People told me that my trip to Guatemala would change me. “You’ll be shocked at how different things are… You won’t ever be the same… This trip is really going to change you.” With each comment I’d nod my head in agreement and smile politely. Then I’d pride fully walk away wondering, “how sheltered do they think I am? Of course the people are poor, that’s why I am going. Of course things are different there; it’s a third world country. I’ve seen pictures.” I knew that it wouldn’t be like anything I’d ever seen before. I was extremely excited about that. But I knew what to expect.
When we stepped off the plane in Guatemala City I was stupefied by the signs written in Spanish. It was shocking that everyone was speaking a language that I didn’t understand. I’d been prepared to see a new world until the moment I got off of the plane and realized that they actually do speak Spanish in Latin America. Everything around me was suddenly new. Practically everyone was short with dark hair and tanned skin. The people didn’t look like me. I was tall there.
The very first thing most of us did after leaving the plane, moving through customs and trying to cope with the shock of having just entered a Spanish speaking country was head to the restroom. Sarah shouted to us all as we sped to the open door way titled “damas,” “DON’T FLUSH THE TOILET PAPER!!!” I froze in my tracks, turned with a look of confusion, horror and speculation and replied with a very startled, “w h a t???” “You can’t flush the toilet paper because they have horrible plumbing. You’ll clog the toilet; well maybe not at the airport but just to be safe from here on out all TP goes in the trash.” Again, still frozen, “what???” was my only reply. I thought she was joking. She wasn’t joking. Now I wasn’t so sure I had made the right decision about coming to Guatemala.
I hadn’t flown a lot before. The airport was crammed full of people. Like cattle we were swiftly and rather confusedly moved along. Everyone frantically rushed through the building. Upon being herded outside gentlemen approached us from every side asking if they may carry our bags, asking if we needed rides somewhere. Ron, the missionary who we’d be staying with informed us that the men wanted money. “Do not let them take your bags, they are working. We have everything under control,” he told us. But they seemed so polite and very eager to help. I felt rude not letting them carry my bags to the van, but I didn’t have any money that I could give to them. I have to admit that this wasn’t my only inhibitor. I was a bit prejudice, imagining that any of these frantic short dark haired men that I might hand my bag to would very politely take it and just keep on walking. We were practically swarmed all the way to the bus, by these human mosquitoes reaching toward us asking to carry our luggage, in Spanish of course. While clutching my belongings and trying to avoid the swarm and eye contact I looked every which way to take in the new world. There was an aroma of exhaust, gasoline and oil. The air was dry and warm. I looked up at the palm trees, over at the eager baggage men, back towards the group; down the dirty street jam packed with small filthy vehicles, and equally as many people walking along side the vehicles, over at the baggage men, and back towards my group. The entire scene was filthy with sudden bursts of color everywhere.
We were shuffled to a pristine looking bus with large windows spanning each side. As I stepped onto the stairs I felt a soothing escape from the human mosquito swarm. I embraced a moment of normalcy in the clean confined space of familiar Caucasian faces. I found a seat, my heart was racing. As I sat I courageously turned to look back out onto the foreign intoxicating world I’d just arrived in. Outside directly next to my window stood a young woman with stretched out hands and a sad somber look on her face. She was attired in several layers of dingy clothing. Her black hair was brought together into one thick tail that lay on her back. Her dark quite eyes spoke of desperation as she peered through my window. They were sad eyes owning no joy or hope and they caused her entire face to look lifeless and destitute despite the absolute beauty that had naturally been bestowed upon it. She had a little girl at her side, possibly 2 or 3 years old. The child was small and beautiful like her mom but she didn’t appear sad or heavy laden like her mother. The girl looked anxious to be moving on, carefree and unaware of her own need of food or money. Through my window shield the beautiful opaque woman beseeched me for money to feed her child. My heart sank. I placed my hand over my pocket and stared, frozen, scared, and helpless. I believe I turned in slow motion to someone standing next to me, “She wants money,” I pointed at the desperate woman. “Don’t give anyone money!” was their reply. I quickly glanced back at her and the child. The pair were dirty and beautiful. Turning to another comrade, almost like a child seeking permission, “She’s asking for money, she’s hungry,” I pointed. “Just look away, you can’t give her money,” was the reply. My mind raced back through time to my first encounter with a beggar in Chicago. A friend walking with me informed me that I must, “Just look away. Keep walking. Act like they aren’t there. You cannot help them all and who knows what they’ll spend the money on anyway.” That first encounter years before with a hungry person asking for money caused my heart to beat wildly, full of uncomfortable heat and numbing pain. “Why can’t I help this one?” I had silently wondered to myself, but like a solider I looked away, kept walking, I did as I was instructed. During that stroll so long ago, down the glorious Michigan Ave in Chicago I took my compassionate breaking heart and stuffed it into a safe little box.
Since that instance in Chicago I’d looked away hundreds of times. I’d given others the speech. But this time I wasn’t in Chicago and I wasn’t in Guatemala to shop. I didn’t come for new expensive clothing and $80 chocolates. I came to help people. Protected by a plate of glass from the world I came to touch, I took hold of my wildly beating heart and ever so painfully I stuffed it right back into the little box I’d gotten for it in Chicago that it had just wriggle out of. I turned my head away from the window and wished the woman and her child gone, and not even practically. As I imagined the two walking away empty handed and hungry my heart beat ever more wildly pushing against the walls of its safe constricting confinement causing even more uncomfortable pain. I wanted them to just disappear. I did not want them to go away. I wanted them to just not be there. She tapped at the window and I jumped like a rabbit, but I did not turn to look. Every muscle in my body, tense from shame and fear, held me tight in my seat. My back to the window, I told myself, “I cannot help them all, and who knows what she’d spend the money on anyway.”
(This is not them)
No comments:
Post a Comment