TheBanyanTree: Move to Casa Hogar

[apmartin at canada.com]

            The Move to Casa Hogar

Saturday morning (October 2, 2004) I woke up with a
mission: to have our suitcases packed and ready to go
by mid-afternoon.  We were moving to our new home at
Casa Hogar (Camino Seguro’s live-in facility for
children from the most troubled families).  Five weeks
had passed since our arrival in Guatemala.  During that
time, we lived with Beatrice, a widow of Spanish
descent, Carmen, her Mayan maid, and Carmen’s twin
six-year-olds, Mariela and Jennifer.  We were sorry to
be leaving the little girls, but we were glad we would
be shopping and cooking for ourselves.  The food at
Beatrice’s was typical Guatemalan fare: most meals
included black beans, rice, tortillas and fried
platanos (similar to bananas)   Five weeks on a high
carbohydrate low protein diet was enough.

Casa Hogar is located in a village near Antigua called
San Pedro Las Huertas.  I liked the idea of living
on-site because I would be able to spend as much time
with the children as I wanted.   At the Project in
Guatemala City, volunteers assist in the classroom. 
They don’t have the opportunity to know the students
well.  I wanted to be able to play with the children; I
wanted one-on-one time with them to help them with
their school work.  I could only do that in San Pedro.
      
Andrew had been ill for 10 days with traveler’s
diarrhea and a fever so he left to visit the doctor.  I
packed his things too. By the time he returned with a
bag of antibiotics in hand, a small mountain of luggage
sat next to the front door.

Taxis in Guatemala are economy-sized vehicles.  Earlier
in the week, however, I had seen a Toyota Tercel
station wagon and recorded the telephone number.  When
we were ready to go, I walked to the closest pay phone
and dialed.  The man who answered did not speak English
but I knew enough Spanish to convey that I wanted car
#37, the station wagon, at #30 Colonia Candaleria.  

When the taxi arrived, Andrew and I took turns hugging
Mariela and Jennifer.  We both had grown very fond of
them.  I promised them we would return with a surprise
the following weekend.   

We piled three massive suitcases into the taxi, (one of
which was entirely filled with books, games, and
educational materials for the children at Casa Hogar),
a large duffle bag and a number of shopping bags.  Our
luggage filled the vehicle except for the passenger’s
bucket seat in the front.  For the twenty minute drive
to San Pedro, I sat on Andrew’s lap.  As we bumped over
the rough cobblestone road, my head kept hitting the
ceiling.  We must have looked ridiculous because people
on the street smiled and pointed.  Gringos are
considered rich; what were two white people doing
squeezed onto one seat?

Monique, the Volunteer Coordinator, was expecting us;
she led us to a red-colored bungalow, opened the door
and handed us the key.  The house was bright and clean
with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, dining
area and a living room.  Built of cement blocks with a
terracotta roof, the interior was plastered and painted
white.  Stone tiles covered the floor.  Compared to the
tiny single rooms we lived in at Beatrice’s, we felt
like we had stepped into a palace.  

The house was supposed to be shared accommodation but
we were alone in it, at least for the present, which
suited us fine.  I couldn’t wait to find out if we had
hot water; I hadn’t had a hot shower in the entire time
I was in Guatemala because the electrical device
attached to the showerhead at Beatrice’s wasn’t working
properly.   

Casa Hogar, like most residences in Guatemala is
surrounded by a high (between 12 and 14 feet) fence of
cement blocks.  Unlike many others, it doesn’t have
rolled barbed wire running along the top.  Inside the
compound, there is one large house and ten single-story
bungalows.  Access is through two sets of metal double
doors that stay locked. The windows of all the
buildings are barred for additional security.  The
courtyard’s grassy playground, lemon and mandarin
orange trees (the kids are always asking me to reach
them a piece of fruit), flowering tropical plants and
swimming pool make Casa Hogar a very attractive place
to live.

The large house contains three bedrooms where the older
girls sleep, a living room with television, laundry
facilities, and a common room with low tables where the
children work on crafts.  There are four other
bungalows for the children: one for ninas pequenas
(small girls), one for ninas grandes (big girls), one
for small boys (ninos pequenos), and another for ninos
grandes.  Monique said she thought I would be working
with the small boys, but I needed to speak with Zayda,
the Volunteer Coordinator for Casa Hogar before
starting work.

Sunday went by, then Monday and I still had not heard
from Zayda.  On Tuesday, I decided to approach the
teachers in the small boy’s house.  After rummaging
through my suitcase and filling a cloth bag with
educational puzzles and games, I knocked and introduced
myself to the two teachers inside.  Both Julieta and
Flor de Marie were young Guatemalan women in their
twenties.  Neither spoke English.  

In limited Spanish I told them I thought I would be
working with them.  I said I had many interesting
things for the children to do and asked if I should
start working.  Both teachers seemed eager for me to
take charge.  

Nine boys from age’s five to eleven lived in the house,
two of whom had recently arrived with only the clothes
on their backs.  I recognized one of them from the
kindergarten class at the Project in Guatemala City. 
Cristian, aged six, was one of the children there who
wore filthy clothes and stank.  He had been desperate
for me to hold him and I had packed him around a good
deal while I worked in the city.  The past weekend
while Andrew and I made our move, his mother had turned
him and his younger brother, Brandon, aged five onto
the street.  When Cristian saw me, he threw his arms
around me; he remembered me.  

Once I introduced myself to the boys and asked their
names, I pulled several puzzles and games from my bag. 
Seated on the floor, I played a memory game with
several while the others worked on puzzles.  

The children, I could see, enjoyed playing with an
adult.  As I looked at each little face, I recalled the
slums these boys had come from.  My one visit there was
enough.  I never wanted to go back.  These children had
been born into poverty and squalor. Camino Seguro was
making a difference in their lives.  

Each child was special; each one deserved love and
attention.  I couldn’t undo what they had already
experienced, but I could show them they were precious
to me.

****