The Learning Continues/Another Journey Begins.

First, the good news: Maria Guadalupe and Maria Jose, the twins left at Nuestros Ahijados after their mother passed away, have already been linked with an adoptive family who will be taking them once they are healthy enough to leave Casa Jackson and the legal issues are worked out. I peek in on them everyday, and they are still tiny, still sweet, and are sleeping and eating well.

In less cheerful news, a ten-year-old girl, Josefina, was brought into Casa Jackson yesterday. Josefina is about the size of a sturdily built five year old by US standards, and has a cognitive age of about 8-10 months. This is my knee-jerk estimate from interacting with her over the past two days, and is subject to change. She is nonverbal, lies curled up in her crib sucking her thumb all day, and is ambulatory, although she doesn't move around unless prompted to do so. She gives a genuine grin to anyone who takes a few moments to talk to her, and it seems that her social skills may be one of her biggest strengths. She also has the worst burn scar I have ever seen on a child, stretching across the front of her entire torso, from her shoulders to her hips. 

I had just entered her room and took the side of her crib down to talk to her and give her some cuddles and attention. She lifted the edge of her shirt up with her free, non-thumb-sucking hand, and I shuddered reflexively. I lifted her shirt up higher, revealing a rippled, warped mass of scar tissue that, at first touch, feels more like that of a crocodile than a child. I put my hand on her cheek and muttered aloud, to myself more than her, "What happened to you? What happened?" and began to tear up. She, clearly oblivious to the old scar at this point, grinned at me and continued grinning as I stroked her cheek and felt a few tears fall from the tip of my nose. Her father did visit her today and take her out of her crib for some hugs and tenderness, so I'm trying to not be too disheartened for her. 

Gricelda's father also visited her today. Gricelda is a beautiful little girl with almost no functional skills whatsoever. She is able to be relatively safely fed without aspirating; she has no functional use of her arms or legs, no functional vocalizations beyond crying, and can not see or hear. For a family with limited education and limited resources, Gricelda is a massive challenge, and one of those children that would be an easy and likely target of neglect or abuse. Every week, her father comes to visit her, and watching him with her does a great deal to minimize my concern. He may not know what to do with her therapeutically (and honestly, that makes two of us), but he clearly adores her. He holds her, cuddles her, speaks tenderly to her, feeds her, changes her clothes, and kisses her cheeks. If I had to choose between a parent who would follow through on all of my therapeutic recommendations and a parent that would adore their incredibly impaired child as much as he does, I would choose the latter for any child in a heartbeat. 

Sandra's grandmother also visited her today, shortly after a delightful half hour in which I had the pleasure of giving her the morning bath and teaching her how to splash (sorry, Casa Jackson nurses!). Though I didn't know it until it happened, I really needed to see a family member come and love her and hug her and kiss her and adore her. Sandra's family visits infrequently; her father has never come, and her mother has come only once. Before any judgments are made, it is incredibly difficult for many of the parents to visit their children due to the intense work schedule of an unskilled laborer that must work whenever there is work, if they have any desire to eat or be able to stay in the dirt-floor shack they live in. Sandra's grandmother, like Gricelda's father, didn't appear to know a lot about what to do with her, but she clearly relished the cuddle time and opportunity to give Sandra her lunch. I have some comfort in knowing that Sandra has at least one family member who adores her. Hopefully all three do, but at the very least, I can sleep knowing that she's got her Abuelita.

Thankfully, Rafa, the Spanish nurse, and Juan Pablo, the young Guatemalan director of Casa Jackson, were both present this morning. We held a spontaneous family education session, discussing and practicing with Sandra's grandmother the exercises I had been doing with her, the importance of using positioning and a cautious approach in her feeding to minimize her aspiration, and my general impressions of Sandra's skills and ways to her support her when she goes home. Her grandmother was wonderfully receptive and asked some great questions. At one point, she marveled at how much more relaxed and open Sandra's hands were and how much better she was able to hold her head up. Rafa said to her, very gravely, that if not for the work I had done with her, she would likely not have made that progress. He impressed to her the importance of trying to continue stimulating her development and maintaining that momentum. I don't know if I deserve all of the credit for Sandra's progress; as she recovers from her malnutrition, she likely will continue getting stronger and improving her skills; deserved or not, the praise was really touching.

As Sandra was occupied and I could leave her without sending her into a fit of tears, I worked with some of the younger babies who are massively delayed as well. Selvin, a very funky little guy who holds his arms up at shoulder height most of the time and will throw himself back as soon as he reaches an upright seated position, was a tough sell but with enough songs and expert distraction I had him on his tummy, on his hands and knees, and sitting to play with toys for a few minutes at a time. 

After lunch and naps, it was more work for Sandra; more group playtime for Sandra, Magaly, and Selvin, all sitting together on the mattress in the main room, and finally time for afternoon bottles. Someone put the tiny little Juan Antonio (weighing in at about four and a half pounds) next to Sandra and I while I fed her her Pediasure. Juan Antonio spent the time working his tiny little fingers under my scrub top, scratching my stomach, and giggling. He's about three months old and I can't quite fathom what about this amused him so much, but it was wonderful to see him out of his crib and having fun. I played peek-a-boo with him, popping my head out from behind Sandra, and he rewarded me with a few very goofy smiles, made goofier by the hysterical hair he was sporting after sweating through his nap while laying on his side. Bedhead to the maximum.

Diaper changes, pajama time, and laying down for bed were as gutwrenching as usual. Sandra has really kicked up her protests when I put her down now, and it does make it harder and harder to leave her. I've found that, as with many children, the best approach to minimize the amount of time she cries is to give her a hug and a kiss, lay her down, promise her I'll be back tomorrow, and walk out of the room. Her cry has become deafening, to the point that I heard her crying as far as a half block away from Casa Jackson as the escort walked us back to Nuestros Ahijados. 

While I feel bad, as if I've somehow "spoiled her" by giving her so much attention, I can't help but remember what I've noticed with so many children with cerebral palsy who have impaired communication. When there is a person who understands their needs and preferences, who plays with and interacts with them in a way that includes them in the fun and allows them some real participation, who responds to their vocalizations as if they were really words and not the "ooohh" and "ahhh" people around them are hearing, they do become incredibly attached to that person. That person, or those people, become that child's safety blanket. Picture if you were dropped from the air into Iceland. You spend weeks wandering around, confused and frustrated because no one understands you and you don't understand them. They're nice, sure, they try to help, but you ask for the bathroom, and they give you a sandwich. Eventually, you run into another person who speaks English, and ALSO speaks Icelandic! What luck! Wouldn't you be keen to stay close to them, as well? I sure as hell would. It's the same for many kids with special needs who are cognitively intact enough to know that they are being misunderstood or ignored by many people around them. If you seem to understand their language, they aren't about to let you get too far from their sight.

This evening, Ray and I met another volunteer, Charlie, at the Rainbow Cafe to see Luke (the director of sorts) speak about Nuestros Ahijados and the work they're doing in Guatemala. He told a few very poignant stories about six sisters rescued from a garbage dump that was constantly ablaze from combustion fires and covered in ash from the nearby volcano; about the nine-year-old she-shine boy who was foundliving under a park bench and brought to the center, who is now the lead pediatrician at the biggest hospital in Guatemala; the first children saved by Casa Jackson two years ago. As I sat eating my humble dinner of arroz con frijoles, I was struck with such immense joy at having the opportunity to be a part of this amazing effort. The dedication and careful consideration of the foreign and local staff at Nuestros Ahijados, from the top down, is reflected in the incredible success rates of their programs in truly helping the children and families served; there is no "revolving door" of clients here, save for those who leave a program and return of their own accord.

Something Luke said struck me. It was another thing that, like Sandra's grandmother's visit, I didn't realize I needed so badly. Being here is wonderful. It is amazing. There is nothing I'd rather be doing with my time. But it is not easy. It can be a joy, but the depth of the joy I feel in some moments is equal to the depth of the intense heartache I experience in so many other moments. It's hard to see such injustice and unfairness and pain in little children's lives without becoming disheartened and angry and frustrated and bitter in some way. It drives you to work harder and be more dedicated, but it hurts. It takes its toll.

