A Visit to Hogar Miguel Magone and Maria Auxiliadora Orphanage (Mixco, Guatemala)

Living (and bartending) in Antigua, a town inhabited by large swaths of both vacationing tourists and young, playful ex-pats makes for an exhausting holiday season. The January Blues have hit town with a vengeance and not only am I no exception, I’m pretty much the poster child. When a friend invited me to join her for a visit Hogar Miguel Magone and Maria Auxiliadora orphanages just outside of Guatemala City, I jumped at the opportunity. What better way to chase away the blues than to spend an afternoon giving and receiving hugs and learning about another nonprofit?

Hogar Miguel Magone and Maria Auxiliadora are supported by Orphan’s Hope Project, a US-based group that has a close relationship with the founders, Karen and Estuardo, and provides material support for their programs. They organized the tour and shared a bit about the homes on the way up. 

Karen and Estuardo began taking in local children whose families were unable to care for them years ago, until they hit capacity in their home with 10 children. They dedicated themselves to the cause of building an orphanage to serve the many other children who needed a home or safe haven, and Hogar Miguel Magone was born. In 2013, with support from Work, Play, Love, they built Maria Auxiliadora, the girl’s orphanage... in the design of a princess castle... yes, really!

Hogar Maria Auxiliadora

Altogether, they house about 100 children. Most children arrive through the PGN (Guatemalan child protection agency), though some are brought directly by relatives. The majority of their children were removed from abusive situations; the home currently caters to victims of physical abuse and neglect, with some cases of sexual abuse. Most of the children will return to relatives at some point in the future, making the orphanage a temporary stop (anywhere from a few months to a few years) for most. In Guatemala as in the US, the courts favor reunification in place of institutionalization. 

We arrived for the tour and were met by Estuardo and his two ‘assistants’ for the day, Leo and Santos. Estuardo provided the group with a brief history and overview of the orphanage, its programs, and its little beneficiaries. He then gestured to Leo and Santos, who were grinning whilst cuddled up to the familiar faces of Janine, who works with Orphan’s Hope, and another woman who comes frequently. 

“Every child here has a heartbreaking story. For example, Leo and Santos are 12 and 10. They ran away from home in Honduras because they were being physically abused by their parents. They had nothing but cheap plastic rain boots, no food or water, and they walked for four days to get to Guatemala. When they arrived last week, their feet were in horrible condition. They were too hurt to walk and needed to be treated. They don’t want to go back to Honduras, but the judge will send them back because they aren’t Guatemalan citizens. We will work with the courts to try and find a good orphanage for them to make sure they are safe when they return.”

We all turned to look at the boys. The boys smiled back at us. Leo held up a camera borrowed from a visitor and peered through the lensfinder back at us. Click.

Leo and Santos, all smiles.

As we walked through the grounds of the boys orphanage, peeking into rooms filled with bunk beds, neatly organized clothes and shoes, and an abundance of stuffed animals, Leo befriended me. He was impressed with my Spanish and couldn’t believe a ‘gringa’ could speak so well (score one for Amy!). We talked about our own countries, asked each other questions, and took pictures all around the grounds and showed them to each other. Santos danced in and out of our conversations, occasionally sidling up next to me and taking my hand.

We visited the girl’s orphanage next- a veritable princess castle painted pink and purple, plastered with Disney princesses. The walls were filled with portraits of little girls dressed in their own special princess costumes, complete with tiaras and magic wands.  While an orphanage is never a great place for a child to be, I can’t imagine a more cheerful setting for a little girl to begin her recovery from whatever trauma brought her into it.

We walked up to the village where most of the children are from with Leo and Santos in tow. Having spent a great deal of time in poorer pueblos and aldeas, the conditions were more or less what I was expecting. Corrugated metal and wood shacks with dirt floors, chickens and dogs abound. 

We passed the students on their way home from school, and were introduced to Nestor, another little tyke with a very sad story. Nestor is 8 years old. When Nestor was 3, his mother began drugging him with paint thinner so that she could beg on the street with him under a blanket posing as her ‘baby.’ Nestor arrived a year ago (I think!), barely able to walk or talk due to neglect, chronic malnutrition, and ingesting poison daily. Walter is now walking (unsteadily), talking (unclearly), and attending school (he tries!).  

After giving high-fives and hugs to Leo and Santos, I boarded the van back to Antigua with a happy heart. The kids' stories may be heartbreaking, but there is inspiration and hope written all over their faces. They're the kind of kids that can grow up to change the world, if given the right support; kids with determination, drive, and indomitable spirit. 

While an orphanage is never an ideal place for a child, I have been in Guatemala long enough to know firsthand how many children need a safe place to live, learn, and grow, even for just a little bit. Leo, Santos and Nestor are testaments to a job well done at the homes, dedicated caregivers, and resources being put to good use. 

The homes accept both short-term and long-term volunteers year round. Anyone interested in volunteering can contact the home through the Orphan Hope Project Facebook page.

You Can Plan a Pretty Picnic...

