somos realistas...

We've delved into classes since arriving here in El Salvador on Sunday. We just spend four weeks here, but they are four of the most intense weeks of the program; for me, El Salvador has an energy, and electricity about it. In three days our conversations have touched topics from abundance to 'the gift of anguish', corrupt politics to 'integral development', extreme violence to stubborn hope. It's so much, that I'm often unsure where to begin when I sit down to write.

El Salvador is a tiny, chaotic country with an overwhelmingly distressing past and present; and still, I see such obstinate hope in the people that I can't help but be encouraged. In so many, I see a faith that lies not in a God that's bigger than them, beyond them and distant, but in the idea that there is extreme potential for the 'divine within' to manifest itself in the people. And I like that.

"No somos exceisvamente pesimista.
Somos realistas.
Sabemos que hay obstaculos grandes,
Pero no negamos la potencial en la sociedad Salvadorena".

"We're not excessively pessimistic.
We're realistic.
We know there are huge obstacles,
But we do not deny the potential of Salvadoran society".

human connection...

In previous semesters I have spent my last week in Guatemala at 'the mountain school' - a Spanish school in a rural area of Guatemala near Colomba. This semester (since our group is mini) we all ventured out together to a new rural community about a half an hour from Xela.

Mornings consisted of Spanish class (for me as well! still working on the subjunctive, unfortunately enough) and the afternoons were filled with activities teaching us about issues the community is facing and initiatives the people are taking in response. We dove into topics such as immigration, water, deforestation, education (i.e. lack of funding for education) and cooperatives. I learned an incredible amount, all of this set in a breathtaking corn'field' tucked away in the mountains.

What I will most remember from the week though is, without doubt, our host-family. Grandma, Grandpa, Mom and her four children were, without exception, utterly endearing. Home stays are a part of my job, and while I always appreciate getting to chat with people and hear different perspectives, I don't generally expect to get attached in a week anymore. I think that the 6 year old daughter in this family stole our hearts the first day and throughout the week we (Joe and I) only grew to appreciate them more.

They were just such strong people. People who have worked incredibly hard, have been integral in the creation of their community, have advocated for people's rights, who continue, with what little they have, to provide for both their children but also a widow from the war and neighbors who have even less than they do. It was humbling and heartwarming to see the ways in which they battle for the good of their family, of their community.

And yet, so often it was just heartbreaking to spend time with them. Grandma would walk into the kitchen to see all of her grandchildren eating and smile and say 'mis pollitos' (my little chickens) -- you could tell that she was content, proud even, to see them all eating. And yet, they weren't sure where their next meals would come from.

I could write much more about them, but really, what it boils down to is that they humanized poverty for me. I wish that all of my loved ones could meet this family, could see this community, could laugh with them and be touched by the way in which they continue to fight when the odds are impossible. I wish that all of my loved ones could see this poverty up close, could hear about it's viscious cycle from those most affected, would be filled with the just anger of knowing that, despite their beauty and diligence and love, these kids just don't really have a shot.

Small comfort comes from the fact that it wasn't just me out there last week. I was there with 8 students who were hearing the same stories, seeing the same injustices. I am increasingly convinced that only through human connections will we be truly motivated to change...and I guess that's why I love this work.

escarlatina...

One thing I love about my job is that I am constantly learning new things about history and globalization and Central American politics…and, as it turns out – bizarre medical mishaps. Many of you may remember the post last year about the ‘fire plants’ that gave one of our students second degree burns. This year, we started off right away with an equally strange case. One of the girls let me know that she was getting a rash, but we weren’t all that concerned at first…until it started to spread, *quickly*. Never in my life have I seen a rash so red and so expansive.

Over the course of the following week, this trooper of a student visited three different doctors and received a different diagnosis from each, first it was an allergy/a reaction to her malaria meds, then is was Rubela, then is was an allergic reaction again, and finally, at the last doctor she was treated for Scarlet Fever. Scarlet Fever? I don't think I've heard of anyone getting that since Beth from Little Women got it from the baby next door.

I'm still skeptical about the whole thing; she was treated for so much stuff that who knows what it actually was. But the antibiotics for Scarlet Fever worked. And as she started to heal, the skin started to peel (see pic of arm in process on the left). I repeat, she had a marvelous attitude through the sleepless nights of burning and the shedding and re-shedding of her skin and we're thrilled to report that she's no longer losing skin and the redness has almost entirely disappeared.

quick update...

I've neglected to write this week - and apologize, but wanted to check in quickly...I'm still here and I'll post something of substance soon! Certainly there is lots going on; we went to the market town of Chichicastenango (see pic of me with Eliett and Joe) last weekend and this coming weekend is our free time. I'm headed to the capital for a night and then to Lake Atitlan.

(And it has finally started to rain!)

'tut tut...'

From a very early age, I was socialized (in part by Winnie the Pooh and his 'tut tut...looks like rain') to think that talking about the weather was not only something that we do in the face of strange phenomenon or awe, but something we do even when we don't have anything to state but the obvious.

The obvious here in Guatemala this ‘winter’ (aka: the rainy season, which should be upon us) is that it does not look like rain. And it’s what I end up talking about with people, quite a bit actually. This is partially due to the fact that weather is a safe neutral topic, most people will agree – we either need more rain or we don’t. Which is much easier than coming to a similar agreement in regards to, say, taxes.

But this year, it’s not that all that simple really. The gravity of the situation makes it emotional, makes it political. Droughts at home are terrible I, in no way, mean to minimize the pain they cause. Still, it almost seems there’s no comparison to the way that a few months without rain here can affect people. The majority of rural Guatemalans live on less than $2/day. A season without rain, in a country where so many depend on the corn they grow to feed the mouths at their table, means that thousands are dangerously hungry. In the last four months, the number of Guatemalan families at risk for severe malnutrition has quadrupled.

Interestingly enough, when one looks simply at the GDP or other ‘economic indicators’ of how Guatemala’s doing, it’s not all that bad. Disparities unaccounted for and Guatemala is doing ok; however, Guatemala boasts 'the sixth worst rate of chronic malnutrition in the world' (for more stats/info see: 'Hungry in Guatemala': http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200908u/guatemala-hunger). I read an editorial this morning that argued that poverty is humanity's natural state of being, that richness is really the exception and we shouldn't be so shocked or upset that so many are on the edge. And while I may agree that living simply is closer to our 'natural state', I just can't swallow the idea that some have so much while others have so devastatingly little.

Perhaps what's most sad about the situation is that the future prospect for these families doesn’t look good. Without much in the ways of government aid, many have been desperate enough to eat their seed corn, an understandable act if your children may die before the dry spell is over. But in doing so, have devoured both their ability to plant next year’s crop, as well as the freedom they previously maintained from genetically modified seed.

I wouldn’t say that I’ve been passionate about the weather in the past, and know that I complained about the wet September here last year. But this year, when the dark clouds roll in, I find the phrase ‘tut tut…’ always comes to mind, almost as a petition for those who may be able to salvage part of their harvest, for those who have tired of dry, sunny days.