October 13, 2005
The rains are making everyone tired. We are tired of hearing
and reading about disasters, loss of life, widespread destruction,
war, calls for money, help of all kinds. To whom should we give
our money? Who is more worthy of our pity, understanding, or generosity?
The South Asians? The people of New Orleans? Gulf coast pastors
without an income stream or Guatemalans whose income stream has
always experienced interruption (if it ever existed)? Maybe the
people of Iraq? The U.S. soldiers and their families? Now people
in the northeast United States are suffering from the terrible
consequences of floods. To whom do we give or send money? Which
organizations will represent us best and which ones will take
advantage of the situation? I wonder if Halliburton is in the
relief and compassion business—yet?
I went to two services Sunday at different churches. At the cathedral
in the center of Quetzaltenango the priest assured those present
that the rains, floods, and mudslides, were not a punishment from
God. “No,” he said, “God loves you and invites
all His children to the banquet of life.” He suggested that
the calamities striking the country and world were caused by the
insensitivity of men everywhere to the needs of the land, their
improper use of it, their abuse of it, and poverty, which always
limits choices. At the other church, a more “progressive”
pastor thought the deaths and mudslides were, indeed, a punishment
from God. Fortunately for me, at least, I had two options to choose
from. I opted for the former.
Death tolls mount daily here in Guatemala. There almost seems
to be a contest between the miseries inflicted on the poor of
Pakistan and Afghanistan and the poor here in Guatemala and along
the gulf coast. These disasters never seem to affect those with
means. Why is that?
Gloria and I are in Quetzaltenango. We can’t leave the
town. I suppose we could if we were willing to take a few chances,
but we aren’t at that point yet. We are not suffering. Oh,
we had a few days without Internet access, and it is intermittent
at times now and the cable TV was down for the same period, but
we are living on the higher ground—we are part of the privileged
few who can afford to live in a place that is barely affected
by the rains that have hurt so many here. Somehow that seems inconsistent
with being a mission worker and identifying psychically with the
indigenous—and it is the poor indigenous who are taking
the brunt of this disaster, as it always is. Hillsides have collapsed
and killed many living on the hillsides and in the valleys below
them. Living on the hills here is not always a choice—they
may be the only places available.
We’ve had a few calls from family and friends asking about
us, and we’ve even received a couple from our Kekchi friends
as well. That was unexpected but pleasant. We have food, but the
markets and stores have a seriously curtailed selection. We can’t
find hamburger or chicken and the kiwis are gone (a little kiwi
now and then brightens the day) but if we could eat liver or some
strange little meat patties, we’d be wealthy beyond reason.
Cabbages and apples are plentiful and we’re toying with
the idea of a cabbage/apple salad—might work.
I went with a local indigenous pastor yesterday to visit some
communities along the river that courses through Quetzaltenango.
We climbed a steep hill that gave us a panoramic view that would
have been exhilarating if the wide swath of mud and destruction
below that had buried cars, houses, crops, and buildings had not
been so great. I found that mud literally stinks. Maybe I should
have known this previously but I’ve not made a practice
of smelling mud. I can recall easily the pungent yet agreeable
smell of dirt while digging in a garden, letting it fall from
my fingers while envisioning the things yet to grow. But that
was a pleasant experience, while this is burdensome and heavy.
I made a mental note to remember to wash the soles of my boots
with bleach when I got the chance. I wonder what types of contaminants
are buried in this mud—and now my boots? Sicknesses of various
kinds do surge after the initial disaster strikes and continue
to take a toll long after most people have forgotten it happened.
We met up with a group of people who lived along the river and
an indigenous lady, Ampara, seemed to be the community leader.
We descended from the top of the hill through destroyed corn and
bean plants and came to the river’s edge. I asked why the
bridge over the river was yet, strangely, on the other side of
the river. The river had been caused to change course and had
been directed away from its normal channel and was now running
down a road and through houses.
We met a young man who was scavenging in what had been his house.
He had one of his eight children with him, a little boy. He said
he was an employee of the block-making company that provided him
a house while he made block and guarded the place. He now had
no house and no job. He asked if we might have some clothes for
his kids or maybe some food since they were now sharing space
with relatives near the area. Tears creeped into the young man’s
eyes and the desperation he felt was transferred to the rest of
us.
We met an older man who was working in field next to the river
to salvage what he could of his corn crop. Half of it was gone,
as was one of his legs. I don’t know how a man can work
a cornfield with one leg while on crutches, but he was doing it.
He asked for a “little help.” He said crooks were
stealing the rest of his corn but later offered they were just
probably hungry neighbors.
We proceeded to another area where we found a compound of four
families digging through the mud, putting what wet, mud-soaked,
clothes they could find into a plastic trash bag. The clothes
won’t come clean no matter the amount of bleach. We spoke
with Sebastian. Like all the others with whom we spoke he said
there had been no government officials or any other group there
to ask about them, let alone to help them. This is usually the
case in the Two Thirds World. The house looked good from the outside
except very low. It looked like a child’s playhouse. Mud
appeared to have been neatly placed around the house up to the
windows. But as the mud had also entered through the windows,
the level of the mud inside was even with that outside. Their
footbridge had been washed out, as had three other bridges whose
remains we saw as we walked about.
Ominous clouds began to gather once again, and the sky, which
had been clear as we began our walk, darkened quickly, and it
began to rain. The people continued their work of salvage. It
is cold in Quetzaltenango in the mornings and evenings, in the
low 40s, but with rain it seems a lot colder, and one gets chilled
from the inside out very quickly. But they kept working. We passed
what had been a house that doubled as a day care and a few kids’
toys were strewn about. Ampara began to sob. This tough old bird’s
reaction was making me uncomfortable. Indigenous don’t cry
because of their hard lifestyle, I wanted to believe, but I had
seen it too many times previously to know better. The men even
cry, and that really makes for discomfort. Ampara used to work
here and she was overcome. The next place was the home of one
of our group’s relatives and the reaction was the same.
We even passed what had been a dump but the only things left were
the buzzards picking at whatever the mongrel dogs wouldn’t
eat. I didn’t get close enough to determine what it was.
The longer term problems are beginning now: the incidence of
dengue and malaria are feared to start rising; wells have been
contaminated with mud; raw excrement and the resulting problems
in rivers and water sources are being experienced; lack of potable
water is a general problem especially for those directly impacted
and the poor in general. Food, gasoline, and medicine shortages
are appearing.
Your church, through Presbyterian Disaster Assistance of the
Worldwide Ministries Division, has been involved since the outset
and will stay involved until it’s a manageable situation,
which includes psychological help of far longer duration. You
should be proud of your church for being involved over the long
haul and not only in the initial burst of sympathy. You have a
group of caring professionals that know how to address disasters
here in Guatemala, South Asia, the Gulf Coast, all over the world
and they know how to do that from the beginning to the end of
the problem.
Please send any contributions through Presbyterian Disaster Response
for Hurricane Stan, DR000139. For more information contact Pamela
Burdine, 888-728-7228 x5839. To give on-line, click the "give"
button below.
Roger and Gloria Marriott
Mission Co-Workers, Presbyterian Church (USA)
The 2005 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p.
62
|
