TheBanyanTree: Challenges

[apmartin at canada.com]

                      Challenges

The day started out badly when I opened my underwear
drawer and saw a huge cockroach scramble out of sight;
I have an irrational fear of cockroaches.  This house
is spotless but others nearby are not.  When I spoke to
Rocio, my landlady, she told me it was because of
construction on the abandoned building next door and
said she had something to take care of the problem.

A few minutes later she returned with a pasty
concoction containing sugar and boric acid.  She rolled
it into little balls, and placed them in several places
on the floor in the kitchen and bedroom and in the
corners of my clothes drawers.  She and Amarilla, the
maid hovering nearby, assured me that would be the end
of the problem.  I hoped so because I had visions of
cockroaches invading my bed in the night.  I wondered
how well I would sleep knowing that a giant cockroach
shared my bedroom.

With winter vacation over (it is winter or the rainy
season here in Guatemala), my work day started at 1:00
pm. when the children were dismissed from school.   I
had three large bags I wanted to deliver to the
Project.  They contained handicraft materials for
activities I planned and some of my clothing to give
away to either the children or staff.  Catching the bus
which was sometimes so jam-packed I had to stand on the
bottom step was not an option.  I spent 15 quetzales
and hired a tuk-tuk. 

It was my first day with the younger boys (ninos
pequenos) whom I was especially attached to because of
working with them the previous year.  Because I had
grown fond of the ninas grandes and found it hard to
leave them, I had been allowed to split my time between
them and the ninos pequenos for my final month.
 
Julieta, the teacher I assisted last year had been
dismissed and replaced by Javier, who seemed to have
done wonders with the boys.  Although there were now 13
boys, four more than the previous year, he had them
under control, and it was a pleasure to work there.  

I lugged my suitcase of books and toys from Canada,
which I kept in the on-site office for safekeeping,
into the little boys’ house.  When I pulled out two
colorful books of simple math equations, I found a
group of enthusiastic little boys surrounding me,
fighting for their turn to answer the questions. 
Later, I sang Spanish songs with them and taught them
the hokie-pokie. 

Many of the boys had bad colds, sore throats and
coughs.  Although I reminded them they needed to cover
their mouth, numerous times they sneezed or coughed
right in my face. The previous week, several of the
ninas grandes were ill, and I had managed to avoid
getting sick, but how long could I go?  Nearly all the
other volunteers were now sniffling and coughing. 

As well, I noticed a lot of head scratching going on in
the little boys’ house, and I didn’t see how I could
avoid getting head lice again.  Oh happy day.  

The afternoon flew by and before I knew it, it was time
to leave.  With a hasty goodbye I rushed out the door
of the compound and headed to the bus stop, a block
away. 

As I waited, I reflected on my day. Unlike the previous
year, at the end of the day I did not feel as if I had
been dragged through a war zone.  Instead, I left with
ample energy and a feeling of satisfaction.  What a
difference the new teacher had made. 

I heard it before I saw it.  The chicken bus rounded
the corner and shuddered to a stop, brakes squealing. 
A cloud of nauseating black smoke followed.  Holding my
purse-size leather backpack tightly against my chest, I
hurried up the steps, scanning the bus for vacant
seats.  All were occupied except one beside a man
resting his head against the seat in front of him.  He
appeared to be sleeping.  I sat down and caught the eye
of the woman across the aisle.

“Enfermo? (sick?)” I whispered.  

She shook her head.

“Boraccho? (Drunk?)” I mouthed.  

She nodded.  “Si, (Yes)”

I was the only non-Guatemalan on the bus but a few
stops later, near another aid project, another
Caucasian woman got on and sat next to me.  I was
curious about the project that I passed every day on my
way to and from Casa Hogar and asked the woman if she
worked there.  She did and I discovered that Common
Hope was similar to Safe Passage in that it, too, was
based on education.  

We chit-chatted and I told her of my planned visit to
Guatemala City the following day to apply for a tourist
visa extension.  “I hear it is only about a ten minute
walk to the INGUAT office from where I get off the
bus,” I said, “and I know other volunteers who have
done it, but I’m a little scared.  Guatemala City is a
dangerous place.”

The woman beside me nodded.  

“I’m still trying to decide whether to take a cab or
walk.  I read there are 800 stolen taxis on the streets
of Guatemala City, and I could get into a taxi, only to
be robbed,” I said.

She held up her hand and showed me three scars that
were in the process of healing.

“I was robbed right outside the Project,” she said. 
“On the weekend, you have to use the side door in the
alley.  Two guys jumped on me and tried to cut off my
backpack.”

My eyes widened as I looked at the stab wounds on her
hand.

“Those look deep.  There must have been a lot of blood.”

She nodded.  “Yes, there was.  I was just unlocking the
gate and wasn’t expecting anything.  If they would have
asked for my backpack I would have given it to them but
all of a sudden they were on me, and naturally I threw
up my hands to protect myself.”  

“That is terrible!”  

She smiled wryly.  

“There were people around and they were shouting at the
guys but they didn’t run off until they had my pack.”