But you can’t predict the weather. Especially if your picnic is in Guatemala, and the potential storms include protests, social unrest, landslides and the like.

I have a long-time friend visiting from home who happens to be studying botany. Plants, agriculture, soil, ecosystems, various fungi - he is veritably obsessed with the living world around him. What better place to indulge that obsession than on the outskirts of a tropical national forest and lagoon? 

Guatemala had other ideas.

After winding our way along dusty mountain roads, passing the myriad of landslides both big and small that make me weary to make the trek anywhere in or around rainy season, and having the requisite close calls that bring forth an audible gasp from any passenger naïve enough to actually watch the road, we were about to pull into Estacion del Norte when César, our friendly shuttle driver, broke the news.

“La carretera esta cerrado, no hay paso.” The highway is closed, you can’t get through. After enough probing to ascertain that César, a cheerful little man who knows me and my route well by now, was not in fact joking, I implored him for details.

“Hay manifestaciones... Los campesinos han bloqueado la carretera despues de Chisec, en Canaan. Mi compañero esta en Raxruha y no puede pasar. Me va llamar cuando esta aclarada. Quieres ir a un hostel?” There are protests... The farmers have blocked the highway after Chisec, en Canaan. My friend is stuck in Raxruha, he’ll call me when it’s cleared. Want to go to a hostel?

Alta Verapaz is home to many protests, many land disputes, many clashes between an increasingly displaced Maya desperate to hold onto the land that has sustained them for centuries and remains sacred to them, and the government-backed transnational companies determined to remove them to extract every last quetzal in the form of oil, gas, nickel, copper, hydroelectric energy, or palm oil. 

While most of these protests begin peacefully, a demonstration of the right granted to the indigenous communities by the peace treaty signed at the end of the civil war to have a meaningful dialogue regarding the use of their land prior to the initiation of projects that will degrade their land or displace their people, the military, police, and companies often respond forcefully and violently. (Learn more about these conflicts here, here, here, and here.)

Yesterday’s protest was against the expansion of the palmera, the African palm oil company that is rapidly buying up land from poor campesinos for a less-than-fair price. This is causing tension within communities as the African palm is known as an environmental scourge that brings a host of problems affecting the viability of crops for local farmers who choose not to sell their land. 

Needless to say we chose the hostel. In true “Only in Guatemala” form, our avoidance of one public demonstration led us directly into the face of another. After settling in, we walked to Coban’s Parque Central in search of snacks and diversion. We found a crowd assembled outside the gates of a municipal building. There were no signs, no chants, no shouting... only a large crowd waiting patiently.

We stood and watched for a few minutes trying to ascertain what the occasion was. Was this related to the protests a few hours away? A smaller show of solidarity with their campesino brothers and sisters in Canaan? 

As two men and a woman emerged from the doors of the building, the crowd erupted in ecstatic cheers. They approached the gate with arms raised in victory and sincere, wide grins across each of their faces as bystanders set off 50-meter strings of cuetes (sticks of dynamite tied together). After a few minutes of cheers and reaching through the gates to touch the hands of those anxiously awaiting them, they went back inside.

I asked a man in a cowboy hat and a tattered nylon jacket with a US football team logo on it what was happening. Was this related to the protests happening today?

“Nooo, no. Esto no es un manifestación. Es una audiencia. La policia han capturado 8 de nuestros compañeros, pero fue ilegal. Ahora, por fin, ellos nos dan nuestra audiencia y ellos pueden salir.” Nooo, no. This is not a protest. It’s an audience. The police captured 8 of our brothers, but it was illegal. Now, finally, they are giving us our audience and they can leave. He pointed to another man a few feet in front of us and suggested I ask him for more details, as he had organized this demonstration.

He was deeply tanned from a life in the fields beneath his impeccably pressed green oxford shirt and worn blue jeans. His worn face and graying hair told more of his position in the community than his age; a community where years of exposure and hard labor age men quickly, but age commands respect rather than dismissal.

He explained that the community leaders were arrested over a land dispute. They wanted to remain on their ancestral lands, but a mysterious landowner 'bought the law' and paid police to issue warrants for the arrest of the families living on the land. Eight community leaders were arrested and jailed for the past two months. The community members were there in support, demanding an audience - a chance to be heard regarding this injustice. 

A phone call to my dear friend Jeff, a freelance journalist who is deeply invested in the many disputes and protests through Alta Verapaz, provided more insight and clarity into the complex nature of what we were witnessing.

In the 1800's, the government sold the ancestral lands of a Q'eqchi' Maya community to a German family. The families that had been living on this land for centuries were allowed to remain on their land in exchange for free labor, reducing them to slaves working their own land. At the end of the 20th century, the land was finally ceded to the families. In 2011, a name mysteriously appeared on the registry as the owner of the land - the government had once again, quietly and with no consultation to the impoverished farmers who derive both their past and future from the land, sold it out from under them. There were protests, and an eviction of the families was ordered. Community leaders were rounded up, arrested, and detained illegally for two months.

