church in Antigua, and on the day I visited they were celebrating their 96th anniversary. I arrived as the prelude was concluding, and the sanctuary was only about half full (Pilgrims would have felt right at home!). By the end of the second hymn, the place was packed, with lots of children and young people. The service was quite different from the Roman Catholic service I had attended in the Cathedral the week before. Lots more singing, with several hymns to tunes I recognized and a few with more indigenous rhythms. They had a saxophone player in for the special occasion, and a couple of more contemporary songs were led by a trio of young people on guitar, drums and piano. The service had the feel of the Black church in the U. S., except with a Latin American rhythm. It was very participatory. Many different people offered prayers or shared in the readings. There were several spontaneous prayers offered as expressions of gratitude for different members of the congregation—the oldest member, who offered one of the prayers; the young people who led the singing; the deacons who collected the offering; the little children who were present. I even understood the sermon, or at least most of it! The only problem was that I arrived just after breakfast and two cups of coffee, and the service lasted two and half hours. Next time I will plan accordingly.
Yesterday was Labor Day, a national holiday, so the school was closed. Terry and I went over to the hospital I had visited earlier with the Houstons. We met the director, a Franciscan named Brother Jose, who gave us a detailed tour. Named after Hermano Pedro, who as I mentioned in my last blog, is sort of the “Mother Teresa” of Guatemala, almost all of the patients are indigent. The hospital does not provide acute care, but only chronic care. There are many disabled children and older adults, most abandoned by their families. The surgical center on the second floor is organized most of the year by volunteers from the Memorial Drive Presbyterian Church in Houston, through their “Faith in Practice” program. People come from the entire region to receive care. They also run a drug and alcohol rehab center in another facility.
Last night I went with the family to see the circus. It was, actually, a little sad. Let’s just say “Cirque de Solei” it was not. The opening act was a little girl, who looked like she was five or six years old, doing acrobatics. Terry left after that. She said she didn’t feel well, but I suspect as a pediatrician she found the act a little hard to watch. In between acts some of the same children hawked food and trinkets. It kind of reminded me of the motorcycle-riding-bear act at the Catskill Game Farm in upstate New York—and I left with the same ambivalent feeling, wondering if this wa
s the sort of entertainment I should be supporting. But there were lots of clowns with silly slapstick, and the kids all enjoyed it. Another little slice of Guatemalan life.My final picture is of my favorite little oasis, a courtyard of a nearby hotel where I often sit to read or do my homework after class (and enjoy one of the local beverages). Like many of the buildings here, the beautiful part is on the inside. You have to enter in order to find out, and more often than not secreted inside a bleak gray exterior is a beautiful garden. This one is my favorite. Not a bad place to spend an hour or two.
No comments:
Post a Comment