“And you stayed in Guatemala,” I said with amazement. 
In the back of my mind I wondered if this was an omen
relating to my planned trip to Guatemala City.  It
certainly served as a reminder to be extra vigilant.

Later that evening I prepared for the following day; it
took considerable thought.  I needed to stash my money
in several different places so that if I was robbed, I
would still have sufficient money to pay my visa fee
and get back to Antigua.  

INGUAT needed my passport as well as a photocopy of
every page, and one of the following with a photocopy: 
 a credit card, more than $US500 worth of traveler’s
cheques, or a plane ticket.  

I taped my MasterCard inside my panties using packing
tape; I put my passport and 75 quetzales in one of my
shoes and 90 quetzales in the other shoe to wear inside
my sock the next day.  Another 20 quetzales went in a
buttoned pocket in my blouse and I hid 100 quetzales in
a secret pocket inside my Tilley pants.  Another 90
quetzales went into an underclothes pouch along with my
traveler’s cheques and other documentation.  I didn’t
want there to be any chance that the trip was wasted
because of insufficient documentation or money.  

Before I went to bed, I ran my fine-toothed comb
through my hair as I routinely did every night.  This
time, however, there was a tiny dark speck between the
tines.  Looking closer, I saw that it was moving.  A
head louse!  I could only hope it was a male or that it
hadn’t time to lay eggs; I would know soon enough.  

The next morning, I woke up early to the sound of
something fluttering in the room.  When I got up I saw
the dreaded cockroach on its back near one of the balls
of poison.  It wasn’t dead, but I finished it off, glad
to have that taken care of anyway.  

I readied myself and hurried to the bus terminal in
order to catch a 7:00 am bus.  Early morning, I
believed, would be a safer time of day in Guatemala
City.  Before leaving, I removed my credit card from my
panties.  Taking it wasn’t worth the risk.  Instead I
took over $US1000 in traveler’s cheques and my airline
ticket, hoping they would suffice.  I had little
confidence in the Guatemalan immigration department.

I had hoped to run into some of Camino Seguro’s
volunteers at the bus terminal to travel to Guatemala
City with, but saw no one I knew.  Hopping onto one of
the many buses destined for Guate, I found a seat in
the second row, close to the driver and conductor where
I felt safer, and endured an uneventful but very
uncomfortable hour and a half ride.

I needed to vacate the bus at the last stop and had
decided I would take a cab to INGUAT if I spotted a
yellow taxi at the station.  The guide books and
tourist map I had listed them as the most secure.  

When I got off the bus, there was only one cab waiting,
a white cab. I spoke to the driver but had a bad
feeling about him and decided to walk.  Someone on the
street pointed out the general direction for me and I
set off.

I had to walk past a run-down, bad-smelling market.  As
I passed the street vendors standing next to haphazard
stalls of bashed together lumber and shabby tarpaulin
roofs, my gut instinct told me I was taking a big risk
being there.  I saw a few questioning glances from
other pedestrians.  They seemed to say, “What are you
doing here?”

Three tense blocks later I left the street vendors
behind and the area became slightly more upscale.  I
was still unsure where I was going so asked a man on
the street for directions.  He said to follow him.  We
reached an area with a lovely well-maintained park and
bubbling fountain but the nearby poverty was evident.
Some of the park benches were occupied by sleeping
homeless people.  The man pointed out INGUAT, a white
and blue high-rise in the distance.  I thanked him and
headed off toward it.

Although I could see the building clearly it wasn’t
easy to get to because it was on the other side of a
busy freeway.  I noticed there were numerous armed
police on the street now as well as traffic cops.  When
I stopped to ask a police woman for directions, she
pointed out the safest walking route and warned me I
was in a dangerous area. 

I heaved a sigh of relief when I finally reached the
INGUAT building safely.  The armed guard at the door
inspected the interior of my backpack and directed me
upstairs to the “Departamento de Extranjeria” where I
filled out some paperwork, paid a 75 quetzal fee and
left my passport and other supporting documentation. 
The woman at the counter made an appointment for me to
return the following Monday at 3:00 pm to pick up my
passport.  On the way out, I had to open my pack again
for the guard at the door, who wished me a good day.

I said, “Espero que si, no me gusta la calle aqui. (I
hope so; I don’t like the streets here.”)

He said, “Es un poco peligroso (It is a little
dangerous.)”

On my return to the bus station, some street kids,
teenaged boys, started to follow me.  I saw a couple of
well-dressed men who I thought would help me if I got
in trouble and began walking next to them.  It turned
out they were headed for the Antigua bus too and didn’t
mind if I tagged along.

By the time I returned to Antigua, four hours had
passed and I was exhausted, more from stress than
anything else.  Walking those 20 minutes to and from
the INGUAT office had left me with a slight headache. 
I treated myself to lunch at a restaurant and went home
to nap.  Phase one of renewing my tourist visa was
over; now, I had to figure out how I was going to pick
up my passport.  I was not keen to walk those streets
in Guatemala City alone again.

*****