On the way to Monterrico- through the mangrove in a boat.
Sunset on the beach.This weekend I was lucky enough to get to travel to Monterrico, Santa Rosa for our Oriente welcome party. About twenty volunteers gathered to enjoy the beautiful black sand beach on the Pacific Ocean. Although the trip ended up taking a little longer than expected (like everything in Guatemala, I don't know why I'm surprised!), it was definitely worth it. It's kind of strange to me that I can practically freeze my toes off in the morning waiting for the bus, and then sink them into scalding sand in the afternoon. What a beautiful, varied country I live in!
Unfortunately there was a bit of a dark shadow cast on my weekend by an accident on Thursday: my 20 year old neighbor Jorge fell out of the back of a truck and was rushed to the hospital in Cuilapa. I was worried about him, but didn't have much information until my host mom called me on Saturday morning to say that he couldn't see, wasn't very coherent, and that part of his skull was broken. I knew that the news was probably already 3rd or 4th hand, and that probably very little of it was medically based. But I immediately began to think of the possibilities: coma, paralysis, mental handicapping... Jorge has been a great friend to me ever since my arrival, always greeting me with a smile and a joke. He helped me flip the tires for my garden, and has been a stellar student in my English class. Upon first moving here, I figured that with the general taboo on male female relationships, I would be limited to female friends. Jorge and his brothers have been the few exceptions to that rule.
So anyways, I was quite worried when I heard the news. Sunday I stopped in Cuilapa (it's in between Monterrico and Soledad Grande) to see if I could visit Jorge at the hospital. There I met my host mom, Jorge's parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends, about twenty people at all. I'm afraid that the telling of this experience might be a bit lengthy, but bear with me...
Visiting hours start at 1pm, so by 12:30 there was already a crowd of about 300 people milling around the hospital entrance in the steaming midday heat. Visits are allowed only from 1-2pm on Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday, so people show up early to take advantage of every last minute. The closer it got to 1pm, the more people began jostling each other, trying to get closer to the entrance. Men and boys shoved through the crowd, hawking bags of water, hard candy, and ice cream cones. Suddenly the crowd surged forward as the doors were opened, and a pair of armed guards yelled for everyone to please be cooperative, to form a line. Nobody paid any attention whatsoever, and I felt myself being propelled up the stairs. One old lady grabbed my waist and tried to shove me out of her way. "These people are crazy!" I thought to myself as I grabbed the door frame to keep from getting knocked over. Finally I was inside, and breathed a sigh of relief as a wave of cool air rushed over me.
Already I knew this hospital visit would be nothing like any other I'd ever made, but the fact was emphasized as I picked my way through the crowd of sticky young children being left at the entrance. No children under 15 are allowed in the hospital. I had no idea where to go and had lost sight of my fellow Soledadtecos, so I let myself be shoved and pushed up the stairs, down a long hall, and into the trauma unit, where Jorge was. A half wall blocked our entrance to a huge hospital ward, and everyone gave a collective sigh of exasperation as we were told to wait until the patients finished their lunches.
Finally a lady pushed out a cart of trays and lunch scraps, the door was opened, and the multitudes flooded into the strangest hospital scene that I'd ever seen. I felt as though I'd been transported back in time to the 1950s. Large homemade signs with bubble letters proclaimed that we were in the men's trauma unit. Decorations from a father's day past hung limply on the walls, which at one time must have been white, but were now yellowed, chipped, and stained. The ward was divided by half walls into six smaller wards, each with 8 beds. Jorge was in the first, lying on a lumpy bed with mismatched sheets, no pillow. Shirtless, he looked incredibly frail and tiny. He's probably a head shorter than me, and like most Guatemalan men in my village he's very slender. Yet due to his vibrant personality, I'd never thought of him as small before. At first glance, he looked terrible- both eyes puffy, black and blue, one swollen all the way shut. His face covered with cuts and bruises.
