November 28, 2006
Friends,
I returned to Cobán, Alta Verapaz, Guatemala, to begin
our next term in mission service. Gloria will be joining me when
she completes her on-campus requirement for her degree in Conflict
Transformation from Eastern Mennonite University.
We spent our first year in Guatemala in Cobán working
with the Association of Presbyteries Mayas Kekchi. Our work has
expanded, although we will be conducting some of the same educational
classes. We learned during our first term that a workshop must
be repeated frequently to have any cumulative effect or lasting
value. Our Kekchi friends appear to be genuinely pleased to find
us living in Cobán again, and it will be far easier to
work with them from this location and it will also be easier to
visit other departments.
We have found a few changes since last we lived in Cobán.
There is now a McDonald’s restaurant. I checked prices out
of curiosity. They seem very high and none of our Kekchi friends
will be spending much time gobbling these burgers, since one costs
more than a day’s wages. There is also a Hiper Paiz department
store nearby. This department store chain was recently purchased
by Wal-Mart, and shipping boxes now say “Wal-Mart Guatemala”
all over them. Globalization is extending its reach even to this
mountainous region. It is difficult to imagine how these two businesses
can make a profit here, but they always seem to be busy. One non-indigenous
acquaintance of mine was excited about the McDonald’s and
told me that the burgers were, in her opinion, better than anything
available here. A clerk in Hiper Paiz, assuring me of the quality
of my purchase, told me the item was a Wal-Mart brand. Christmas
decorations and music surround all the shoppers. The great majority
of shoppers are non-indigenous, and it is rare to find a person
who speaks Kekchi.
The only thing that reminds me of Christmas here is the cold.
It has been in the upper 30s, which is very cold considering there
is no insulation or heating. Eight people across the country are
reported to have died due to the cold, and agricultural losses
are into the millions of dollars. I looked everywhere for a space
heater and finally found one after a four-day search, the only
one in Cobán, it seems. I paid $86 for it. I believe I
could get it in the United States for $25—not everything
is cheaper in Guatemala. As I sit in front of it, the $86 seems
to be a bargain, even though the cold drafts in my concrete apartment
compete mightily for my attention.
There are far fewer international travelers here than in Xela
or Antigua. Still, there are the young backpackers who wander
the streets and frequent the Internet cafes. Most of them appear
to be European, German in particular, and I don’t know if
that is due to the history of this part of Guatemala or is merely
incidental. Much of the land was declared vacant in the latter
1800s and sold to German investors who developed the land into
coffee plantations. The indigenous were obligated to work on the
coffee plantations—essentially slaves on their own land.
Title to land is still a major problem in Guatemala—especially
for the indigenous.
One thing that hasn’t changed is the number of indigenous
beggars. I searched for my favorite beggar from our first year
but so far have not found him. Avelino Caal struggled to get his
tortured body through the streets while wearing a sign that said
“Por el amor de Dios ayudeme!” For the love of God,
help me! He didn’t appear to be well the last time I talked
with him. He didn’t want his picture taken, and chose not
to allow me to treat him to dinner, even in a simple comedor.
The young beggar who sits in the same place on Primera Calle
(First Street) is still there. He’s about 17 now, ragged,
shoeless, with only a T-shirt to wear. He keeps one arm inside
the T-shirt while the other holds his begging pan. I asked him
if he could work. His mumbled reply was a clear “no.”
He’s been doing this at least five years now, and I’ve
never seen him ever talk with another person. Something is plainly
wrong with him. He nods to sleep when the sun falls on him, mouth
agape, a few coins scattered on the broken sidewalk. I asked one
of my non-indigenous acquaintances about government programs that
could help a person like this boy. She informed me that all the
beggars make a lot of money, and they like to beg since they don’t
have to work. It’s hard to hear such a harsh assessment
of these children of God without engaging in a conversation that
is probably not becoming to a “missionary.”
I can always count on finding Moises, a blind man, a little further
down Primera Calle. He talks readily about his eyes. He’s
been to the eye hospital run by the Cubans in San Cristóbal,
but they can’t help him. I wonder if he likes this work,
which he does at least 10 hours a day, but I don’t ask him.
My shoeshine boy is always in the same place on Primera Calle.
He can’t talk but makes some kind of yodeling sound to announce
his services. He sticks out one hand with two grimy fingers extended
to indicate the price of a shine, two quetzals or about 25 cents,
and continues to shine the shoes in front of him. He’s filthy,
his hands discolored by shoe polish; he reeks of body odor, and
his young face is covered with acne. I don’t believe he
can hear, since he only responds to me with yodels when he looks
at me. A passerby slaps him maliciously in the head while he’s
shining my shoes. The shoeshine boy yodels after him with some
effort at contempt for the assailant. It results only in mocking
yodels from the goon as he continues down Primera Calle.
I have not yet determined what, if anything, to do about the
drunks who are sprawled in the sidewalks, unconscious, as pedestrians
step over or around them. If they are in the street I’ll
drag them out of harms way but other than that, I become simply
another insensitive pedestrian. A mother pushes one of her daughters
in a rickety wheelchair along Primera Calle, the daughter’s
head bobbing from side to side. The other daughter holds her mother’s
arm to keep from falling as she drags her bad leg after her while
holding her begging pan in her other hand. The indigenous mother
says both daughters are blind and there is nothing else to do.
She hasn’t taken them to a physician. Where could she do
that, she wants to know? Ah, Christmas, the season of Christian
love. Thank God for Christmas. For those who suffer—“As
for me, I am poor and needy, but the Lord takes thought for me.
You are my help and my deliverer; do not delay, O my God”
(Ps.40: 17).
Que la paz de cristo sea con ustedes este día y para
siempre, y sobre todo en esta estación de la navidad.
Roger
The 2006 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 64 |
