¿Comò te llama? ¿Cuántos años tiene?

May 27, 2008

Hungry and not wanting to cook, I used speed dial to order a pizza at Gondolier’s, a local Italian restaurant. I like Gondolier’s because they give customers a second free same-size pizza and they aren’t a national chain. Their pizzas are cooked in a brick oven and they taste delicious. Upon walking into the restaurant, I noticed a man cooking the pizzas behind the oven. As the cashier rang up my order, the man turned toward me and the fluorescent-colored stitching on his cap suddenly blinded me with what it said: Guatemala. He looked like he could be from the Latin America country. We politely exchanged smiles. Suddenly, my mind grabbed me and took me back in time to a trip I had taken when I was twenty-two.

Flashback. The small, wooden shack hardly looked official enough to be the place where passports were checked. I stood in line, showed the man my passport, smiled a forced smile and waited for his instructions. After reviewing the documents, he, too, forced a smile and let me proceed out the back end of the shack. A sign marked the Guatemala borderline. I waited for the rest of my friends to pass through the Belize side of the shack. I began small talk with some of the transients hanging around the border and quickly learned that a week earlier twelve prisoners had escaped a nearby jail. None had been captured. I began to notice the Spanish equivalent of “WANTED” flyers hung on telephone poles and snack stalls. According to those I spoke with, these were the “worst of the worst” prisoners who were kept in maximum security. I glanced over at the border sign, “Bienvenido a Guatemala.”

I was in the Latin American country for two weeks to set up and administer medical clinics in the Pèten region. We’d be leaving the small town of Flores and setting our sights on a few remote villages that the organization I was working with had just installed with water filtration pumps. From Flores it would be a two-hour drive to the San Pedro River, where we would take a three-hour boat ride into the jungle. Our team, plus three Guatemalan doctors, would be administering a basic medical clinic and a lice clinic. I had no idea what was in store in those villages, except what precautions the doctors had briefly gone over with us.

We left the next morning, early, while it was still dark. The bus ride was uneventful but the boat ride was not to be the same. The muddy brown color of the water was warm to the touch in the early morning hours. We took off and about twenty minutes from where we boarded, signs of civilization were scarce. Fishermen would swing their big nets out, quickly pulling the cord to snare the fish. Or, whatever else was under the surface. Howler monkeys were soon spotted and, boy, did they look big. I had a moment watching the them swinging from the ceiba trees where it felt like Jeff Corwin or Jack Hanna were going to jump out in khaki shorts and start talking about their diet, habitat or offspring. Our “captain” turned the motor off and let us watch for a few minutes as the monkeys screamed back and forth. It was amazing.

We continued on for an hour or so and stopped at a small Mayan temple near the banks of the river. This was also the one and only opportunity to use the “bathroom.” The ruins were complete with stairs leading up to a second story. There was a ceremonial stelea, or sacrifice stone, where Mayans would bind the feet and hands of one of their own and kill them. It is likely that the inhabitants of this small community can be traced back to around 4^th century B.C., like most of the Mayan ruins in Guatemala. It was an eerie place, yet fascinating to think a group of people lived their lives in that place thousands of years ago. Our first village was nearby and an opportunity to get some shade was a welcoming thought. As our boat turned the corner and our captain slowed the engine, I began to see people. No, animals. No, people and animals together near the riverbanks. As we got closer, I could see horses, cows, and pigs in the river with the men, women, and children of the village. These villagers and the others we would visit were from a group of people known as the Quiché Indians. As they saw us and realized we were planning to dock near them, their excitement increased with clapping, cheering, and rough play. We had arrived and were welcomed by all.

There were probably 1,000 people in this village. All with dark, smooth skin and round, warm eyes. We met with the village elders, had lunch with them and played with the children who peered into the thatched hut as we ate. Giggles, whispering, and more giggles ensued. Many of the children were very young — under two, I’d say. All barefoot and with the swollen stomachs that I had only seen in TV documentaries on Africa. Their big bellies were hard, a result of malnutrition or contaminated water. Their hair, for the most part, was a rusty red color. Not the jet-black of many of the inhabitants of Flores that we had seen before we left. Again, a result of malnutrition or contaminated water. Before I knew it, it was evening and we set up our tent and went to bed to the sound of animals, giggles and a thunderstorm rolling in the distance.