Luke explained to the small crowd (paraphrasing to the best of my memory): "Doing this kind of work, you can't count the failures. You have to count the successes. You have to do everything you can for all of them, but when a child or family walks away, when you lose one back to the streets and can't find them again; when a child passes away because we got them into the malnutrition center too late; when a little girl ends up working in prostitution on the streets despite our efforts, you have to let it go. You let it go, and you look at the ones you've helped. There will always be failures, and it will always feel like no matter how many you help, there are so many you couldn't. So you count the ones you did help."

Sometimes, we don't know who we've helped or what we've done. I think often, we won't ever really understand if our actions and efforts resulted in some benefit reaching beyond the present moment. We have to give it our best and know that we've done all we can. I've known this; I've felt this; I've said this. After years of doing similar work and similar projects, I still need reminding.

Last night, I laid awake until 1:00am, scribbling furiously in my journal that I couldn't stomach a world that let so many little, helpless people face so much pain; that I loathed any supposed god that would allow a child like Sandra or Gricelda grow up anywhere else than with at least one parent that would love them, sing them songs, cuddle them to sleep, and cherish them. I was angry at the injustices I see everywhere I look here; angry that I couldn't do more; angry that everyone else wasn't as angry as I was; angry that no amount of anger could change it; angry that despite my best efforts, so many kids would still suffer in so many places.

Anger can be productive only when it is neutralized and harnessed as fuel. With the cooling effect of Luke's words and the tempering effect of watching Sandra and Gricelda and Josefina's loved ones holding and hugging them, I'm fueled up and ready for the next leg of this journey.

Thirteen Babies, Six Grown-Ups, And Only Two Hands...

Saturday night, I took my first ever stab at making guacamole (pretty awesome!), and then sat around drinking Gallo (Guatemalan beer) and expensive mescal (a tequila-like liquor) with Ray, his roommate Luke, their friend Pablo (the source of the mescal), and several of the long-term volunteers that had come over. Around 10:30, we went to Reilly's. This was only the second "real" weekend night I'd witnessed in Antigua, the first being only the night before. Both nights were a strange blend of foreign and local accents, catcalls from police cars, and easily rivaled a night out at home in terms of crowd, excitement, and shenanigans witnessed. 

Due in equal parts to my having a slightly uneasy stomach before beginning the night, and following up the drinks at home with a few vodka tonics while out, I woke up at 6am feeling quite unwell. As in, throwing up. My initial confidence that it may just be related to the drinking was eroded when I started experiencing the full gambit of unpleasant stomach big symptoms. I returned to bed around 9:30am and hoped like hell I could sleep it off. Around 2:00, Ray informed me he was ordering pizza. I felt well enough to try a piece. I felt well enough to try another. After another four hours, I still felt fine, and, ravenously hungry from completely losing all of the contents of my stomach that morning, I ate another three pieces before I went to bed. 

It turns out, unsurprisingly, that this was an unwise thing to do. I woke up sick again, with the sheepish awareness that it was a sickness born of stupidity and pizza-greed rather than any actual valid, unavoidable cause. The positive to this, however, that I was well enough to go to Casa Jackson as scheduled by the afternoon. After realizing last week that the afternoon shift entails leaving rooms full of sobbing infants and toddlers when the escort from Nuestros Ahijados arrives at 4:30pm, Ray and I had worked out that he would come pick me up on his way back from work around 5:15pm, thus enabling me to hopefully hold some babies until they fell asleep, as all tiny little babies deserve.

I arrived at CJ and got down to business. Selvin, a 21-month-old boy who has a massive concave hole of sorts in his ribcage and an absolute disdain for sitting up, was laying on the mattress in the main room with Magaly when I arrived. A nurse brought Sandra in and placed her between them. I rolled Sandra and Selvin to face eachother and tried to get some social play going. Sandra, ever the friendly one, smiled and chatted away to Selvin, who was more interested in taking her toys. After gathering enough toys for the three of them, I sat Selvin up (he threw himself back promptly), propped Magaly up as best I could without putting pressure on her spine, and got Sandra in a supported sit between my legs, and ran a tiny little 'playgroup' with them. Selvin caught onto the routine quickly, imitating my sign for "dame" (give me), trying to imitate the gestures for the songs I sang, and clapping when I said "yay!" Magaly, strong-willed and opinionated little sprite that she is, pointed to Sandra and Selvin's toys and demanded, "ish! ish! Ma! Ish! Ma!" while tapping her chest in an attempt to say, 'give me those!' And Sandra, sweet little Sandra, sat there trying to keep her head up while looking from side to side at her friends, belly-laughing, and looking up at me every minute and a half and saying "Aaaaaaaoooohhhh!" I can't be sure, but I like to think she is saying "te amo," which I have been saying to her for the past two weeks, exaggerating the vowels and waiting for her to imitate me.

It was a sweet little time that we had before it was time to feed the afternoon bottles. Magaly can thankfully hold her own, as I was entrusted with both Selvin and Sandra's. Selvin, in addition to sitting up, also loathes to hold his own bottle. Feeding them both simultaneously was impossible, as giving Sandra her bottle requires some strategic positioning and intense concentration on my part to monitor her swallows and try to minimize aspiration of her Pediasure. I fed Selvin, and then propped Sandra up to feed her. Unlike Saturday morning, when she was incredibly reluctant to eat or drink anything, she drank  hungrily. I was torn between satisfaction that I was getting the calories into her and anxiety about the terrible, ever-present gurgling and wheezing that began after her first few gulps and remained 10 minutes after she finished. After many attempts to get her to imitate my cough in an effort to get her to clear some of the liquid from her throat, I laid her down on her side to 'play' with Magaly. Magaly reached for her hand and held it, cooing affectionately, "Hi nene, nene..." (nene being Spanish for 'baby'). With her free hand, Sandra played with the giant stuffed snake (adorable and kid-friendly reptile that it is) I had laid down next to her and tried, very slowly and with great effort, to poke it in the eyes, approximating the exaggerated "ahhhh!" sound I made whenever she touched the snake when trying to get her to reach for it earlier.

After some diaper changes and donning of pajamas, it was time for bed. The children are put down at 5:00pm. Many are tired, although most are not ready to fall asleep without a fight. I changed Sandra and got her ready for bed, and laid her down on the mattress in the main room with Magaly again while I went to calm some of the crying babies. The other volunteers had left with the escort when he arrived a half hour earlier. I was overwhelmed with the realization that in order to rock some babies to sleep, others would end up simply crying it out, and how cruel it feels to have to choose one helpless little five-pound infant over another to comfort and soothe. 

I went to the room with the most cries- Carlos, Yessenia, Armando, and Juan Antonio, all under five months old. Carlos and Armando were crying; Yessenia, usually a crier herself, was actually already asleep. Juan Antonio looked at the ceiling passively. I picked up Armando and bounced and rocked and bounced some more. I rubbed his little head until his eyes got heavy, took a chance, and put him down. He seemed content enough, so I moved to Carlos' crib and picked him up. He's four months old and has this worrisome tendency to grip his hands together tightly and wring them constantly; something about this little guy gives me the feeling that he is going to show some more serious delays as he gets older. More than the typical malnourished infant, that is.

Carlos was an easy sell; a few minutes of head rubbing and his little dark chocolate eyes began to close. His lids fluttered less and less frequently, settled together, and I tucked him back into his crib. Yessenia woke up and began to cry. I picked her up, marveling at how at four months old, she was still smaller than my first niece was at birth. As I rocked her, she looked up at me, eyes very wide, and examined me with what looked like a tremendous amount of anxiety. It's something that I see in a lot of these little faces. At the age where most infants are with their mothers or other familiar and consistent caregivers all day long, these babies are being handled by a rotating pool of nurses and volunteers. Some come for a day and never return. What a tremendous unknown for such a small person. 