After two months, local authorities finally granted the distraught communities their audience, and were releasing the community leaders. These were the eight joyful, relieved faces that emerged from the building to receive their hero’s welcome through the bars of the iron gates. 

Unfortunately, conflicts like this, which sound medieval to most, are happening all over Guatemala. Throughout big cities and tiny pueblos the indigenous community, determined to preserve its way of life and defend the right to live and work on the lands that have sustained their ancestors for centuries, face a violent wave of neoconservative-driven modernization that threatens to wash away centuries of culture that has been preserved against all odds. What the Spanish conquistadors, subsequent missionaries, and several hundred years of land-owning elite could not eradicate, transnational corporations backed by a greedy, corrupt government just might.

This is a country deeply divided. The indigenous community face not just government discrimination, but discrimination from fellow Guatemalans as well. As a petite ladina (mixed Guatemalan and Spanish heritage) woman checked us into our hostel, she asked if we would be staying long. I explained that we were only here for the night, and were simply unable to get to work due to the protests. Her response reminded me once again that the indigenous struggle for respect, rights, and autonomy will persist long after lawmakers begin to recognize and protect their fundamental rights:

"More protests? Oh, those indios. What imaginary problems are they causing trouble over now?"

Year End Wrap-Up

scroll down for photos from December's trip!

Last Saturday morning, after an intense full day of meetings with Ramiro and the local board of directors to discuss our progress and our plans, I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of clear, sugary coffee. Keidy sat faithfully by my side, arranging her newly gifted imitation Legos into imaginary animals while I sat at my laptop, brushing away the errant chick or kitten as it scuttled underfoot. 

I sighed heavily and raised my typing fingers, reluctantly poised to list what ADAWA had accomplished in 2014. I had been dreading this task. 

I would be lying if I said that this job is not largely discouraging. Ramiro is a wonderful man. The community is filled with incredibly hard-working, humble people, adorable children, and breathtaking natural beauty. There is such potential here for progress, growth, and development of all kinds.

But there are no resources; no money. There is almost no staff. We have big dreams, big ideas, and big goals... but small means and smaller coffers.  Sometimes I feel like a little sailboat lost at sea in a storm with no supplies, no map, and no skilled crew. It’s overwhelming. And anyone who knows me well knows that ‘overwhelmed’ is not my most productive mental state. I often feel too frustrated about what we haven’t accomplished yet to feel proud of what we are doing or have done since I took the position in April. 

Maybe it was the warm coffee-water or Keidy snuggling into my side and grinning up at me every two minutes, but as I typed, my apprehension melted away and I began to feel very positive about what ADAWA did accomplish:

* Delivered 3 days of nutrition workshops in April and provided alcohol and gloves to 19 rural midwives

* Fundraised for building materials and trained men in 6 communities to build public wells at their communities' schools

* Welcomed 4 volunteers who provided 4 weeks of English classes to 125 students in Santa Lucía Lachua

* Raised $875 to purchase of a concrete block mold that halves the cost of concrete blocks for our home construction, latrine, and stove projects

* Secured a Q15,000 grant to subsidize the cost of stoves for 50 families through Embrace Guatemala in Nebaj

* Initiated application process with Engineers Without Borders to be considered for a project providing community-wide access to clean water

* Facilitated the application of 5 youth for scholarships through Casa Sito, a high school in the department capital of Coban (anxiously awaiting acceptance letters!)

* Successfully brought IGER, a radio-based school completion program (similar to a GED but for elementary through high school) into Santa Lucía and inscripted 5 students to begin in January 

* Delivered 2 public radio programs explaining the rights of the indigenous community to citizens of the region

* Participated in 4 manifestations protecting the rights of the indigenous communities

For a small, newly minted community association with only two staff members and no consistent funding or income; in a region with almost no paved roads, no running water, intermittent electricity, no internet; and no government support or strong local institutions, we have managed to accomplish a fair amount in the past 9 months.

And those are just the accomplishments that can be quantified! We have learned so much together this year. Trial and error really is the name of the game up here. Ramiro and I have been fumbling through the steps to our cross-cultural waltz, taking turns leading and following; trying to find our own balance between teaching and learning from each other. We’re still clumsy, but we’re finding our feet together, one song at a time.

We have a lot of exciting goals for 2015, some of which we actually may accomplish! :) We’re continuing to chug along slowly towards increasing community-wide access to potable water, making safer cookstoves and more sanitary latrines available to all families, and continuing to provide workshops that bring needed skills and information to our members.

We’re also working on increasing income streams for the community by securing microcredit loans for women looking to open their own businesses; increasing the number of ‘voluntourists’ to the community and beginning an English program; and creating a local market in Santa Lucía so that goods can be sold and exchanged here with the money remaining in the community. 

Chepe, Ramiro, and Miguel at our year-end meeting in Ramiro's kitchen. 

Pueblo lunch! Caldo de gallina and a tamal
(chicken leg soup and thick corn dough cooked inside a palm leaf).

Ramiro's granddaughter Keidy, aka my little shadow!
Hanging out with Keidy is hands-down one of my favorite parts of being up at the project. 

