130 days to go!
I am very excited about this blog. I almost couldn't sleep last night thinking about all the stories that I have to share... I was sick yesterday, and it made me think about all the weird and wonderful things that have happened to me overseas. I am therefore going to begin with a tale of my first sickness abroad.
It happened in 1996 in Guatemala. Matthew and I had just been married, and we decided to take a volunteer position in the Ixcan jungle area of Guatemala. We were volunteering with an organization called Project Accompaniment, a group that was started to monitor the return of refugees from Chiapas, across the border back into Guatemala. After the massacres in the 80s, the refugees demanded that they be allowed to have internationals living in their communities to witness any acts of violence that may or may not take place. They were incredibly strong as a group of refugees, and they organized their own return! This was the first time any group of refugees had done this. We were well-equipped for the job, as both of us had taken Spanish in University. After two weeks of language training in a town known as Xela (actually named Quetzaltenango, but the Mayan people still call it Xela), all of our academic knowledge was converted into an ability to speak fluently, and we were ready to go.
We were to be posted to a small town called Ixtahuacan Chiquito, near the River Ixcan in the north-west corner of Guatemala. It was a long journey in, starting in Guatemala city. We took a bus to Coban, several hours north of the capital. Then we climbed on board a small Cessna plane which was to take us into the Ixcan jungle. It was a four-seater plane, but they had removed the two seats in the rear and placed small step stools on the floor as seats instead. This miraculously tranformed the four-seater plane into a six-seater, albeit without seat belts. Logically, me being the tallest person in the group, they gave me a seat near the back of the plane, where the roof begins its decent to the tail. So I spent the entire flight folded in half, unable to see anything, feeling like I would lose my stomach if I didn't get some air. Matthew, being the only male who spoke Spanish, was given the seat next to the pilot. Gotta love that latino "machismo", eh? To make matters worse, the flight had been delayed for several hours because of fog. But, there was a job to be done, so the pilot shrugged off the weather and took off despite all warnings. I was scared to death. No seat. No seatbelt. No stomach. No problem. We landed about an hour later in Cantabal and hopped on a bus to Pueblo Nuevo where we spent the night.
We slept in a small hostel (which turned out to be someone's home with hammocks strung up for us). It was a very long night. Matthew got sick from eating rancid peanuts and spent the night outside puking his insides out, and we had to get up at 4am to catch the "bus" to the next village. Everyone was there waiting at 4am, everyone except the driver. Apparently he forgot to set his alarm, so we finally pulled out around 6am. The "bus" was another exaggeration. It was a Ford pick-up, with a metal railing around the bed at the back. This allowed for more people to be crammed in like sardines. We stood for hours, holding on to the metal frame for support. With each hour, more passengers were packed into the bed of the truck. It was so full by the end that we didn't actually need to hold on to anything. There was no way you could move, let alone fall. We arrived exhausted in the next village, where we caught a boat down the river to Ixtahuacan Chiquito.
We arrived in the dead of night, and I distinctly remember the fear that gripped me as we walked in total darkness up the steep bank of the river, through the jungle and into the village. Our mimi maglites were not much help. We were led to the home of the village leader, Don Marcos, who officially welcomed us and led us to the house that the community had built for international accompaniers like ourselves. It was conveniently located smack dab in the middle of the village, on a hill. This way, everyone could keep an eye on us, and we would be sure not to miss any of the late night fiestas that were a regular occurance in Ixtahuacan Chiquito. The full deal, marimba and everything.
We had come prepared for our stay in the jungle. Prepared for anything, really... we carried with us all the clothes we would need for two months, our toiletries, mosquito nets, sleeping bags, thermarests, boots, sandles, swimming suits and towels. On top of that, we brought books to read and journals to write in. Furthermore, thinking we might get tired of beans, rice and tortillas, we carted in bags and bags of oatmeal for our morning breakfast. We also brought a two month supply of M&Ms to eat after taking our weekly chloroquin pills, which anyone who has had to take them will attest to, taste absolutely disgusting. The M&Ms were a survival tool.
We settled into the rhythm of village life quickly. Our daily routine took on a life of its own... wake at dawn with the roosters, make a fire and cook some oatmeal with bananas. Wash at the water pump or, in Matthew's case, shave at the water pump with all the little kids giggling between the slats of the wall. I don't think they had ever seen anyone shave with such white foamy cream on their face before. Ah, the North American comforts. The water was freezing, which was nice on hot days, but not great on cold, rainy mornings. Lunch and dinner were at a different family's house each day. The arrangement was that we would eat with a different family each day. We were, in turn, expected to purchase non-perishable foods from one of the local stalls to bring as a gift for the family that was cooking for us that day. It was usually rice, beans and tortillas. There was an occasional egg fried in so much oil that it was unrecognizable by the time it reached our plate, or the wild boar that the family had killed that day that had been smoked over the fire until it was too tough to eat. We were, however, expected to eat everything that was put in front of us so as not to offend anyone. It was easy to do when thinking about the life of the people who were hosting us. Waste not.
Matthew as doing research for his thesis, and I helped by interviewing the women. They´d be damned if they were going to talk to a man, so I was the natural alternative. This helped to pass the time. We interviewed the family with which we were dining that day, and this arrangement was explained to the community members at a meeting just after we arrived. I would sit down with the women while they were weaving and ask them a set of questions, while Matt would go off into the fields with the men and do the same thing. I learned how to weave as a result of these encounters; a skill that I hope I still possess, and hope to pass on to my daughter one day. I felt so priviledged to be living among such amazingly courageous people. The stories that they told us filled our hearts with compassion and wonder at the joy that they had for life. It was an unforgettable time.