Anxious or not, Yessenia searched my face for a few more minutes, but she too succumbed to the head rub that seems to work wonders on all of these babies. I've perfected my technique and have yet to meet a Casa Jackson infant it doesn't work on: hold baby firmly, rub head softly from back to front and pause for a few seconds with hand over their eyes, nuzzle face into theirs and block out as much light and sound possible. Repeat until sleeping. Five minutes, maximum. Done and done. Happy, sleeping baby, guilt-free Amy.

After a quick stop in the very-tiny-baby room to marvel again at the twins and do the head-rub on their roommate Paola until she fell asleep, I headed to the older girls' room. Gricelda lay in her crib, uncharacteristically crying. I held her for a few minutes until she settled, put her down, and went to get Sandra. 

Sandra, adorable and fuzzy in her footie pajamas, giggled when she saw me approaching to retrieve her from the mattress in the main room. I scooped her up and returned to her room, where Gricelda lay moaning again. I stood next to her crib, Sandra cradled against my chest and nuzzling in, and rubbed Gricelda's head until she fell asleep. Every few minutes, Sandra lifted her head back, opened her mouth wide, and leaned in towards my face for a kiss. I kissed her little mouth, and she dropped her head back to my chest, satisfied. It was a simple moment, and a sad moment, but it occurred to me that there couldn't be a single place on earth that I wanted to be at that moment. All these girls needed was comfort; a hug, a kiss, simple touch. I had it. I gave it. They took it. A simple exchange to them, but so profound for me. 

I sat in the corner of the room with Sandra, feeling guilty that out of all the children I had cuddled today, that this was the moment I had been so waiting for. I draped a blanket over her, settled her into my arms, and held my hand over her cheek as I softly hummed "Rock-a-Bye-Baby." At first, after each verse, she lifted her head back to grin at me and get another kiss before laying her head back to my chest with a yawn. Ten minutes later, her eyes were heavy and her breathing became steadier. She crawled her hand up my chest, resting it on the collar of my scrub top for a minute before draping it over my arm that lead to the hand on her cheek. She fell asleep like this. I waited a few minutes and took a few quick pictures. I wanted to remember every sensation; that small little hand, usually so tight, rested loosely on my arm; those long eyelashes laying on her cheeks; her full cheek cupped in my hand; her breath on my wrist. It hurt to think of putting her down and leaving, but being able to finally do so without seeing her tremble in anxiety was a comfort to me. I laid her in her crib, her coming to briefly and beginning the tremble, but calming and falling back asleep when I laid my hand on her cheek and rested my forehead next to hers for a minute. 

I can't say anything profound. I can't elaborate. I can't make a statement about the injustice, the sadness, the frustrations. To describe what I feel now, when I consider those fifteen minutes of watching her fall asleep in my arms, would only be a cheap attempt at capturing a feeling that exists far beyond the realm of words.

I love this little girl. 

In three days, I have to leave this little girl.

Another Day at Casa Jackson: Never Easy, Never Wasted.

Every Friday, Nuestros Ahijados stages a distribution of donated vegetables for the family of every child involved in their programs. The donations collected from local farmers are organized and sorted, portions of rice and beans are bagged, and parents, grandparents, and caregivers pass down the assembly line of volunteers doling out portions of each vegetable. My morning began at the head of the distribution line, handing out yellow beans and heads of lettuce. 

As the women (and some men!) passed through the line, I greeted them and asked how they were. Many gave the touching reply that they were doing well, because they were their receiving food. Several baskets of beans had begun to spoil, and I tried to pick out the rotten ones in advance. The director of the operation explained that some families would choose to eat the spoiling ones as well, so to leave them in. Some of the lettuce was wilted and the outer leaves turning rotten. I apologetically handed them out to women who received them excitedly, discussing with the women around them how they would be eating lots of salad this week. It was humbling, to say the least. 

After the lettuce and beans ran out, I joined the Bolsa Escolar effort, which assembles bags of school supplies for every child attending school at the program. I joined the line of volunteers packing bags for the middle-school aged children. Every child received 50 sheets each of lined, graph, and blank paper; a total of seven small notebooks of lined, blank, and graph paper; another notebook, three file folders, an eraser, and a pencil sharpener; two blue pens, two black pens, a red pen, and four pencils; crayons, colored pencils, scissors, and glue. I wish I could see the children's faces when they receive their bags. I remember my excitement at going back-to-school shopping; these children would not have shiny new notebooks and colorful boxes of crayons and pencils if not for the generosity of Nuestros Ahijados and their commitment to supporting every child's education, both in and out of the classroom.

As I returned to the office to refill my cup of coffee, three police officers walked through the crowded center of the campus. One of the other volunteers informed us that the center received a set of two month-old (and three months premature) twins. Their mother had passed away, and their grandmother, who was unable to care for them, offered to "gift" them to the center; as in, give them in exchange for a small sum of money. The girls, weighing only three pounds each, were taken directly to Casa Jackson.

I headed to the Casa just before eleven for another lunchtime session with Sandra. As always, she greeted me with a smile and a giggle, and immediately began 'talking' to me. I picked her up for kisses (through the mask, of course), and she opened her mouth and turned to me to give them back. I changed her diaper, and we went upstairs to play until lunch. She was in a particularly giggly mood and clearly feeling very silly. It was difficult to get her motivated for our routine of tummy time followed by sitting with support. She thought it was positively hysterical to tip her head back and fall onto me as I sat behind her. Eventually, I abandoned the effort, and focused on trying to encourage her to use her arms and hands for play.

I leaned back just a slight amount, supporting her torso and head against my body, and placed a squeaky elephant on the pillow across her lap. I brought her hand to the elephant, put it into her grasp, and squeaked it as I lifted it up and made an elephant sound. After a few times, I told her to touch the elephant for 'more.' Sure enough, with a little blocking at the elbows to help her reach towards the middle, she stretched those little arms, opened her hand as best she could, and rested it on the elephant's head. She was so excited about this game, and the grin and giggle she gave each time she touched the elephant and we lifted it and squeaked it in the air together were full of pride. She knew that she had done it.

Lunchtime was another uneasy, guilt-ridden meal- for me. Sandra's cheerful demeanor remained. Sandra, like many children with cerebral palsy, aspirates when eating or drinking thin liquids. This means that some food or liquid enters her trachea instead of her esophagus. Aspiration poses great danger to a child with cerebral palsy. These children have diminished lung capacity due to decreased mobility, and are less able to cough forcefully to clear any errant food or drink from their throat. Aspirated food or drink can sit in the lungs and, especially with the onset of even a slight respiratory illness, lead to a case of aspiration pneumonia. This can, and is, fatal for many children. 

Some children aspirate silently. Some exhibit the tell-tale signs of aspiration; coughing, gurgling sound in the throat when breathing, and/or red or watering eyes. Sandra exhibits all three. Unlike the children I've worked with, Sandra does not have access to a swallow study, which assesses the level of aspiration, and the level of thickness required in a child's food and drink to minimize it, or the commercial thickeners commonly used. She is also generally fed in a reclined position, leading to even more of an increased risk of aspiration. 

I propped Sandra up in a saucer seat (sort of like a walker, but with a round concave piece on the bottom so the child can't actually move around at all), stuffed rolled blankets in front of her and a pillow behind her, and propped her little forearms on the blankets in front. Something about seeing her little arms crossed, with her sweet little hands resting open on top of her forearms, makes me just absolutely weak and silly over her. I don't know if it's because she sits there happy as a peach and saying her "ahhhs" and "ooohs" to me, or if it's because she looks like the growing little girl that she is instead of a helpless baby. Whatever the reason, I absolutely love sitting her up.

She ate well, losing less food due to tongue-thrust than during a typical feeding at the Casa, as I waited until she opened her mouth wide enough to put the spoon over her tongue before putting it in her mouth. She gurgled and coughed a few times; I waited until her voice sounded clear again before giving her more bites. Keeping her well-supported while eating and feeding her more slowly and carefully is absolutely decreasing the amount that she's aspirating; the challenge will be convincing every nurse at the Casa to adhere to this feeding set-up. 