Manuel, far right, and some of his children and grandchildren. Manuel is a widow twice-over
who has 11 children and cares for 2 of his granddaughters,
who have a single mother who works in the city trying to support them.

Manuel and SOME of his brood outside their home.

This little cutie is another one of Manuel's granddaughters.

Candelaria and Candelaria. Candelaria senior is a widow, and Candelaria the younger
has been unable to return to school since her father's death as the cost of school
fees is too high for her widowed mother to cover. The women survive off of the food they
grow on their small plot of land and the chickens and ducks they raise.

The inside of Candelaria and Candelaria's home. The dirt floor and wood-slat
walls are very typical for homes in the region. Poorer families have walls made of palm thatch, while
wealthier families have cement floors and tin rooves. The wealthiest have homes made entirely of concrete. 

The Ice Bucket Challenge: Alive and Well in ADAWA Communities

A few months ago, Facebook was inundated with videos of people dumping buckets of cold water on themselves. While some did it in conjunction with a donation to ALS and others as the alternative to making a donation, the idea was simple: dump a bucket of water on your head to raise awareness and funds for research (and hopefully, a cure) for a heartbreaking, crippling disease.

The campaign was wildly successful, raising $100 million dollars for the ALS Association. Nonprofits the world over looked on with admiration and envy, wondering how on earth they could ever leverage that magnitude of support for their cause.

While paying a monthly visit to ADAWA during the Ice-Bucket Challenge frenzy, in the midst of fundraising for community wells, the hilarious irony of this fundraising campaign struck me.

Friends and family back home were dumping buckets of cold water on themselves as a punishing alternative to not donating to ALS research or as an uncomfortable way to show their solidarity for those suffering, while those in our rural communities were doing it on a regular basis, thankful simply to have a bucket of water to wash with.

Let’s recap: People were taking unpleasant bucket showers to raise awareness and funds for ALS. We were trying to raise awareness and funds to make uncomfortable bucket showers accessible to more people.

"AHHHHHHH! SUFFERING FOR CHARITY!"

 "Boy, I sure am lucky to have this
bucket of water to shower with today!"

Life's funny sometimes.

To clarify, this is not a criticism of the Ice Bucket Challenge or its participants. Any social media campaign that successfully engages millions of previously uninvolved people is cause for celebration and close study. It demonstrates how willing and eager we are to help when a compelling call to action comes our way. And it gives the rest of us nonprofits hope that someday, some way, we can find a way to motivate and mobilize others similarly around our own cause.

The creator of the Ice Bucket Challenge, unbeknownst to him, turned a bucket shower into a fundraising phenomenon. As we further develop our Household Infrastructure Initiative (wells and rainwater filtration, improved outhouses, and safer cookstoves), we’re wondering how to do the same.

While the Ice Bucket Challenge is already taken, its success has certainly forced us to think a little more creatively about how we engage potential donors. While we’ve yet to hit on our own winning idea, we’ve enjoyed coming up with some real ridiculous ones:

“I Give a Sh*t About Santa Lucía” Challenge- Find a full, overdue-for-servicing Porta-Potty at a nearby construction site and spend 10 minutes in it on a 90 degree summer day- or make a $10 donation to ADAWA! 

“If You Can’t Take the Heat...” Challenge - Build a firepit in your kitchen. Light said fire and try to cook a meal on it. If that seems scary, unsafe, or simply too hot for you... donate $10 to ADAWA!

“Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is” Challenge - Know that dirty, stinking river/pond/stream a few towns over that’s notorious for being contaminated with sewerage runoff and way too gross to swim in? Go enjoy a refreshing glass of it! Or... you guessed it... donate to ADAWA!

We jest. Still, our gears are turning. While our current fundraiser for a concrete block mold and construction materials for wells, safe indoor cookstoves and improved outhouses raised $325 in its first few days, we’ve reached a standstill. 

We’ll keep working on our ideas, we promise. In the meantime, we’d appreciate it if you could share our GoFundMe page with your friends and family. Our fundraiser may not have viral internet appeal (yet!), but it will help a a whole lot of families who are eager to get their hands dirty and build a safer, healthier community together. Thank you!

Laguna Lachua: The Best Guatemalan National Park You've Never Heard Of

Six months after my first life trip to Santa Lucía, I had yet to visit the famed Parque Nacional Laguna Lachua (Laguna Lachua National Park, for my gringos out there)- which was pretty sad, given that Ramiro’s home, which doubles as our humble ADAWA office, is less than 5km from the entrance of the park. In all fairness, it’s an Alta Verapaz 5 kilometers- about a half hour drive due to the poor condition of the road- and not being on-site full-time means I’ve got an awful lot to pack into my monthly trips up there.

I had enticed an acquaintance from Antigua to drive for me, as I’m fairly certain that my one week’s experience driving manual plus a highway full of Guatemalan drivers would equal certain death for all involved. A trip to Laguna Lachua was the selling point. I also had a new intern to orient. What better way to start a 2-month internship in the middle of absolutely nowhere, Alta Verapaz than with a visit to one of the best-kept secrets in Guatemala?