One by one, everybody began to shuffle to the bed, hugging him, holding his hand, whispering words of encouragement, or perhaps dispair. Despite looking terrible, I saw that he greeted everyone(phew! he's not in a coma), and that soon he was making jokes and laughing(phew! he's still Jorge). He seemed to have full function of his arms and legs (phew! he's not paralyzed). Yet watching everyone's teary greetings was getting to be too much for me. I looked around the ward to distract myself. "Please do not hug, touch, or kiss the patients" read a yellowed sign. Hmmm. maybe they did away with that rule. "Please keep face mask over mouth during your entire visit" read another. Not a mask in sight.
A few nurses bustled about, a few men in white coats, presumably doctors. But with no name tags in sight, who knows. A cart of syringes, needles and bandages rolled by. Instead of the typical bright red biohazardous waste container, sharps were tossed into an empty 2 L water bottle. Hmm. An armed police officer walked by, hands on hips, surveying the crowd for trouble makers. Two heavy men stopped in front of me in matching polo shirts, conferring between themselves. "Funerales Moreira #2" read the shirts, listing an address and phone number and declaring their funeral services available 24 hours a day. I guess just in case someone where to die on the spot? Somehow that seemed inappropriate...
Suddenly it seemed that the temperature in the room had risen 10 degrees since we had entered, and my eyes were drawn to the yellowed curtains hanging limply in front of an open window. Guess there wasn't any air conditioning after all. Imagine being in a hospital with no air conditioning in August in South Carolina, and you'll know how it felt.
I realized that just about everybody had talked to Jorge, so I maneuvered myself to the foot of his bed. Johnny, our tough 14 year old neighbor, stoically greeted Jorge, but as soon as he walked away began snuffling into his bandanna. Oh jeez. Even Johnny is crying? I don't know if I can do this... But suddenly Margarita, Jorge's mother was motioning to me
"Jorge, es seño Libby", she said.
"Hola Jorge, good afternoon" I said to him.
"Good night" he said, pulling me in for a hug. Well at least he still remembered something I taught him.
"Como esta?" I asked stupidly, of course he's not ok.
"Ay Libby, yo creo que me hice pura chatarra" he replied- I'm afraid I've been turned into pure junk. In a rush I assured him that it's not true, but he said "Pero de veras, como me ve?"- really, how do I look? I stalled for a moment, taking in the grotesquely swollen shut eye, which trickles a bit of blood as he smiles.
"Bien guapo, como siempre" I reassured him. Just as handsome as ever. I told him that my church family is praying for him, and that I'm so happy to see him smiling and joking. I mumbled something else about how I'll be praying for him, how glad I am that he's already doing better, and give him another hug.
I moved away from the bed, to the outskirts of Jorge's entourage, and found myself next to his younger brother, Giovanni, whose eyes are red from crying. I absentmindedly rested my hand on the foot of the bed behind me, then jerked my hand away as my fingers stuck to a piece of forgotten gum. A husky man in the next bed over was talking to his teenage son, and I saw them both grin as they stared at me. I guess I'll always be entertaining, no matter where I go. I sighed and glanced upwards, noting that the florescent lights are full of flies. Suddenly a voice came over the PA system, announcing that visiting hours are over and asking everyone to please leave. Nobody moved, so the police officer began singling people out and getting a movement started towards the door.
I walked out of the hospital with my host mother and her sister, down a rocky, uneven path to a snack stand where they bought snacks. Our group slowly reassembled in twos and threes, munching on 12 cent bags of chips and sipping cheap sodas. Nine of us piled into a Ford Explorer, another 15 or so into a Toyota Tacoma. And so the outing ended like any other.
All in all, I'm relieved. Jorge looks much better than I expected. I should have known not to let myself get blown away by the sensationalistic way that Guatemalans tend to talk about any misfortune. In general they love talking about terrible, gruesome events, not because they lack respect, but just because they do. For those of you who pray, I'd ask that you do so for Jorge's continued recovery. Tomorrow he's going to have some kind of head surgery at 7am. After my short visit to the hospital, I'd never wish upon anybody that they need to receive any medical procedure there, much less surgery . The utter chaos and the filthy, unprofessional air of the hospital really amazed and scared me. But I guess that's public health care in Guatemala for you...