I knew my job was not going to involve assisting the doctors in the medical clinic. No, I was going to work in triage. Our team set up the clinic in a small community building made of logs and palms tied together with string. I would be the first person patients would see as they entered. Although I didn’t speak a lick of Spanish, besides numbers 1 through 20 and “Hola,” I would be their first person of contact. I quickly was told what to ask upon patients’ arrival: “¿Comò te llama?” and “¿Cuántos años tiene?” I was instructed to write down their name and symptom on a legal pad one of the doctors gave me. How was I going to understand ailments, let alone ages higher than 20?

A long line had already formed outside. I began to feel twinges of inadequacy, big time. Patients answered my questions with snickers, full-out laughing and private conversations with the people near them. Oh great. At least most of them could either point to where their pain was and I was able to pick up some key words in Spanish for things like “pregnant, cut, headache and toothache.” It was a process though and despite playing with what I thought was a lot of children the day before, more children came through the triage line. This time with white, marble-sized balls stuck to their scalp – lice.

I directed the lice patients to our outside clinic where team members started the process of removing the clusters. Most opted to just have their whole head shaved but some only wanted to have the infected areas shaved, resulting in what looked like a really bad haircut. This “treatment” only offered temporary relief because most likely their huts, were also infected. Personal items like pillows and towels would likely be reused only spreading the problem.

That first night we had a village-wide dinner party and watched a movie projected on a large white sheet. Many of the kids who had received their “haircuts” sat in the laps of those who had given them their new look and took in the entertainment. Both stylist and stylee seemed to beam with satisfaction and hope. After seeing hundreds of patients at the clinic that day, I, too, was filled with satisfaction and hope. Many personally came up thanking me for coming. It was a great feeling, and it was only our first stop.

The next day we were off early again as we took our boat deeper into the jungle. At our second village, we would be staying for a few days. It was a larger village known for their farming and vegetable crops. Huge tracts of land surrounded the homes which seemed to go beyond what my eyes could see. I also noticed that the general health of the people seemed to be better than in the previous village. Perhaps, it was the nutrition they received from the crops. Perhaps it was the Coca-Cola that was delivered that afternoon to the village trading post, apparently a once a month event according to our doctors. It has never failed to amaze me where the fizzy beverage is able to be found in the world, howler monkeys and all.

My job in triage was easier the second time around. I loosened up, tickled the children as they waited for their parents, and felt more confident in my language skills despite the continuing snickers. One woman came in and because I asked her what her name was and ‘how old are you?’ she thought I spoke fluent Spanish. She went on and on, despite my attempts to try and tell her “no Espanol.” She was pointing to my eyes and I could make out the word “azure” for blue. Our team doctor told me she was saying she had never seen blue eyes before and for me to stay still so she could look at them. Soon, I had a crowd around me. Feeling awkward, I quickly asked to see the woman’s eyes. I began to use the same words she had used to describe mine when I described hers – beautiful, charming and striking. She laughed and our connection was the best part of my day.

Our final village was small like the first one. Many women were seeking prenatal care. On average, the girls who came through our clinic that were pregnant were between ten and sixteen years old. I tried my best not to seem surprised as I wrote down their information, but it was hard. These girls looked so young. Had they been raped? Were they married? Were they abused? Some of them came into the clinic crying. Did they see this as an opportunity for someone to hear their heart, their situation, their life? Our doctors were able to provide limited counseling. I knew it wasn’t enough. This was their culture. Or was it? My thoughts were drawn to the benefits of not only modern medicines back home, but counseling services, education, jobs, a lice-free bed, healthy food and freedom. Yet, these people had called this riverbank their home for centuries. Who was I to question if they had “it” right or wrong?

The excitement and anticipation that I had at the beginning of my trip turned into self-reflection by the end. The deeper questions I had were “Which way of life is better, mine or theirs?” or “What makes me that different from those I met?” I processed through my thoughts during my final days in Guatemala as our group took in some touristy things like the Tikal ruins, rainforest canopy tours and, my favorite, a visit to a Tarantula farm.

So, that’s why the pizza chef and his hat at Gondolier’s struck me so hard. I wondered if the man with the fluorescent stitched hat making pizza pies had come from the city or from a village like the ones I had visited, now nearly eight years ago. I doubt he’d ever guess that I had been to the place on his cap. Or, if he’d ever guess the impact the people of Guatemala had on me and how that trip changed me for the better. I thanked the cashier, turned and walked out the door and thought of how far I’d come from learning those first two phrases: ¿Comò te llama? ¿Cuántos años tiene?

About the Author: Cara Aliek is currently working on her M.F.A. in professional writing at Savannah College of Art and Design. She hopes to write a book about her travels someday; the people she’s met and the issues they face. Cara is 29 and married.