I returned after the babies' naps. Sandra and three tiny little baby boys were laid out on the mat in the playroom. Sandra grinned and giggled at the sound of my voice. I said hello to her and went to find a nurse to ask what I could help with, as there is often cleaning to be done before playtime. The nurse was in the room with the tiny new twins; Maria Guadalupe, and Maria Jose. Both unbelievably small. These are babies that, if born in a developed country, would have spent a fair amount of time in the NICU. How they survived to see this day, born three months premature and presumably smaller than the three pounds they are now at two months old, is incomprehensible. They are strong little girls. They will need that strength as they grow older; they will most likely spend a significant portion of their childhood in an overcrowded orphanage.

One of the newer volunteers was having trouble feeding Maria Jose, and asked me to try. I sat down with her and somehow managed to get an entire (small) bottle into her. I looked down at her as I fed her, heart heavy as I thought about what had just happened to this little girl and her sister. I spoke softly to her. She spit out the bottle, and I burped her. As I laid her back down in my arms to feed her again, I continued speaking to her. She looked up at me, searching my face with her barely open eyes, and... she smiled. It was beautiful. She smiled again a few minutes later as I sang to her. With that little rosebud mouth, she unwittingly reminded me- don't ever give up hope for any child. Ever. I rocked her to sleep and laid her back down gently next to her sister.

It was time to feed the older children their afternoon bottles. I scooped Gricelda up from her crib. Andrea, the volunteer coordinator at Casa Jackson, had spoken with me at lunch regarding my concerns with Sandra's feeding, and I wanted to assess Gricelda's safety during feeding as well. Despite her higher level of impairment, Gricelda appears to feed more safely. She coughs occasionally, but the wet gurgle that is omnipresent throughout Sandra's meal is rare. I am, however, concerned that she may be having seizures. Several times during the meal, she cried softly for a moment, then rapidly jerked her head to her right as her eyes shook side to side. By the end of her bottle, she was falling asleep. I laid her back down.

Sandra, ever-awake and ever-ready to play, went rigid with excitement as I approached her. The volunteer holding her gave her some hugs before handing her over for more 'exercises.' As I picked her up, she folded in half and positively erupted in laughter. Trying to lay her, on her stomach, over the exercise ball was no easy feat. Her knees curled up to her chest and she went completely limp as she continued laughing. Eventually, I got her uncurled and over the ball. She was not too interested in pushing up on her arms to look around, until little Magaly took an interest in her.

Magaly, sitting on the lap of a nurse in front of us, gladly complied with my request to sing, clap, and talk to Sandra. Sandra absolutely loved it. Watching the two of them was wonderful. Often, the children have minimal real interaction with each other despite being in the same room almost twenty-four hours a day. In front of me sat these two little girls, both around two years old, both struggling with different health and physical issues, taking such delight in each other. Another special moment at Casa Jackson.

In the afternoon, the children are changed, put into pajamas, and laid in their cribs to sleep. Despite the fact that many of the children at the Casa are under 6 months old, they all seem to understand that this is the point after which the volunteers (the "snugglers") leave. Sandra is no exception.

I changed her diaper and began putting her pajamas on her as she laid in her crib. I tickled her; she talked to me. We played peekaboo with her shirt, we sang songs. As I snapped her onesie, a nurse came into the room and informed us that the escort from Nuestros Ahijados had arrived to bring us back to the main campus. 

I looked at Sandra. Sandra looked at me. I picked her up, held her for a moment, rocking side to side, giving kisses and snuggling her for just another minute. As I laid her down in her crib again, she began to tremble as she stared up at me with this desperate, pleading look. Her little body shook, and her legs went rigid as she realized that yes, I was leaving. She began to cry. I put my hand on her cheek and left it there for a moment, talking to her. She stopped crying, but continued to tremble. I gave her one last kiss, put the side of the crib back up, and she began to wail. Although we've been through this several times, it isn't any less gut wrenching to see on a child's face the exact moment they realize you are leaving them. These aren't babies who have mothers to cuddle, rock, and sing to them before bedtime. These are babies who are laid down to sleep in a room with other crying babies, and must cry themselves to sleep as well.

Every day, the walk away from Casa Jackson becomes harder, and harder... and harder.

More Insights into the Guatemalan Gang Problem...

What a busy, eventful few days. 

Wednesday night, after some relaxing and hanging around, Ray decided he was feeling well enough (or stir-crazy enough) to go out and see his friend, a photographer, and join him in seeing a fellow photographer present his new book at the Centro Cultural. Having left early, I was feeling a BIT better, so I decided to join them. His friend picked us up in front of Las Coupalas, and we headed downtown.

Unfortunately, the author had cancelled, so we headed to Monoloco (which translates to "Crazy Monkey") for what Ray's friend promised would be the biggest plate of nachos we would ever find. He was right. They were piled high with chicken, black beans, jalapenos, pico de gallo, sour cream, cheese, and the more guacamole than I could have hoped for. Over the nachos and a drinks, he and Ray talked photography, and I took the opportunity to ask about his views on safety, crime, and gang activity in Guatemala City.

As someone who has lived in the city his entire life, he had some interesting insights into the source of much of the violent crime that takes place. He explained that most of the shootings, most of the murders, are ordered by gang members that are in prison. Often these are members that are very high up in the chain of authority, and orders are given to members still on the streets. This is similar to what we see in the US. The Guatemalan police are largely unsuccessful at minimizing the amount of control held by the gang members or their ability to give orders. The relative weakness of the police  in fighting the gangs is a large factor in their inability to protect innocent citizens from being caught in the crossfire- innocent deaths due to gang violence do happen often at home, but with less frequency than in Guatemala City.

In Guatemala City, two bus drivers are murdered on average, every single day, often because the company owner did not acquiesce to a gang's monetary demands. Business owners are routinely called at home by gang members, who demand large sums of money, or threaten violent retribution. These are not empty threats. Wealthy or successful business owners may find themselves losing thousands of US dollars due to these extortion demands. Some business owners choose to pay. Some choose to move. All make their choice carefully.

Less than a month ago, a bomb was placed on a city bus in Guatemala City. Approximately eight people died, and upwards of twenty were wounded. According to Ray's friend, there often is no rhyme or reason to the violence. If ordered to kill one individual, many gang members will not hesitate to kill those around them if it ensures their success. Sometimes an ignored demand for money is the cause. Sometimes it is not. Gangs strengthen their influence over the community by terrorizing its members. While most loathe the gangs, few citizens are even remotely willing or able to fight against them.

He laughed while relaying to us a conversation between himself and another friend from the US, who asked him if he had heard about "the tragedy" that had occurred (the assassination of a politician in Arizona). His words were striking. 

"In Guatemala, if someone  were to shoot all of our politicians, we would celebrate. They are all very, very bad."

These are not the words of a subversive, revolution-hungry extremist. He is soft-spoken, polite, and well-educated. In those words, he expressed more clearly the same sentiment I have been hearing since I arrived in Guatemala- politicians are corrupt. They are not "for the people." They cannot be trusted to serve the people, but rather to serve their own interests and greed. Record amounts of money are lost each year in Guatemala due to corruption. The indigenous population is marginalized and ignored. Politicians, in the eyes of the people they serve, are useless at best, criminal at worst. 

Sickcited. (Sick + Excited)

I dread to admit this, but... I MAY be coming down with a touch of whatever afflicted Ray. On top of a very annoying head cold that has me obnoxiously blowing my nose at least once every twenty minutes, and having periodic sneezing fits. Needless to say, I had to sit out this morning's visit to Casa Jackson. Also needless to say, I'm pretty sad about it, as I've got exactly one week left in Guatemala.

