I have returned from my Guatamalan triathlon.
Josué, my “sponsored child,” was an unalloyed delight, as were his parents. Lovely, lovely people. We had an interpreter and a social worker, both of whom could not have been kinder or more helpful. We ate snacks, did a jigsaw puzzle together, the whole bunch of us, finishing literally as lunch was being put down on the table, and in general had a grand old time.
They (who have so so much less than me) bought gifts: a hand-woven mat, several little hand-woven baskets, a green tapestry and a beautiful embroidered red runner, now hanging on my wall, that reads: “Para Heather: Con carino [Love, fondness, tenderness, affection, kindness, concern] de Josue Su Ahijado [Godson].”
The schedule was as follows: up at 3 am to get to the airport on both the departure and return dates. The other days a gathering of some kind, usually a prayer type thing, at 7 am (we had no Ash Wednesday Mass but we did get ashes, distributed by a deacon who happened to be along on the trip), followed by breakfast, a bus ride, a presentation of some sort by the members of various communities (all embarrassingly grateful for our “largesse”) lunch (chicken, rice, tortilllas, beans), another bus ride, another activity, dinner, another gathering, and release by 8 or 9.
When deprived of time alone, my “inner alarm clock,” as I call it, simply wakes me a few hours early so I can gather myself. Which in spite of the attendant sleep deprivation, I appreciate.
We were not allowed under penalty of death to leave the Guatemala City hotel (first and last nights) or compound (in San Lucas Toliman the other four nights) to venture forth on our own.
Thus I learned, as prison inmates do, to “exercise” within the confines of my room. I don’t even do 10,000 steps at home but for some reason I became obsessed with getting them in on the trip. So every spare minute I was jogging in place, or pacing, or striding through the Guatemala City or DFW airport.
I actually like airports. Right away, I make a beeline for the farthest end of the terminal where you can often find an empty gate area or some weird tucked-away corner or a window through which you can hungrily gaze at the world outside.
Dallas/Fort Worth, through which you have to fly basically to get anywhere from Tucson, is so big it has its own zip code (75261), and a very efficient Sky Link train that whizzes you to Terminals A-D. But what I’ve learned is that you can also walk from one terminal to another, which I have come to thoroughly enjoy.
Doing so, this trip I stumbled upon an interfaith chapel at one end of Terminal D. It looks like the waiting room–heaven or hell?–in a science fiction movie with an anodyne “stained glass” window, beige carpet and a loudly ticking clock. I couldn’t have been more grateful or happier. The good folks who run it out of the kindness of their hearts have even installed a couple of free showers, just in case you need a shower.
I spent a good half-hour in there both ends of the trip, clutching my head in my hands and pleading for strength.
No seriously, the whole trip was “good” for me. I went down for the sole reason that Josué had asked in a letter if I would ever want to share a meal with him and his family, so–you bet!
It’s always interesting being in a random group of people as 85% of them consist of married couples with grandchildren. “So do you have children?” they invariably ask.
“Uh…no.”
“Oh! Well…what do you do?”
“Um…I’m a writer. I guess I’m kind of an introspective type. I pray, I walk”…I atone for my abortions…
To that end, what made the trip totally doable and even though I felt imprisoned and couldn’t think, write, take notes, read, walk, drink coffee, or make the mental, emotional and spiritual connections of which my life kind of consists, I conceived of the idea simply to make of my day a (at times, I’m ashamed to say, extremely half-hearted) prayer offering for the group itself, the sainted people who were running the trip, the also sainted mothers, fathers and children who we met each day, and in general the people of Guatemala.
Who, with the exception of a three-or-so year old kid who cornered me one afternoon, fixed me with an icy stare, thrust out his little hand, and said, “Da me el dinero,” were to a person welcoming and warm.
Actually, that kid totally made my day.
Let’s face it, it’s probably the silent plea of everyone in Central America upon seeing a well-nourished white person with a purse and sunglasses.
Also the other people on the trip (there were 25 or so of us, many of them older even than me) were unbelievable good sports. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, game for every activity, uncomplaining, cheerful. I am sure this comes from having selflessly raised families and now, caring for their grandchildren.
They were splendid models and, following their lead, I was able to complete the trip without mishap.
Gracias a Dios.
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