Tribute to our time in Guatemala

In Guatemala you don't wake with your alarm, instead you open your eyes to the sun streaming through the window and the sound of roosters cock-a-doodling, dogs barking, birds chirping, and the occasional bout of firecrackers alerting you to someone's birthday or the start of a morning church service.

As you motivate yourself to get out of bed for an early morning jog, the pitter patter of your feet on the cement adds to those sounds. You begin to discover life arising elsewhere as you pass construction workers gathering nearby to discuss the day’s work, children running to school, and women outside collecting their laundry from the previous day.

Later, as the taste of Estella's slightly cinnamon flavored mush and fried plantains fills your mouth you begin to wonder what that days jornada will bring, the community you will walk into, the people you will meet, the house that will be open to you when you break, and the type of food that you will consume.

The roughness of the truck bouncing through the pot holes in the dirt road on your way to the aldea is a stark contrast to the beautiful landscape that surrounds. You take in the lush green jungle, beautiful flowers, and "guanos" that have the potential to become someone's roof. Certain snapshots are burned in your memory as you take in women dressed in their cortes, carrying striped jugs of water and corn balanced perfectly on their heads, their small children walking quickly to keep up. You pass a gathering of people at the river bathing or washing clothes, and brightly colored tiendas advertising coca cola for six quetzales.

On your journey you meet some faces you will never forget. One afternoon you are called to the home of a woman who delivered her baby a few hours earlier but who is now unresponsive, writhing around uncomfortably. Realizing her blood pressure is 175/110 you begin to question the family about possible seizure-like behavior. In the translation from Spanish to Qek Chi and back you realize this patient has developed eclampsia. After relaying the need to take the patient to the hospital you become confused that the family is resisting the idea. They tell you they don't have money for the return bus trip even though you tell them you will drive her for free. They look scared and you learn they believe the hospital is a place you go to die. You begin to understand their small world, three hours from the nearest hospital. Once you are finally able to lay the patient on a sleeping mat in the back of the truck you realize that one's person problem becomes the entire villages concern as it seems the whole town is gathered around. You begin to panic as the patient begins to seize, feelings of helplessness overwhelm you knowing the necessary medications are unavailable. Your mind begins to picture how quickly the nurses and doctors would have moved back in a US hospital, and how magnesium would have already been flowing quickly and freely through this patient's veins.

On the three hour car ride down the mountain you begin to get angry at these people. You wonder why they choose to live so far from health care, why they don't undergo regular pre-natal care. You tell yourself you can't be mad, this is not a choice they made, this is the life they were born into, and they have not received the education or resources to know otherwise. Then you begin to resent the government for not taking more responsibility for health care, for not building closer health facilities, for not providing staff.

Throughout your time in Guatemala stories of the war, and more importantly, the recent genocide of indigenous people slowly unfold. Brother Martin enlightens you with stories and movies describing the atrocities. Then you meet a patient on one of your jornadas who bears scars on his abdomen that he says are the result of running from the soldiers. You meet Gloria in Santa Rita who tells you stories of their community trying desperately to survive as they hid in the jungle for years, moving location every few days. You begin to question the necessity of your own career choice as an Obstetrician hearing how these people delivered all of their own children, using the herbs around them for certain complications. She is proud to say they had no maternal deaths during their time on the run.

In between meeting these fascinating people you enter a typical Qek Chi home to break for a meal. As you begin to enjoy some combination of tortillas, frijoles, eggs, or rice you take in your surroundings. Four wood walls, not perfectly symmetric so that the sun creeps through, a dirt floor that is packed from years of walking, a perfectly woven thatched roof. Usually a hammock or two is strung from the ceiling with a few shy children that giggle when you catch their eye. There is always a stove with a fire burning, tortilla after tortilla being cooked in oil. Everything seems to have a purpose as you notice a tree branch whose twigs hold cups, a tight string on the wall holds up a toothbrush, nails hold the few pots and pans they own.

After spending some time in Guatemala you begin to feel blessed to have been born in the United States where stories of recent genocide do not exist, where you were given the education and opportunity to do whatever your heart desired, where your family never worried about putting food on the table. You begin to wonder why you are so lucky, if that's the word that should be used. And then you wonder why these particular experiences have become a part of your life. You feel torn as there is a piece of you that wants to walk away and never look back, you feel that there is nothing you can offer to help or change the situation. Then you think about some of the amazing people that you have met and know that some way, somehow you will have to give back to these people.

Holly Little, MS4
Guatemala