I spent this morning stapling and spread-sheeting for Corinne (the volunteer coordinator), and counting out 3,000 ibuprofen tablets into bags of 20 for the farmacía; an appropriate task for someone unfit for human company. As I sat in the pharmacy, trying to maintain my counting rhythm and not sneeze on any medication, the health clinic's doctor came in to get some supplies. I stumbled through my Spanish explanation of what occupational therapy is (it's not a highly publicized career in these parts; I've learned to just say that the work done is similar to that of physical therapy, and enjoy their excitement). She informed me that she had worked at a rehabilitation hospital in the past, and greatly enjoyed it. We discussed a bit about my previous job, and what I was doing at Casa Jackson. That was just about the time she tossed a wonderful opportunity into my lap...

She told me about the children that she sees in the clinic who have a variety of disabilities; many with cerebral palsy, like the two girls at Casa Jackson. She lamented the difficulty in getting adequate therapy for the children they see; private clinics are incredibly expensive. The families served at the free clinic don't have the means to secure this for their children; many are still living in a shack on a dirt floor. She explained that some children are able to go to a local school, Hermano Pedro, which serves children with special needs, but that this is not an option for all. She expressed a wish that someone could just go to the children at home and provide them with therapy, but that there simply weren't people available to do so.

Unwilling to leave this opportunity to a later chance, I informed her that my work at the hospital consisted entirely of home visits to families of children with special needs, and that if I return for the summer, I would be thrilled to visit families at home and provide services to the children with special needs served by the clinic who are unable to attend Hermano Pedro. Her eyebrows rose as she told me how wonderful that would be for the children, their families, and the clinic. We agreed to discuss it more before I return home at the end of the month.

In addition to this, I am also mulling over plans to supply Casa Jackson with more age-appropriate toys for older children (like Magaly), written instructions and (possibly!) a video regarding techniques for working with the children with special needs that are served by the center. The instructions and techniques would be incredibly basic, but would absolutely have a positive impact on the quality of life and developmental trajectory of the children in the center. Simple things such as changing a child's position every few hours; letting them sit upright, well-supported, in a chair for half an hour; or placing them on their side with a toy, instead of leaving them in their cribs in the default supine position that gives them no opportunity to develop head control or neck and upper body strength. A sort of "crash-course" in handling and positioning techniques as well as developmental stimulation for future volunteers to avail themselves of. I'm currently transferring all of this knowledge to Rafa, the nurse from Spain, so that he can train other volunteers after I leave.

My head is just all over the place and swimming with ideas I want to implement and fundraising opportunities to support them. Sometime in the very near future, I hope to have a semi-concrete plan delineating exactly what I would like to do and how I intend to do it, including costs and logistics. I'm beyond thrilled to think that this very specific daydream I've been nursing for the past six years may actually become a reality, to whatever extent possible. I realized long ago that the scale on which you accomplish something isn't always the best indicator of how helpful your accomplishment is to others; if I can successfully design and implement a small program within the framework of this larger one, and know that it truly is serving the community here and improving the quality of life for the children I'm involved with, I will be beyond pleased.

Another Smiling Face

Surprise, surprise- another good day in Guatemala!

I awoke this morning to Ray crawling back into bed after throwing up around 6:00am. It seems the incredible barbecue dinner we had a few nights ago, of which he observed that the chicken appeared a bit undercooked, did not sit too well with him. Miraculously, so far, I haven't showed any symptoms of what he's got. Anyone familiar with my apparent penchance for getting terribly ill and needing to go to the emergency room for a stomach virus about once a year will be relieved to know that I'm pretty sure I've dodged the bullet.

I showered, dressed, hopped in a tuk-tuk, and headed to the Nuestros Ahijados campus for the 8:00am morning meeting. As usual, my understanding of the meeting itself was incredibly limited. Most of the meeting attendees are Guatemalan, or long-term volunteers who speak extremely decent Spanish, so words are quick and jokes are thrown, and I catch about every forth word and feel damn proud of it! After the meeting, I met the other Casa Jackson volunteers at the entrance, where we wait each morning for an escort to the site, which is in an area that is not considered safe for a score of gringas to walk to independently.

I donned the compulsory mask and scrub top, Purell'ed my hands, and headed up to the third floor, where the babies are all housed. After a half hour sorting socks and laundry for the staff, I spoke with Rafa, the lovely volunteer from Spain with a strong interest in special needs, and decided I would start my day working with Sandra, whose history I am unaware of. Another little girl with cerebral palsy, Sandra is an absolute delight to be around. She's one of those children that is significantly impaired, but seems entirely unaware of her limitations and the concerns held for her. In the days I've been at Casa Jackson, I've never once heard her cry, moan, or complain.

Sandra greeted me with the easiest smile imaginable, and held it for almost the next three hours- and I really worked her hard! Like almost every child at the center, Sandra spends much of her day on her back. Volunteers take her out and hold her, but as she has poor head control, most keep her reclined even when she is out of her crib. Seeing how quick her little head was to drop to her chest, I anticipated at least a slight protest with some of my demands, but she kept that sweet little smile the entire time.

I laid her on my stomach, face down, and helped to prop her elbows beneath her chest. I sang the Spanish ABC's (seems to be a favorite with the little ones!) to her over and over and over, and she worked so hard to lift her head up from my chest and hold it there for a few second at a time before dropping it back down with a gentle thump right over my heart. We sat together, her "criss-cross applesauce" between my legs with her back against me for support and a pillow beneath her forearms to push up on, and again, she worked hard to keep that tiny little head up while I shook every noisy and musical toy I could find for her. I used my body as a make-shift stander, supporting her so that she could take some weight through her legs- her smile didn't break. I put her on her stomach in her crib and held her arms under her chest and her elbows in by her sides to make for a challenging tummy-time session- still smiles.

The most wonderful, exciting part was when I put a cloth over her face for peekaboo. Sandra does not yet use her hands functionally in any way; she suffers from significant tightness throughout her body and her upper arms are no exception. After a few rounds of peekaboo, I began bringing her hand up to the cloth on her face, helping her to grasp it, and waiting. At first, I wasn't sure if her hand moving down was a happy coincidence or her attempt to really participate in the game, but after a few tries, it was clear- she waited until I said "one, two, THREE!" each time, and then slowly, so slowly, pulled her arm down to remove the cloth from her face. Each time, as soon as one eye wa visible, she erupted into giggles. She looked so pleased with herself. After her mid-morning bottle, I laid her on her side and put a wet wipe in her hands. I brought it up to wipe her nose, and said, "Ahh, ahh, ahh, CHOO!" and pulled her hands down from her face. After a few minutes of this, I began to wait for her to initiate another round. Sure enough, those little hands moved, millimeter by millimeter, up to her nose; she mostly hit her mouth, but again, the gleeful grin and deep giggle left no doubt that she was doing it. She was playing. It was so heartwarming.

While I've got so much more to say about Sandra, the internet cafe is closing and it's time for me to return to Jocotengango and nurse Ray back to health with flat ginger ale. I took some photos and videos of Sandra and will have them up as soon as I'm able. In the meantime, content yourselves with the background photo of my blog, which is an older picture of Sandra from when she had recently arrived at Casa Jackson.

Again, thank you so much to those of you following along and interested in these sweet little kids I've got the privilege of snuggling :)

A Toddler is a Toddler, No Matter How Far You Roam...

And Magaly, at Casa Jackson, is certainly a toddler. She has strong opinions, strong likes and dislikes, and a strong voice to tell her caregivers when she isn't pleased with them. With a diagnosis of microcephaly, it's difficult to predict where her cognition is currently, or what her full cognitive potential will be. At 27 months old, she displays delays in all developmental areas; microcephalic or not, this is to be expected of a child who has suffered for much of her short life from malnutrition and trauma.


I arrived at the center and, according to the day's routine, swept half of the children's rooms before beginning the fun part of the day, for everyone involved: playtime! Magaly had begun to wave at me while I swept; I promised her that as soon as I finished, we would go upstairs and play. She seemed to understand this, as she waited patiently for me to complete my task before resuming her usual, "ish? ish? ish! ish! ish!?" with her little arms lifted in my direction. As I approached her crib, she grinned her trademark impish grin and clapped her hands in excitement.