Parque Nacional Laguna Lachua is located in the heart of eco-region Lachua, known for being exceptionally biodiverse- the park and surrounding forest are home to 50% of all mammal species and 40% of bird species found in the country. Despite it’s ecological significance, it’s surprisingly hard to find information about visiting the park.

The distance and travel time make it one of the less popular destinations for short-term visitors to Guatemala, but its relative isolation helps to preserve the tranquility and unspoiled nature of the park. However, it also means that there’s not a whole lot of information out there regarding how to best plan a visit to the park. For those just looking for that info, jump to the bottom now. For those looking for a more narrative experience, welcome aboard!

On Sunday morning, we hopped on the Transversal Norte and drove towards the entrance of the park. After handing over Q25 for parking to the son of a family who rents out their yard for overnight visitors, we filled out a series of forms at the registration desk and were treated to a brief chat (preemptive scold) about safety, sustainability, and park rules.

Laguna Lachua is about a 4km, or 45-60 minute, walk into the jungle from the entrance of the park. It’s an easy hike with paths clearly marked, even in sticky mid-day heat. The flora is impressive- massive palms arching over the path; vines hanging from caoba trees; clear streams running beneath your feet- this is the jungle in all it’s glory. 

Bugs buzzing, howler monkeys screeching (dementors, anyone?), frogs making their bizarre jungle-frog sounds (sidenote: I spent an entire night at Ramiro’s mad at whichever teenage son wouldn’t turn his cell phone alarm off only to learn that it was in fact a frog)... whether flora or fauna is your thing, Lachua does not disappoint.

The dark rich dirt turns to sand as you near the end, heralding your arrival at the lake. The first dock, at km 3, is just a teaser. Take it in, but keep going. The main attraction is far more impressive. After 1 more kilometer, the path opens up into a grassy field with changing stalls, composting toilets, and an area for camping and churrascos. Yes friends, there are churrasquerias in the park. Bring. Meat. 

Between the composting latrines and the changing stalls on the right, a singular long dock leads through the trees and straight out to the lake, ending at a line of underwater volcanic rock formations that ring the tiny shoreline, heralding the beginning of the deeper water. Smaller docks stretch off to the left, to an open-air gazebo where lake-goers can hang out between dips in the lake, and to the right, behind the big cabana/gazebo located just before the end of the main dock. 

And the water. Impossibly turquoise, just cool enough to be refreshing after a 4km hike but far more ‘bathwater’ than ‘bucket shower,’ underscored by white sand and lined by dense palms and brush all around, the shoreline has a distinctly Caribbean feel. Glassy and darker in the morning, it brightens to almost luminescence by noon, and remains that way until reflecting the distinct pink and blue hues of the sunset around 6:30pm.

Park officials warn that swimming is not permitted more than 50 meters past the shore due to the abundance of crocodiles that call Laguna Lachua home. What they fail to warn you about is the hundreds of little fish of varying species that meander around the shoreline in little schools that have yet to learn how far down they are on the food chain and will nip at your legs and feet if you stop moving for too long. Swimming with them feels being followed around by a 3 year old who just discovered pinching yesterday- annoying, but certainly not dangerous.

We took a long, lazy dip in the lake before going to see our rooms. The park has a bungalow with about 6 single and double rooms with extremely comfortable beds (we’re talking REAL mattresses, guys!) and mosquito nets. The bungalow is as well run as the park- a stern though friendly gentleman will remind you to remove your shoes before going up the stairs, to dry off before entering your room, and not to stomp up the stairs too loudly. 

After a solid 3 days of work in the oppressive, sticky Santa Lucía heat, 3 nights of sleeping in my camping hammock, our 4 kilometer hike and an hour in the lake, I took a nap in that cabin like no nap I’ve ever taken before. The only thing that got me off it three hours later was the promise of another swim and the chance to see the sun set over Lachua.

The sunset was as beautiful as the following morning’s sunrise, and despite getting yelled at by our next door ‘neighbors’ for laughing a little too loudly a little too late, by 8am I felt like a whole new woman. The restorative waters had done their trick; I was ready to get back to work with a vengeance... Even though I would have loved to have spent another day in the water playing Little Mermaid.

DEFINITIVE GUIDE TO PARQUE NACIONAL LAGUNA LACHUA (LACHUA LAKE AND NATIONAL PARK)

When to go

March through May is the very warm, very sunny dry season, making it a great time to visit. June through November is rainy season, and December through February can get downright chilly (pack warm!). Weekdays are quieter; the weekends bring scores of Guatemalan families for day trips. 

What to bring

decent shoes (hiking) 

sandals (lakeside)

bathingsuit and towel

Bugspray and sunscreen 

Camping equipment (if needed)

FOOD! There is no food or water sold in the park, and very little sold around it.