Unfortunately there was a bit of a dark shadow cast on my weekend by an accident on Thursday: my 20 year old neighbor Jorge fell out of the back of a truck and was rushed to the hospital in Cuilapa. I was worried about him, but didn't have much information until my host mom called me on Saturday morning to say that he couldn't see, wasn't very coherent, and that part of his skull was broken. I knew that the news was probably already 3rd or 4th hand, and that probably very little of it was medically based. But I immediately began to think of the possibilities: coma, paralysis, mental handicapping... Jorge has been a great friend to me ever since my arrival, always greeting me with a smile and a joke. He helped me flip the tires for my garden, and has been a stellar student in my English class. Upon first moving here, I figured that with the general taboo on male female relationships, I would be limited to female friends. Jorge and his brothers have been the few exceptions to that rule.
So anyways, I was quite worried when I heard the news. Sunday I stopped in Cuilapa (it's in between Monterrico and Soledad Grande) to see if I could visit Jorge at the hospital. There I met my host mom, Jorge's parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends, about twenty people at all. I'm afraid that the telling of this experience might be a bit lengthy, but bear with me...
Visiting hours start at 1pm, so by 12:30 there was already a crowd of about 300 people milling around the hospital entrance in the steaming midday heat. Visits are allowed only from 1-2pm on Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday, so people show up early to take advantage of every last minute. The closer it got to 1pm, the more people began jostling each other, trying to get closer to the entrance. Men and boys shoved through the crowd, hawking bags of water, hard candy, and ice cream cones. Suddenly the crowd surged forward as the doors were opened, and a pair of armed guards yelled for everyone to please be cooperative, to form a line. Nobody paid any attention whatsoever, and I felt myself being propelled up the stairs. One old lady grabbed my waist and tried to shove me out of her way. "These people are crazy!" I thought to myself as I grabbed the door frame to keep from getting knocked over. Finally I was inside, and breathed a sigh of relief as a wave of cool air rushed over me.
Already I knew this hospital visit would be nothing like any other I'd ever made, but the fact was emphasized as I picked my way through the crowd of sticky young children being left at the entrance. No children under 15 are allowed in the hospital. I had no idea where to go and had lost sight of my fellow Soledadtecos, so I let myself be shoved and pushed up the stairs, down a long hall, and into the trauma unit, where Jorge was. A half wall blocked our entrance to a huge hospital ward, and everyone gave a collective sigh of exasperation as we were told to wait until the patients finished their lunches.
Finally a lady pushed out a cart of trays and lunch scraps, the door was opened, and the multitudes flooded into the strangest hospital scene that I'd ever seen. I felt as though I'd been transported back in time to the 1950s. Large homemade signs with bubble letters proclaimed that we were in the men's trauma unit. Decorations from a father's day past hung limply on the walls, which at one time must have been white, but were now yellowed, chipped, and stained. The ward was divided by half walls into six smaller wards, each with 8 beds. Jorge was in the first, lying on a lumpy bed with mismatched sheets, no pillow. Shirtless, he looked incredibly frail and tiny. He's probably a head shorter than me, and like most Guatemalan men in my village he's very slender. Yet due to his vibrant personality, I'd never thought of him as small before. At first glance, he looked terrible- both eyes puffy, black and blue, one swollen all the way shut. His face covered with cuts and bruises.
One by one, everybody began to shuffle to the bed, hugging him, holding his hand, whispering words of encouragement, or perhaps dispair. Despite looking terrible, I saw that he greeted everyone(phew! he's not in a coma), and that soon he was making jokes and laughing(phew! he's still Jorge). He seemed to have full function of his arms and legs (phew! he's not paralyzed). Yet watching everyone's teary greetings was getting to be too much for me. I looked around the ward to distract myself. "Please do not hug, touch, or kiss the patients" read a yellowed sign. Hmmm. maybe they did away with that rule. "Please keep face mask over mouth during your entire visit" read another. Not a mask in sight.
