Night and Day

‘ ‘ ‘ Considering that Guatemala is near the equator, the frigidness of nights and mornings in… ‘ ‘ ‘ Considering that Guatemala is near the equator, the frigidness of nights and mornings in Paraxaj caught me by surprise. It didn’t help that I’d forgotten a sleeping bag ‘mdash; even when I resorted to wearing all three of my pairs of pants to bed, I still woke up shivering in the fetal position. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ But it was hard to complain come Wednesday, when we were invited into the houses of villagers to meet their families and absorb their way of life. Pitt freshman Racheli Schoenburg, our Opcion translator Marlene and I trekked up a hill from the schoolhouse that we called home for the week to one family’s home ‘mdash; a family of one proud papa, one silent mama and 10 energetic kids. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ On a plot of land the size of a large classroom, head-of-the-family Pedro had built a dirt-floor kitchen out of mud bricks and a sheet metal roof, as well as a two-room living area. The larger room was for his oldest boys and oldest girls. The other, which was big enough only for a bed, housed him, his wife and the couple’s six youngest children. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Pedro took us from the dusty land between his kitchen and bedroom to sit on the bed of his youngest sons ‘mdash; Willy and Byron, both pre-adolescents. The bed was a plank of wood covered in a blanket with a beat-up radio where a pillow would have been. The nights were cold, and three pairs of pants were more than the boys owned ‘mdash; the entire collection of the boys’ clothing sat on the floor, smaller than my laundry pile after three days. A picture of the pope hung on the wall. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Tu gusta la musica?’ I asked Byron in my embarrassingly inaccurate Spanish. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Si, si,’ he nodded, holding back a giggle at the sheer notion that there was a white man ‘mdash; more than likely the first he’d ever talked to ‘mdash; sitting in his room. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ I scanned the small room. The radio was the only item inside that wasn’t an absolute necessity. He switched it on as Racheli and Marlene spoke to Pedro about the new house he planned to build for his oldest boys once they’d become men. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Tu gusta la rock ‘n’ roll?’ I asked. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Byron smiled and shook his finger. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Through Marlene, I asked Miguel if I could bring some rock ‘n’ roll to Byron. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Si, si.’ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ I returned with an iPod within minutes and watched Byron ‘mdash; the entire family of 12 gathered around him eagerly ‘mdash; seemingly enjoying the Red Hot Chili Peppers, though he was a bit bored by Neil Young. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Miguel stopped me, still smiling. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Cuanto dinero?’ he asked, pointing to the iPod. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Immediately I felt like I’d been socked in the stomach. My Spanish was poor, but I understood perfectly. And I had no idea how to respond. With Pedro’s salary averaging just a few dollars a day, leaving no room to save, the iPod cost more money than Pedro would ever possess at one time in his entire life. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ I stuttered, paused. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Un poco,’ I lied. A little. ‘Gracias, Miguel. Su familia es bonita.’ Your family is beautiful. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Filled with shame, I excused myself and walked back to the schoolhouse. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Though we 11 students worked through the days both helping the villagers build a water reservoir to provide clean water for the school and laying a cement floor in what was to become the school’s first-ever library, it was hard to convince ourselves that the little impact we could have would ever make a difference. Sure, a floor is good. But where will the books come from, and what children will make it far enough in school to read them? ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ In fact, as we arguably made the projects go more quickly, we often felt as if we were taking precious paid hours away from the workers. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ But poverty is not simply monetary, and it is not purely circumstantial. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ And through our cultural exchange of ideas, of language and of laughter that increased each day, I went to bed hoping that the people of Paraxaj were gaining as much understanding as I was. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ The word poverty sounds dirty. It sounds lonely and dark. We picture an African child surrounded by flies, crying on some late-night, please-donate-now commercial. And sure, that is poverty. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ But the word’s endless complexity is something many spend their lives wading through. Is a man in poverty if he lives comfortably but lacks the support to survive a major downturn in his income? Is he in poverty if he makes below a certain dollar amount a day? Is he in poverty if his only health care is luck? ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ In Paraxaj, poverty creeps through the mountains like a ghost. It is rarely spoken of, rarely referenced. But it is found in the village’s school, where 53 kids sit in each cramped class with one teacher, only to be pulled out by third grade in order to work in the fields with papa or in the kitchen with mama. It is found under the hardened feet of women who carry their family’s laundry an hour to the nearest water source, and who cannot afford shoes. It’s found in the sweat-stained shirts of the 150 village boys who played soccer with us after school wearing the same clothing from the day before and the day before that. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ And it is found in either of the two family-owned stores in Paraxaj. Most often run by a teenage daughter in the family, the stores look like the prize window at an arcade ‘mdash; shelves full of tiny, individually packaged goods. Single-serving Tylenol. Travel-sized shampoo. One egg for sale at a time. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ And the buyers? Usually children of 3 or 4, waddling into the store, unable to reach the counter. Too young to go to school, too young for work in the fields ‘mdash; they’re the only available family member. ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ As men’s incomes vary daily from nothing ‘mdash; for a man without his own land, the availability of work at neighboring farms varies by day ‘mdash; to around $5, the families in Paraxaj cannot afford to buy goods of food for more than a few days at a time. This is the anti-Costco, the anti-Wal-Mart. This is hand to mouth, with hands tired and mouths hungry.