I carefully carried her upstairs to the playroom, which is well-padded with mats and blankets, and well-stocked with toys, books, and stuffed animals for infants and very young toddlers. I propped Magaly up, reclining on some blankets to avoid putting any pressure on her spine, and brought some blocks, books, a baby doll, and a xylophone over. The xylophone had lost its attached wand; I exclaimed, "Oh no! Where did it go?" and Magaly lifted her hands, palms up, eyebrows raised, using that typical toddler gesture for "I don't know!"


She displayed rather limited focus and switched between toys quickly, playing with each, discarding them, choosing another, discarding it, and returning to the first toy. This is understandable behavior when one considers that despite the efforts of the volunteers and caregivers, she does not have enough opportunities to just simply play. Anyone who has watched a two year old in a room full of toys (or boxes, or pans, or anything at all) knows that children have voracious appetites for playing, exploring, and interacting with their environments. Magaly is no exception; she is simply unable to do this consistently throughout her day. When not being held by a volunteer, she lays on her back in her crib, watching the volunteers move about the room and trying to wave one over to pick her up. When placed on a mat, she is unable to move about her environment, save for a creative little scoot movement she does by pushing into the ground with her toes- the only body parts below the hips that she is able to move independently at this time.


After some time playing with her most favorite toy (a baby doll, or "nene"), it was time to return to her crib for a diaper change. As I walked her through the adjacent room leading to the one she shares with Gricelda, Sandra, and Laura, she waved, upside down and still grinning, to the other volunteers walking around rocking the impossibly tiny infants that Casa Jackson is entrusted with. Her smile turned as soon as we reached her crib; after a diaper change (and a few moments of dodging her tiny fists swinging in protest), I brought her out of her crib again to sit with me in a rocking chair while the other children had their mid-morning bottles. We rocked together as I made silly animal sounds; Magaly gave a few quiet "meows," giggled at my horse's "neigh," and found the lion's "roar" completely dull and un-scary. She reached up several times to try and pull my mask down, and it occurred to me how confusing it must be for her to not be able to see the faces of the people taking care of her, without understanding why. Eyes may be the "window to the soul," but a nose and mouth certainly complete the view; also, for a child with delayed speech, actually seeing a mouth moving to make words can be incredibly helpful. 


I sang the only Spanish children's song I know- the ABC's, remembered from my seventh grade Spanish class so very long ago. Magaly's eyes began to get heavy; her "ish"'s were fewer and less frequent, and her hand crept up to hold the neck of my lab coat. I rubbed her other arm and continued to sing. After about five minutes, her eyes fluttered and fell decisively shut. My first thought, relief at not having to put her into her crib crying and protesting, was followed by sadness that this was not an everyday experience for her. After several years spent discouraging parents from holding children until they fell asleep, undermining their abilities to learn to self-soothe, I have to humbly admit that I would gladly hold Magaly until she fell asleep for every nap and every bedtime, if I could. Falling asleep independently in one's own crib, in one's own home, with one's own parents nearby is one thing. Falling asleep independently in a room with three other toddlers, with the lights on and people buzzing about, and no prolonged snuggling, book-reading, and song-singing routine to comfort and soothe beforehand, is an entirely different experience. 


After a few selfish minutes of cuddling, rocking, and wiping the tiny beads of sweat forming on her forehead, I put her down in her crib to finish out her nap, and went to Gricelda. She lay on her side, drooling, but with a bit of a smile. Seemingly oblivious to my presence until I touched her, she gave a little start as I picked her up. Another volunteer, Rafael (a nurse from Spain who intends to stay on until November), joined us in the playroom to learn techniques for stretching and positioning Gricelda. I struggled to explain to him what I was doing with Gricelda, what things I hoped to do with her, and the logic behind them. He was incredibly patient, and helped me find some of the simple medical words ('bone,' 'spasticity,' etc) I was looking for. We discussed the many challenges encountered when working with disabled children in developing countries; he had spent time volunteering in Peru as well, and we shared our experiences with disinterested nurses and tragically uneducated caregivers. As Gricelda laid in my lap and I began trying to stretch her limbs and determine exactly what sort of range she still had, she gave a few quiet protests but calmed eventually. She sat between my legs, a pillow on her lap, and even took a little weight through her forearms- a small step towards eventually getting her onto her stomach and bearing weight through her arms while prone. It's significantly more challenging, but significantly more beneficial. Rafa and I scheduled another 'co-visit' of sorts for the following morning, to continue our discussion and collaboration.


We transitioned back downstairs for lunchtime; despite her lack of motor control, spasticity, and incredibly decreased awareness of her surroundings, she is a slow but successful eater! She didn't display any tongue thrust, opened her mouth with some gentle coaxing, kept her tongue under the spoon, closed her mouth over the spoon and managed to swallow small mouthfuls with only minimal loss. It takes about twice as long to feed her as it may a typical child, but I felt a marked satisfaction in knowing that I had gotten almost the entire bowl of indistinguishable pureed vegetable into her (squash? pumpkin? sweet potato?), without force-feeding her, and even managed to encourage her to be a more active participant in her feeding by using techniques learned during my time working under a feeding specialist back home.


I'm in the very long, very slow process of uploading a brief video of both Magaly and Gricelda, and have put a Facebook album up with a few photos I took today. The money for this week's medical appointments for the girls has been covered (thank you to my former co-worker, Dona Savoie!); if anyone is interested in donating to a fund specifically for the girls' medical costs, please email me at AGridley@live.com.


Thanks for following along!

Safety, Security, and Resigned Discontent

Several times a week, one of the workers at Nuestros Ahijados (an easy-going, friendly young Guatemalan with the type of flowing, wavy hair that many guys in the states spend half an hour trying to perfect, who will remain nameless for reasons apparent later in this post) takes several volunteers in a small truck to farms in the surrounding towns to fill the bed of the truck with laundry baskets packed with carrots, lettuce, cucumbers, peppers, and other vegetables donated by local farmers. Some farms are small, some are large; all are generous enough to make weekly contributions to the program's effort to keep the children they serve as well-nourished in body as they are in mind.


Ray and I joined this morning's trip; it was unusually chilly with the sun hiding behind the clouds. The small truck eased through the busier towns and sped up as we ascended the hills beyond Antigua. A little way out from town, a road that was washed out in the recent mudslides left in tropical storm Agatha's path continues to be repaired, but is now passable. Local residents went about their business; carrying purses and backpacks and bundles on their way to work, to school, and to the market. The road passed through small towns with scrappy roadside tiendas, and larger towns with shiny supermarket storefronts set in clean plazas. As the land flattened and the open spaces widened, we pulled into a simple iron gate in front of several fields of vegetables, the workers busy filling their bags and baskets with them. After loading four baskets into the back of the truck, we continued on to our next destination.


After a bumpy ride down a long dirt road, we approached an imposing fence and heavy steel doors. The plaque outside read the name of the co-operational farm along with the tagline, "Para la vida de tus sueños" (for the life of your dreams). An armed guard stood outside, one hand on his shotgun and one hand on the edge of the gate. Our friend presented his ID and explained the purpose of our visit. After taking his ID and signing us in, the gate was pulled open and we drove into an impressive lot, lined with smaller buildings in the front, and a warehouse area and loading docks further back. Emilio explained that this particular farm is a co-op; farmers bring their crops to the center, and distributors pick them up to deliver them to consumers. The result is that the farmers take a larger share of the profits from their crops, in a country where most farmers and farm laborers, doing the back-breaking work of picking and hauling crops, live at subsistence level.


We backed the truck up to the loading dock, and waited for the attendant to instruct us as to what we were able to take for today's donation. As we waited for him to appear, I hopped from foot to foot and crossed my arms to stay warm, thinking how ironic it was that in only two days, I could find 65 degrees F cold again, when the ground at home was blanketed with two feet of snow. The multicolored crates stacked up along the edge of dock made me imagine a giant playing vegetable Tetris. Women hurried past, wearing a variety of tops and ankle-length woven skirts over their nearly identical black flats. I wondered how they could be comfortable doing any sort of labor work in such shoes. I was wearing my hiking sneakers just to load a few baskets with vegetables and toss them into a truck for a few hours.