A few nurses bustled about, a few men in white coats, presumably doctors. But with no name tags in sight, who knows. A cart of syringes, needles and bandages rolled by. Instead of the typical bright red biohazardous waste container, sharps were tossed into an empty 2 L water bottle. Hmm. An armed police officer walked by, hands on hips, surveying the crowd for trouble makers. Two heavy men stopped in front of me in matching polo shirts, conferring between themselves. "Funerales Moreira #2" read the shirts, listing an address and phone number and declaring their funeral services available 24 hours a day. I guess just in case someone where to die on the spot? Somehow that seemed inappropriate...
Suddenly it seemed that the temperature in the room had risen 10 degrees since we had entered, and my eyes were drawn to the yellowed curtains hanging limply in front of an open window. Guess there wasn't any air conditioning after all. Imagine being in a hospital with no air conditioning in August in South Carolina, and you'll know how it felt.
I realized that just about everybody had talked to Jorge, so I maneuvered myself to the foot of his bed. Johnny, our tough 14 year old neighbor, stoically greeted Jorge, but as soon as he walked away began snuffling into his bandanna. Oh jeez. Even Johnny is crying? I don't know if I can do this... But suddenly Margarita, Jorge's mother was motioning to me
"Jorge, es seño Libby", she said.
"Hola Jorge, good afternoon" I said to him.
"Good night" he said, pulling me in for a hug. Well at least he still remembered something I taught him.
"Como esta?" I asked stupidly, of course he's not ok.
"Ay Libby, yo creo que me hice pura chatarra" he replied- I'm afraid I've been turned into pure junk. In a rush I assured him that it's not true, but he said "Pero de veras, como me ve?"- really, how do I look? I stalled for a moment, taking in the grotesquely swollen shut eye, which trickles a bit of blood as he smiles.
"Bien guapo, como siempre" I reassured him. Just as handsome as ever. I told him that my church family is praying for him, and that I'm so happy to see him smiling and joking. I mumbled something else about how I'll be praying for him, how glad I am that he's already doing better, and give him another hug.
I moved away from the bed, to the outskirts of Jorge's entourage, and found myself next to his younger brother, Giovanni, whose eyes are red from crying. I absentmindedly rested my hand on the foot of the bed behind me, then jerked my hand away as my fingers stuck to a piece of forgotten gum. A husky man in the next bed over was talking to his teenage son, and I saw them both grin as they stared at me. I guess I'll always be entertaining, no matter where I go. I sighed and glanced upwards, noting that the florescent lights are full of flies. Suddenly a voice came over the PA system, announcing that visiting hours are over and asking everyone to please leave. Nobody moved, so the police officer began singling people out and getting a movement started towards the door.
I walked out of the hospital with my host mother and her sister, down a rocky, uneven path to a snack stand where they bought snacks. Our group slowly reassembled in twos and threes, munching on 12 cent bags of chips and sipping cheap sodas. Nine of us piled into a Ford Explorer, another 15 or so into a Toyota Tacoma. And so the outing ended like any other.
All in all, I'm relieved. Jorge looks much better than I expected. I should have known not to let myself get blown away by the sensationalistic way that Guatemalans tend to talk about any misfortune. In general they love talking about terrible, gruesome events, not because they lack respect, but just because they do. For those of you who pray, I'd ask that you do so for Jorge's continued recovery. Tomorrow he's going to have some kind of head surgery at 7am. After my short visit to the hospital, I'd never wish upon anybody that they need to receive any medical procedure there, much less surgery . The utter chaos and the filthy, unprofessional air of the hospital really amazed and scared me. But I guess that's public health care in Guatemala for you...
0 comments:
Post a Comment