NOTE ON FOOD: There’s an ample kitchen next to the cabin and multiple churrasquerías available in the camping area. If you’re interested in getting meat and veggies for churrasco (which you should because it’s pretty much the most magical thing ever after a long hot day in the sun and water), buy some in Cobán or head to the nearest mercado in Playa Grande/Ixcan before going to the park. Just stay on the microbus past Lachua for another 45 minutes until it reaches Ixcan. Once you’ve made your purchases, go to the main strip in front of Banrural and ask one the waiting microbuses which one goes back to Lachua. 

If you’re staying in the cabin, your needs are minimal- sheets and mosquito nets are provided and unless you’re visiting between December and February when temps dip a little lower, the sheet will be sufficient.

How to get there

Whether Guate or Antigua is your jumping-off point, all roads to Lachua pass through Cobán (unless you’re coming from the north, that is). I’ve made both treks alone multiple times as a solo female traveler with no incidents to date.

-From Antigua: take any private shuttle to Cobán (Q150-200/$20-25, 5-6 hrs). Ask the driver to drop you off at Estación del Norte, the small public microbus station on the north side of the city. 

-From Guatemala City to Laguna Lachua: The Monja Blanca is the most comfortable, economical option around (Q50-Q65/$6.50-$8.50), with the priciest offering roomy cushioned seats and a bathroom on-board. The bus drops you off directly in front of Estación del Norte. Visit http://www.cobanav.net/bus.php for schedules and station info.

From Estación del Norte (in Cobán): Just say the word “Lachua” to any of the men eagerly waiting to take your bags and follow them to the correct microbus. If you’re more of a Do-It-Yourselfer, look for a bus that says Playa Grande/Ixcan, and tell the driver your destination (Q50/$6.50; 3.5 hrs). The microbus drops you off directly in front of the park entrance.

Getting In/Staying (Prices):

Park Entry- Q10/$1.30 for residents, Q50/$6.50 for foreigners

Cabin- beds are roughly Q20/$2.50 for residents, Q40/$5.50 for foreigners

Camping- by far the most economical option! Q10/$1.30 for residents, Q20/$2.50 for foreigners

Note: dollar conversations provided for reference only - dollars are not accepted at the park

Around Lachua

Although accommodations are hard to come by and the tourist industry is pretty much non-existent as of yet, it's worth hanging out in the area for a few days if you can arrange it. This is deep in the heart of Maya  country, as far from the backpacker trail as you can get- Q'eqchi' is the primary language spoken and most communities surrounding the park remain without water, electricity, or even road access. 

Aside from countless beautiful little pueblos set amid lush green fields and tropical forests, there are a number of impressive caves, several clear rivers fed by Lachua to swim in, and an ancient Mayan city and salt production site from approximately 100-200 AD under active excavation nearby. 

ADAWA now offers home stays in Santa Lucía (the last town before the park) for tourists and volunteers, which to my knowledge is the only accommodation of its type for several hours each way. If you're interested in extending your stay around Lachua, email adawa.gt@gmail.com for more information. 

A Mother's Day Confession

Happy Mother’s Day!

Confession: I am terrified, absolutely sh*t scared, at the thought of ever becoming a mother.

There is this common misconception about me, fueled by thousands of pictures of me cradling tiny infants in my arms, that I am dying to have children. That I need to be a mother. That there is this empty space within me that can only be filled with a child of my own.

7 years ago, that may have been true. I loved children. I had dedicated myself to working with them; had professionally committed myself to nurturing and supporting them. I could think of no greater joy than someday having my own.

...And then I began to work with moms.

What puts me off of motherhood is not that mothers are chronically exhausted. It is not that they have a tremendous amount of things to do while simultaneously caring for a small human being who seems bent on its own destruction. It is not the diapers, or the tantrums, or the atrocious teenage attitude (sorry, Mom!). It is not the 24 hour schedule or lack of appreciation that so many internet campaigns and mommy blogs decry that frightens me.

It is the pain I have seen on the faces of mothers when a hurt beyond their control befalls their child and they can do nothing to stop it. It is the acute realization of how woefully little say I will have in what happens to this tiny being that means more to me than any words could possibly explain.

Though I do not know their faces, I love my future children so much; these unborn, protected, beautiful shining beacons of innocence and potential floating somewhere in the ether, waiting for their moment of self-actualization when they will take form and be named and begin trudging uphill alongside the rest of us in this overwhelmingly beautiful and awful journey that is existence.

I love them so much that I want to keep them where they are simply because I can keep them safe there. 

Say what you will about the joys of holding your baby in your arms. I’m not yet confident in my ability to survive the experience of spending the remainder of my life with my heart walking around outside of my chest on its own two legs with a strong-willed and defiant (if maternal temperatment is any indicator) mind of its own.

I am terrified to be a mother because I don’t know if I can handle that, and am perpetually in awe of any woman who can. Mothers wake up every day, love something outside of themselves beyond measure, and manage to muddle through hours of work or housework or errands without having a full-blown panic attack over whether or not their little one (or big one) is going to survive another day.