Our friend disappeared and reappeared a few minutes later, with the happy news that we were given permission to take whatever we needed. We began filling baskets with carrots, green beans, cucumbers, and squash. Some of the workers looked at us curiously as they passed; most were unconcerned and rushed along to beat the line for breakfast. As I transferred heaping handfuls of small carrots from the co-op crates to the laundry baskets we had brought, Ray, our friend and I discussed the weekend trips Ray and I have been planning, which lead to a discussion about the security situation in the northern part of the country. Our friend's opinion differed slightly from that of my unconcerned taxi driver.


He explained that throughout Guatemala, there are and always have been many "narcos." They are in every city and town, and local residents know who they are and where they reside. Generally speaking, the narcos leave the local residents alone. The rise in violence, as witnessed in Mexico, often comes when the police and government attempt to root out and bring down the narcos. And again, as witnessed in Mexico, and in Guatemala's brutal, tragic, thirty-year-long civil war, when the government and subversives go head-to-head, it is almost always the innocent citizens that suffer the heaviest losses.


Ray asked about Coban, the capital of the northern state of Alta Verapaz, which was recently put under military siege to dislodge the members of the Mexican Zetas cartel, being pushed from their previous strongholds and looking to set up shop elsewhere. Local drug lords were killed, and the Zetas took over. The international news has run pictures of heavily armed soldiers standing guard in the streets and quoted residents bemoaning the bloodshed and senseless brutality of the Zetas' killings. Coban has been declared gravely dangerous for anyone to pass through.


Our friend did not seem terribly concerned about Coban, informing us that he had recently visited Coban, returning to Antigua on December 29th, about nine days after news of the military siege broke. He did not find anything markedly different during his visit, beyond the increased military presence. He felt that Coban was still fairly safe to visit, so long as one is uninvolved in the narcotics trade. This was in stark contrast to AP news reports dated December 20th, where an anonymous resident told a reporter, "These gangs cruised the streets with assault weapons and their armored cars. They'd honk their horns and get out and beat you, or abduct a woman they liked and send her to be raped." Perhaps the Guatemalan military has done a brilliant job securing the streets, or perhaps the violence was confined to only the most destitute areas, where the Zetas were drawing most of their low-level muscle from. These lower-level gang members were often members of the indigenous Mayan population, who have suffered from extreme poverty and marginalization by the government for the entirety of Guatemala's history, and always seem to be the first exploited or caught in the crossfire.


I asked him how much confidence the people have in the military's ability to fight the cartels. He smiled ruefully, and explained that the military could not compete with the deep pockets of the drug cartels. The cartels had better weapons, and often significant military training; many cartels have their own paramilitary groups drawn from ex-government soldiers or past paramilitary groups who fought the government and were dissolved at the end of the civil war. He felt that the Guatemalan military was easily matched by the cartels in both weaponry and training, a grave concern for all here.


Our conversation took on a new reality when the center was closed early that evening after one of the directors received a phone call from a gang, threatening the center and the project employees. Nuestros Ahijados does not seek out active gang members for rehabilitation, but some of the older children children who come to the school are members of local gangs who choose to sever their involvement with gang life in favor of pursuing an education. This does not sit well with local gang members. While the center has received threats in the past that have not come to fruition, threats are not taken lightly. Work was abandoned, and within twenty minutes, the center was emptied. 


Days later, I found myself in a mini-van making its way back to Antigua from the bus station in Guatemala City. After a whirlwind weekend of bus rides (over 20 hours total), climbing the endless steps at the Tikal ruins, a number of papaya licuados mixed with rum, and a wild night of dancing with the locals at the Festival of Santa Negro on the tiny island of Flores, I was content to sit back, close my eyes, and hopefully get a few more minutes of sleep before we arrived home at 7:00am. The van was completely full, and the driver offered me the front seat. I took it gladly; 'front seat' equals 'leg room.'


At Ray's request, I asked our driver if he could possibly drop us off in Jocotenango, the small town just north of Antigua, where he lives. The driver cheerfully exclaimed that he has lived in Jocotenango for the past six years, and would be happy to do so. I explained that Ray was a photographer for Nuestros Ahijados, and I was there for several weeks volunteering. Like most local residents, he was familiar with the program and had great praise for the work being done by them. We discussed the work I had done at home, my reasons for coming, and my impressions of Guatemala.


Not incidentally, the conversation approached the subjects of security, narcotrafficking, and general politics. The driver answered my questions openly, without hesitation, and spoke passionately about the issues he felt were impacting the ability of local Guatemalans, especially the indigenous population, to lift themselves out of poverty and gain adequate control of their rights.


The population of Guatemala, according to the driver, consists of 40% non-Mayan Guatemalans, and 60% indigenous Maya. Within the 60%, there are 28 different groups of Maya that speak different languages, follow slightly differing customs, and live in different areas. While the Mayan population is, combined, larger than the non-Mayan population, the divisions within the majority impair the ability of the indigenous population to exert any effective efforts against the minority. There is no leader of the Mayan population at large; no representative or figurehead that can deliver a consensus opinion to or establish solidarity in the face of the almost entirely non-Mayan government. The government is thus able to retain complete control and a staggering ability to marginalize and ignore a large swath of the country's residents.


The driver pointed out a billboard as we passed; a smiling man set on a bright red background pointed at drivers, and large white words quoted his denunciation of the amount of money lost to corruption each year and a promise to fight it. The driver explained that elections were to take place this year, from the lowest office to the highest. I asked him how well he felt the country's current president, Alvaro Colom, had served the indigenous population. my question elicited a bemused smile, as he replied: he hadn't. He continued: Alvaro Colom, like all presidents before him, ignored the requests, needs, and dire social plight of the Maya.


Seeing an entry into another sensitive subject, I referenced an article in the international news in which a leader of the Zetas cartel publicly denounced Colom, claiming that he had been complicit in allowing the drug trade to continue uninterrupted and had received payments for doing so. The leader declared war on Guatemala, warning that innocents would be targeted; the cartel would be in the streets, in the markets, in the shopping malls, and would avenge Colom's betrayal. I asked the driver if he believed their claims about Colom.


Still looking ahead, he inclined his head slightly towards me, smiled again, and said simply, "Si." He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and rubbed his fingers together, as if to indicate that where there is money to be made, there is little question the president would refuse. I asked him if he felt there were any candidates that could be trusted to truly fight the cartels, to respect the rights and wishes of the indigenous population, and to alleviate some of the poverty, malnutrition, and poor educational prospects for many Guatemalans, indigenous or not. With pursed lips and a decisive shake of the head, his answer was clear. 


Many Guatemalans share the opinions of these two men, claiming little to no confidence in their government or their military. After a long civil war, during which civilians suffered from the most abuse, disregard for their basic human rights, and casualties, which the Guatemalan and US governments now admit were largely their own responsibility rather than that of the resistance groups, it is no wonder why. News reports, international NGO reports, and local perceptions paint a picture of a notoriously corrupt government and police force that continues to ignore the rights of the majority of the population and turn their eyes from the atrocities being committed by cartels, so long as their pockets remain full. It is, sadly, a common vein pulsing through most central American countries. 

Disney is NOT the Most Magical Place on Earth

The plane touched down. Guatemala City was covered in a blanket of sparse lights, revealing, despite the darkness, the contours of the mountains in the distance. After the usual rush to unbuckle, retrieve carry-ons, and wait patiently to disembark, I walked down the corridor, passed through another series of hallways, retrieved my luggage, and took my first official steps into Guatemala.

If traveling has taught me anything (and I like to believe it has), it is that the international news, while factual, is not written to assuage anyone's fears about an area. It is meant to cause a stir; a sensation. As always, in the weeks leading up to my departure, I read every news story published on Guatemala in the previous month. I scoured travel forums, e-mailed friends who had traveled to the area recently, and dutifully prepared myself for whatever dangers may lay ahead. I was prepared as I could be for unrest, theft, violence, run-ins with drug cartels, and possibly being kidnapped as soon as I set foot in the capital.