Then came the fateful day that I came down with a cold. It seemed like a cold, anyway. I started to cough, and this soon turned into something debilitating. I deteriorated quickly and was soon unable to even rise from my bed. I would lay for hours in the hammock, coughing. Our only medical resource was the infamous book, ¨Donde No Hay Medicos¨, translated to mean ¨Where there are no doctors¨. Using a list of symptoms to come to a diagnosis, we came up with a horrible shortlist including TB. Panic. Matthew decided to speak to Don Marcos to see if there was anything they could do to get me out of Ixtahuacan Chiquito to a doctor. It was decided that we needed to go back up the river to a village called Los Angeles, where there was a working radio and an air strip.
There was the problem, however, that I was unable to walk. The men in the village quickly came up with the most logical solution. They decided to lift me onto a chair and strap me tightly to it, despite our protests. The chair had a thick strap that went under the back legs of the chair, around the forehead of a man that was only half my height and then back under the chair where it tied together in a tight knot. The back of the chair rested against the back of the man, with my feet dangling out behind. It was, needless to say, not the most comfortable form of transportation that I have ever encountered. The man, who I felt eternally sorry for, carried me down to the river where there was a long narrow boat waiting to carry me up river, against the current, to the next village. The chair was lowered into the center of the boat, and I remained strapped to it for the duration of the journey. It was a long trip, and I had visions of myself falling overboard, strapped to the chair, unable to swim or save myself for certain death. Matthew rode behind me, holding on to the chair. Not that he had a choice; he was to hold onto me or die trying.
When we reached the village, we were filled with hope. The same little man heaved my chair onto his back and carried me up the steep bank into the village. The parade of children following behind giggling at the gringa strapped to the chair is something I will never forget. I was laid down in the international accompanier's hut; a kind woman who had walked to Ixtahuacan Chiquito to meet us several weeks earlier. Matthew was beside himself and set about trying to get me some help. He found the men who knew how to use the radio, but found it to be broken. He was desperate though; so desperate that our host offered to walk to the next village to get help. It took three days until we heard the plane, but then it was a whirlwind rescue. The pilot landed, they loaded me into the plane, and I was flown directly to Guatemala City. Matthew had arranged for someone to radio ahead to have our friend from the Canadian embassy there to meet us, and I was whisked off to the best hospital in the city. After a series of tests, they discovered that I had broncheal pneumonia. The treatment? Antibiotics. Yes, it really was that simple. Our friend from the Canadian embassy insisted that we stay with them while I recovered. We stayed for a week, until I had regained my strength, and we headed back into the jungle.
We took a different route this time, and flew directly into Los Angeles. Everyone was happy to see me alive and kicking. We ran into a problem trying to find a boat that was going back up river to our village, though, and decided to walk in. It was a full days hike from Los Angeles to Ixtahuacan Chiquito, but we were confident we could do it. The trail was clearly marked, as it was the rainy season. By rain, I mean torrential downpour, by the way. The sort of rain that you hear coming before it actually shows up. After it does appear, it only lasts for a few minutes, and then it moves on. Quite nice if you are sitting in the comfort of your "champa" looking out at the jungle. Not so lovely if you are in the middle of the jungle with nowhere to hide. The rainy season translated into muddy season on the ground. The trail was clearly marked because of the mud. We had been warned about the mud, and told not to wear our North American hiking boots in it or they would be ruined forever. So, we were wearing the black rubber boots that we had picked up for a few dollars before our first trip into the area. Needless to say, neither of us had worn them hiking before and, about an hour into the hike, our feet were killing us. Both of us had blisters and we had to take regular breaks to apply mole skin to our heels.
I had always wanted to see the jungle. I can remember dreaming about it as a child. Let me tell you, though, after a couple hours in the jungle, I was beginning to miss home. Endless vines and trees and mud. No bright, colourful birds, no snakes (thank goodness) or interesting animals. Only the trail, the mud, my pack and Matthew, who was trying to encouraging. We both lost a boot at some point along the path, and our socks were no longer any shade of white.
After hours of slogging through the mud, which we had come to know as ¨lodo¨, I reached a breaking point. The intense heat of the jungle, thick with humidity, began to get the better of me. It probably didn't help much that I was still recovering from pneumonia. I started to breath more quickly and my pace slowed considerably. It was getting dark, and we knew that we still had a ways to go. I started to panic. I did not like the idea of sleeping in the jungle. My breathing quickly turned to panting, and I soon found myself hyperventilating. Matthew quickly came to my rescue, coaching me with a ¨breath in, and out, and in, and out¨ that miraculously brought me back to reality. I rose to my feet, determined to prove my strength in this impossible situation. One foot in front of the other was the mantra I was repeating over and over in my head. And then, there it was... a village at the bottom of the small hill we had just climbed. As we emerged from the jungle, we found ourselves on a path leading into Ixtahuacan Chiquito. Never had I been so happy to see civilization in all my life.
We had a couple other minor illnesses while we living there, but this time we were prepared. Cipro became a very good friend of ours, and we learned to try anti-biotics first, rather than evacuate. It was certainly a challenging way to begin our life together; we had been married for only four months.
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