Admittedly, the past few years have been a little tough for me, as a woman and future mother. Beautiful, rewarding, enlightening, but tough. I loved and let go of the most amazing little person I’ve ever met. I’ve worked with moms going through the kinds of maternal hell most of us shudder at the very thought of. I’ve said goodbye to little babies I loved very much, knowing that the pain I felt at their loss was negligible compared to the pain their loving mothers felt. 

If I seem overly focused on the ‘worst case scenarios’ of motherhood, it’s because I’ve been deeply affected by seeing them played out by characters I’ve come to know and love. Motherhood is beautiful, but fundamentally terrifying.

So rock on, moms. Each and every one of you is far tougher and stronger than I. I will continue loving your children and being a part of the ‘village’ that nurtures them; laughing with you at their adorable antics, celebrating their accomplishments both big and small, and sharing in your sadness and pain when life is hard, or cruel, or unfair to them.

And to my own mom, who not only nurtured me when I was teeny-tiny but stayed strong for me throughout my own years of sickness, pain, and self-destruction; who spent countless nights sleeping beside me to make me feel safe, secure and loved; who took time off of work and drove hours each day for months at a time to get me the care I needed to get through my darkest days; who bore so much pain in birthing and raising me and worrying about me, only to have me grow up and give her more grief and worry by stubbornly moving thousands of miles away to follow my dreams- thank you. 

Today and every day, I have nothing but respect and admiration for you all.

Love is Hard

Beto at Casa Jackson, 2012.
Photo ©Joseph Labelle

 In the midst of a busy Tuesday morning at Casa Jackson, the doorbell rings. Half-sitting, half-standing at the computer, I am sifting through a pile of to-do lists, community nutrition education materials, and volunteer applications when I realize that I should probably let whatever parent or visitor has arrived inside.

I walk briskly to the door, opening it with my standard “Yes I am a foreigner, please don’t be frightened, your children are safe here” smile and soft-spoken Hello, welcome, please come in. 

A petite knob-nosed woman, clad in flip-flops and a worn, stained tee-shirt over her patterned skirt steps inside. With civility, warmth, and almost flourish, she introduces herself and her companion. As she speaks, a vague memory of this face resurfaces.

Good morning, I’m the mother of Alberto, and this is his aunt. I am here to visit my son.

So many emotions are rocking me, I don’t even know which to go about hiding first. I take a deep breath, smile a little too widely, and greet her enthusiastically.

How wonderful that you’re here! He’s growing very well... a very smart and beautiful little boy. Please, come in, come in.

As I feel my mouth move around these words, my heart drops to my gut and I feel it pulsing and throbbing there. An inner protest begins to mount, quietly at first, until it crescendos to the pitch, volume, and frequency with which my little Beto, her little Beto, the two-foot-tall miracle at the center of it all, demands my attention whenever I need to speak to a tour group or important guest... no no no no no NO NONONONONONONONO. 

I want to cry. 

******************

In the year that I have been with my little boy, I have only once met this woman. She comes to Antigua weekly for a food distribution, only ten minutes down the road. She does not visit him; she does not call. His father, during Beto’s intake, informed the nurses that ‘If he dies, he dies. We’ve got other ones.’

Beto’s older brother died in Casa Jackson a year before he was admitted, 6 months younger yet weighing still more than Beto did upon on arrival. There are now three children, including Beto, left. I wonder how many he would have to lose before their individual lives begin to hold value.

His parents informed the hospital months ago that they don’t want to take Beto home. ‘You can keep him,’ they say. They do not try to explain or justify their choice. They simply let us know he is ours to care for now.

Two weeks ago, the nurses asked me if I will take Beto in when he leaves the hospital. I am scared; I am overwhelmed. I am unsure if I am ready for such a big step. The association’s lawyer assures me they will help work out the legal issues surrounding him being placed in foster care with me. 

I have said yes. I am scared, but I am happier than I have ever been. It is a new level, a different plane of joy. I am realistic about the sacrifices and challenges ahead. There is nothing I wouldn’t give up to keep this little boy safe, happy, and loved forever. 

Beto and I talk often about the fun we’ll have soon, when he can leave the hospital and come home with me as he begs to do each evening. We make plans together. He asks me if he’ll have to come back to the hospital to sleep. I tell him no. His face lights up and he squeals in delight. He wants Elmo pajamas, and bubbles, and to eat chicken soup with rice for dinner. He has asked for bedtime stories, and crayons, and to ride in a car from time to time. He wants to go to the zoo. 

******************

As his mother and aunt dress themselves in the requisite hospital top and surgical mask, I rapidly ascend the stairs. I find Alberto on the third floor, playing with a new volunteer. He is standing, digging through a toybox, and as he turns, I have the joy of watching his face at the moment he realizes I’ve arrived. He shouts my name and shuffles over to me in his pink pants and tiny Crocs, arms outstretched, giggling.

In one quick motion, I lean down, pick him up, and smother him with hugs and kisses in my arms. 'Good morning, sweetheart! I love you!'

We greet each other as we do each and every day; gleefully and without abandon, relishing those brief moments each day where we belong to each other, and only each other, before babies must be fed or diapers changed, before scheduling or emails or program planning steals me from us.