And again, as always, I was surprised and relieved by what I actually encountered. I exited the airport and was politely offered a taxi. After requesting a shuttle and finding that due to my initial missed connection I had arrived too late to catch the last one leaving for Antigua, I hesitantly accepted a private taxi to Antigua for $25USD, thinking of the ample warnings I'd received about armed robbery of taxis and buses in Guatemala City. I asked the driver if it was safe; he assured me it was. At that point, it was my only option.

Yet again, pleasant surprise. The taxi driver, a personable man who displayed a clear pride in his country, maneuvered the roads safely and adeptly. My ride was entirely devoid of the "white-knuckle" moments which have generally dominated my international taxi experiences. As we rose and descended the gentle hills leading from the city, lined with clean, bright, attractive buildings that easily rivaled those found in small cities at home, I asked the driver how safe he felt Guatemala City is. He explained that it can be dangerous, but that it is not all bad. Taking a chance, I asked him about the military take-over in Coban and the recent news reports of Mexico's Zetas cartel terrorizing towns in the north of the country. Smiling, he shared that in Guatemala, there is rampant poverty, alleviated by only two industries: farming, and tourism. Guatemala works hard to safeguard both, and assured me that the government swiftly addresses any threats that arise (thus the recent siege).

We rode along, passing trucks and the eponymous "chicken buses" winding quickly around the dark curves of the highway leading out of the city. I settled into my seat, relishing the awareness that yes, I was finally back. I was below the border, in a beautiful place, with kind people. I was on my way to volcanoes, and lush tropical forests, and most importantly, a place where I would meet little children who need some of the few, humble things I had to offer: love, hugs, and a growing ability to impart some understanding of how to (hopefully) help them develop as best they're able. We wove down a steep road with tight curves before easing onto the flatter highway in the valley. 

Pulling onto the cobblestone streets in Antigua, you´re suddenly conscious of every single stone as the old taxi rolls slowly along; this is not a place for those looking for a smooth ride in any sort of vehicle. The short plaster and cement buildings grow brighter and more vibrant as you near the city center, giving you the impression of driving into an architectural sunset. Grand, elaborate cathedrals, in saturated peach and rose tones with incredibly intricte whitewashed designs curved above their entrances and their windows are interspersed with the humbling ruins of those razed by a succession of earthquakes several hundred years ago; a reminder that no matter how idyllic or majestic the present churches may be, they're no match for the rumblings that have plagued the country throughout history. The ruins are enormous, larger than some of the cathedrals, and peering through the fences erected around them, one can even see arches and walls that have somehow retained the beautiful detail that once covered the building. Ivy and flowers have crept up the walls of some and create a stunning contrast between the barbed wire strung through the crumbling windows.

In any former colonial city, there are captivating details in places one wouldn't expect or find at home. I've always been amazed by the variety of doors I see walking down a colonial-era street. Strolling the streets of Cusco, Bogota, and Antigua, one could create a pictorial volume of beautiful doors. Some look as if they belong guarding a medieval prison, others as if they're the entrance to a forbidden mansion. Some are mde of dark, heavy wood and crossed with wrought iron bars, others display carvings and impressive doorknockers. All are impressive.

The architecture and details pale in comparison to the surroundings. Antigua is set in a lush valley ringed with volcanoes; Agua to the south, making it easy to maneuver the city, Fuego, and one other whose name I have yet to master. At night, as I arrived, the soft yellow lights twinkled around windows and doorways, illuminating the deep wood doors and hinting at the colors waiting for sunlight to reveal them. On sunny days, the city takes on a subtle glow as the light ignites the warm tones on all the buildings and deepens the green covering the mountains. On cloudy days, spots of sunlight pass over the mountains and the tops of the volcanoes remain shrouded in fog; the city remains bright, light, and fresh, bathed in the cooler light making its way through the clouds. On clear days, Fuego can be seen erupting; a slow cloud of dark ash rising from its summit and diffusing into the surrounding sky.

The people are equally as bright and beautiful, completing the dream-like experience. Everyone passes with a smile and polite "Buenas dias" or "buenas tardes." Unlike my travels in other South American cities, I have had wonderful experiences with street vendors and taxi drivers alike; the prices have been fair and the transactions friendly. In Antigua and the small surrounding towns of San Felipe and Jocotenango, where I'm staying with Ray, the discernible threat I've often felt upon leaving the "tourist zone" of a city is almost non-existent. There are dangers, to be sure, but with wits kept about you it's easy to avoid them.

Quite simply, Antigua is heavenly. Walking out the door every morning, whether we're greeted by sunshine or clouds, I can't help but smile. The volcano Agua looms ahead of us, its peak hidden until the clouds clear for the day. A bright orange house stands alone in the center of a small field directly ahead, stark against the green mountains and blue sky surrounding us. There are flowers growing on porches and there is a clean, spring-like feeling in the air. The walk from Ray's apartment, safe behind massive gates protected by unexpectedly pleasant security guards, to the Nuestros Ahijados campus is about fifteen minutes long. Passing young children, old women, and everyone in between, the walk is punctuated with smiles, nods, and greetings as we traipse along on the dusty sidewalk. Motorcycles and buses power past us, momentarily leaving us with a face full of exhaust fumes before it dissipates and the cool, clean air takes over again.

Nuestros Ahijados was thoughtfully, passionately designed by the founder of God's Child Project, Patrick Atkinson, to be a haven for the children and families they serve. Knowing that many of those benefiting from their services live in one-room homes with dirt floors, some in even more dire conditions, the team at Nuestros Ahijados felt it was important to show them that they are worth the effort; that they deserve to have a beautiful, clean place to learn and receive needed services. In a country where many children choose to leave school to work with their families or on the streets, the team wanted the setting itself to be an incentive for maintaining enrollment.

The complex at Nuestros Ahijados includes an elementary school, several office buildings where the long-term staff (both foreign and local) work side-by-side, a health clinic, a dental clinic, a kitchen and cafeteria as well as a food storage area for the many donations received from local farmers, an auditorium, a sprawling playground, a soccer field, and a non-denominational chapel. Built in the traditional colonial style, there are whitewashed banisters, wrought iron gates and windows, towers with twisting staircases, and cobblestone paths and walls throughout. The entire complex is swathed in a thick covering of deep green ivy; it twists around the bougainvilleas creeping down from the roof and crawling up from flowerpots. Palm fronds wave gently in the breeze that passes through the open areas, and several large trees in the center provide shade. It is a setting that rivals many of the costly hotels in the center of Antigua.

At all times of day, there are mothers and fathers and children milling about. School is not yet in session, but when it is, their numbers will increase and the courtyard will be filled with activity. For now, mothers sit chatting quietly on stone benches and watch their children climbing stone walls, crawling through gaps in the stone in the center of the courtyard, and running around the playground. While the volunteers and staff return to the types of homes that most of the families served can only hope to someday inhabit, there is a feeling of community and equality within the tall walls surrounding the complex. The families served value the help they receive, and the caring staff serving them value the families as the individuals they are, and for their cooperation and active involvement in improving their futures and those of their children.

Ray's office stands on the second floor of a simple stone building overlooking the courtyard; thin white curtains filter out some of the strong sunlight that shines through the windows. The door is open, the breeze passes through, and as I sit typing this, the sound of children laughing is audible below us.

Every day here is graced with a sense of serenity that seems to escape me at home. My nights have ended lounging lazily in the hammocks on Ray's porch, looking out over the rooftops to the volcano Agua and sharing liters of Gallo (a light, refreshing Guatemalan beer) as the sun sets and the orange glow moves from the buildings to the sky behind the mountains. It is easy to see why Antigua captivates so many people and holds them as happy hostages forever. There is so much available to do in the sense of supporting the community, and yet life here is so unhurried and undemanding. It's an intoxicating combination. Everyone here seems to know someone, know someone who knows someone, or be someone who passed through enroute to another destination, and simply never left...

Antigua is magical.