I kiss his nose and forehead repeatedly as I try desperately to feign happiness and excitement. He hasn’t seen her in so long. Will he remember her? Will he be nervous to go to her? Will he choose her over me?

I grapple with a rising jealousy; a fear that for how inseparable we are, for how he sees me as “his;” for how his sun rises and sets over my shoulder; for all of that, I fear that he will be thrilled to see her. That he will cry when she leaves as hard as he cries when I leave. That when she leaves, he will repeat her name as he does mine: 'Amy Amy Mama Amy Mama Amy...' 

I may be his mama, but I am not and will never be his mother. I cannot fight biology. I love him beyond measure, but it is not my love or my body that brought this shining little light into existence.

How much easier this love is when it’s just the two of us, the other babies, and my humble little staff of nurses and volunteers. It hurts then, but not to this depth. 

It hurts to hear him cry as I sit in my office, knowing that he wants only my arms to comfort him, torn between the ‘greater good‘ of completing whichever priority on the current mountain of tasks must be done for the day and the good that is most crucial to me- that of his comfort. Of his well-being. 

It hurts to leave him behind each day, to eat dinner alone, wishing only that I could make him a grilled cheese cut into hearts for supper before giving him a long bath in which he can splash and play, and then tucking him into bed and reading his favorite books. It all hurts... But this, this is new.

'Beto, your mom is here to see you. How fun! You’re going to play with your mom... You’re going to say ‘hi mama!’ and give her a big hug. Are you excited?'

My heart begins to criss-cross with hairline fractures as I watch my little boy processing this news. He is not happy. He is not sad. He is quiet and somber, and peers quite seriously and intently into my eyes as he slowly nods. I pull him to me again and rest my lips on the top of his head, square in the center of a whorl of soft jet black hair, pressing down the cowlick that persistently pops up after bath-time.

I walk down the stairs with him. As we round the corner of the stairwell, his mother is ascending from the first floor. We come face to face. I smile and give Alberto one final, reassuring squeeze before passing him to her, arms open, awaiting this child that is rightfully hers. Alberto looks quizzically at me as he goes to her, but does not resist, and in that moment I know he remembers.

She holds him at her hip, facing her, and he stares up at her with his Very Serious Face.  He is not speaking. He is not smiling. I feel like I’m gripping a live wire with both hands, tension coursing through my body. I am sick. I need to step away before I give in to the urge to rip him from her arms and sob desperately 'mine mine mine.' 

I go to the laundry room and begin putting away a basket of clothing, taking deep breaths as I fold bibs and onesies and tiny sweaters for premature babies. I feel indescribably guilty. This woman, this poor woman who has faced more hardship in her life than I can ever begin to understand, it is this woman who I want to edge out of her own child’s life- for his safety, to be sure, but still... As a woman, a future mother, a human being, we are too close now. She is not That Woman Who Almost Let Him Die and Has Abandoned Him... no, she is, once again, his mother.

And me, who am I? Who am I to bear this massive responsibility; this right to say which poor, uneducated parents deserve to keep their child and which do not? A young foreigner, not even a parent myself, who tries desperately but will never truly grasp the suffering my patients’ mothers have endured. As I pair tiny socks, I begin to drown in the shame of my own righteousness.

I hear footsteps behind me, and before I see or hear him, I know he is in her arms, looking for me. I turn and see his thin arm outstretched, index finger pointed at me, face growing more desperate. He is seconds away from crying. His mother walks towards me, irritated. I put my hand up to his cheek and he grabs it with both hands, entwining his fingers with mine, and pulls me towards him.

'Beto, it’s time to play with your mother... I’ll be here after, I promise. It’s time to visit with her now. We’ll play together later, sweetheart, later.'

It is not his tears or his cries that ruin me in this moment. It is the way he clings to my hands, clawing at them as I free one finger at a time, only to find another trapped in his tiny hand.

It is the look on his face; this confused, sad, desperate look. It is the pain I see in his eyes, the betrayal he feels right now. I am his security blanket, his comfort... and I am walking away. 

He is staring at me with wild eyes sobbing, arms outstretched, calling to me- ‘mama amy mama amy amy mama.’ 

I smile and apologize to his mother.

I go downstairs, sit in my office and pretend to work. I pull up documents and schedules and to-do lists and I try to make sense of them. I am emotionally dizzy, spinning with this horrible heartache and these empty arms and this sickening guilt and shame and the rising fear that she is here to take him home. 

I am not a ‘believer.’ I find myself praying for the first time in years. Dear God, don’t take this child, don’t let this child die like his brother, don’t take him from me...

An hour after arriving, she leaves. I hear the heavy door click shut behind her and walk up the stairs to find Beto sitting on the mat in front of the nurse's station, a blank stare on his face. He looks at me as I kneel down in front of him.

He crawls onto my lap, wraps his arms around my neck, and sighs one word onto my chest. 

'Mama.'

Beto celebrating his 3rd birthday at Casa Jackson, 15 months after arriving near-death.