More Travels with the Ahijadas

I step outside from the tiny store with my can of beer, ready to head back to the hotel with my adopted family. Juanita, age 18, Tono, her son, Ilda, age 13, and Irma, age 12 are staring across the street. It's nine PM in Guatemala City's Zone One, and the bars are starting to get going.

"The young women are dancing," Juanita says. "We want to watch."

I assume she knows what the young women do there, and let them watch for a minute or so before uprooting them.

We're on our way back to the hotel after a dinner of Pollo Campero, Guatemala's highly successful chicken franchise. I'm not a fan of it at all, but eating there is a dream-come-true for them, so I willingly cough up $20 for bad food and societal and environmental degradation.

We stray a few blocks off course because I mistake 9th Avenue for 7th. At 10th Avenue I ask for directions. Most everyone you see is nice and trustworthy, though we bend our paths greatly to avoid obvious drunks and homeless people. I insist that Irma hold my hand because it's a bit scary out.

She has become much more of a daughter now; we spend lots of time together. I miss having little kids around, maybe as much as she misses having a father figure in her life, so we're much closer than you would think if you only heard our conversations. At the restaurant, she got silly. She's quite the clown, but rarely speaks in Spanish, mostly Tz'utujil, and her sisters get tired of translating, as most of her jokes consist of calling family members made-up names.

"El se llama Matitrux!" (His name is nonsense-word.)

But the eye-contact and the hugs and the trust say more than words could. We go to a shopping center called Tikal Futura which looks like it belongs in Miami. Before we're even inside, the group spots an escalator leading down to a parking garage. They roar with laughter. Juanita and I step on, her whole being shaking with fear and laughter. Irma and Ilda can't bear to get on. We run a hundred yards to the up-escalator, not wanting to leave them alone. This time Irma and I board the down-escalator. She squeezes my hand. I show her how to walk as the escalator moves. She's having more fun than most kids would have at a major amusement park. Ilda joins in later, and we go down yet another level. I introduce them to the elevator to go back up. I don't even feel it move as they scream at top volume.

Inside there is an arcade, and there are bumper cars, which are even more fun than the escalators. After two rides, we're off to shop. This is our second day in the city. The first day, we ate at a nice place with typical food and fantastic marimba music, then spent forever looking at shoes and clothes. I asked each one what they needed most, and made them wait when they thought they wanted something. "Think about it for a little while. If you buy that, you can't afford anything else." Everyone completed their shopping on the first day except Juanita. She understands deferred gratification better than the others -- in fact, the shopping was completed in ascending order of age. At the mall, she's the only one with shopping left to do, and we go into a dozen shoe stores. She always grabs displays and tries them on and says they're too small, and I tell her repeatedly to look for the style you like and ask to try it on in her size.

She's very smart in her way, but can't read an analog clock. She's shy, but nowhere near as shy as her sisters. I only have to prod her a little to get her to communicate what she wants to the salespeople. At Pollo Campero I manage to convince Ilda to ask the waitress for what she wants. It shouldn't be hard to ask for your favorite food. But several times over the weekend I think I have done the same with Irma, and always at the last minute she covers her face and says "Ild!" and her sisters fill in for her.

Sunday morning we go to the heart of Zone One, and there are severall  parades. Our goal is to see where the president lives and to eat normal food with lots of tortillas, which we find. (Actually, I don't know if Colom lives there or not, but I've seen him up close twice and he's no big deal!) I teach them how to blow soap bubbles and they stare at helium balloons and cheap toys and dolls, asking for most of them "for Tono."

We board the bus at the CENMA, ready for the 3 hour ride home. It's due to leave at 2:30. I ask if anyone needs to use the bathroom. They don't so I go alone and buy a Prensa Libre and head outside to find Juanita a coke, as she is sure she will vomit without it.

On my way back in I see a young man lying with his head on a rock, convulsing, apparently from a drug overdose. He has bleached hair and close-cropped facial hair. He looks like a gangster and looks like he might be dying. Everyone walks past. So do I. I don't know the systems work here. You get hardened to death and tragedy here. In the mall a little over an hour ago a donut saleswoman collapsed, and my adopted family members looked on with fascination. Another donut salesperson was the only one attending her for several minutes until others started to take interest. A woman in yellow slacks, maybe a doctor, looked like she knew what she was doing, and stooped down to give the trambling woman attention. Minutes later some firefighters were on the scene, and the carried the patient away on a stretcher. On our way into town the day before, on the Panamerican highway going through Mixco, our friend Aklax pulled over to let an ambulance with lights on get by. Minutes later it was two cars ahead of us, going ten or twenty kilometers per hour. No one else pulled over to let it by.

I get back in the bus at 2:25. Juanita and Irma need to go to the bathroom. A few minutes later, the driver turns on the engine and puts the bus in gear. I bolt out of my seat.

"Wait, a mother left her baby here with me!"

"I can't wait here, I have to pull outside. I'll wait there."

These girls have never been here before, and outside is far away, so I bolt off the bus and run towards the restroom. The bus attendant is running with the girls in my direction. All is well. He makes fun of them, says they were putting on makeup and looking in the mirror when he found them.

A Few Snapshots of Atitlán

Gerónimo is urinating into a hole in the floor though the bathroom is only ten feet away. "I'm about to close," he says in an unsteady voice. "Come back tomorrow." He extends his thumb and curls his fingers to form the shape of a bottle which he tips towards his mouth to indicate that he's been drinking. It's ten in the morning. I close the gate and head back up the cobblestone path. A little girl in the purple guipil that most little girls wear here smiles at me knowingly. Smoke is pouring out from her doorway, and frequently invades Gimnasio Atitlán. The other gym is about a mile away and will charge me twice as much, but there will not be smoke.

Later back at the house Juanita tells me that her older sister doesn't talk much now that she's back with her husband.  He doesn't want her to. "He also doesn't let her eat chicken. Solo ca-arne." She holds the stressed vowel in that last word much longer than any native speaker would, in a childish way, as if making fun of something, or whining. "How boring! And he beats her, but not as much as before they separated."

"I'll bet your husband doesn't beat you," I say, because there is something about her that is strong, something apart from her slight teenage frame and sweet demeanor.

"He hit me once. I told my Mom, and he started to cry."

Her mother, Magdalena, has been a grandmother for five or six years now. She looks old enough, but is in fact only about 37. After Irma was born, Magdalena's husband left the family to fend for itself. On a few dollars a day she has raised her girls to be loving and caring and clean and healthy. When I visit with the family I am always impressed with how they work together to care for the younger ones and readily help me cook and clean.

I will recommend Juanita as a housekeeper to the hospital when I leave, though I'm very disappointed with the way they treat their employees. Most of them are comfortable with the fact that they earn less than the legal minimum but discouraged that there is no hope for advancement. Antonio has been in charge of the inventory for four years and earns exactly the same as any newcomer. He is bitter about his situation and would love to head north to work for a few years, but knows that jobs are scarce now.

Two hospital administrators spoke to me recently about their concerns. "We can't allow you to have visitors at Las Milpas. A lot of things have been stolen and we can't have that." A few months ago a former employee of the hospital apparently stole $100 from a doctor here. She had left the money on the table and knew the woman was not particularly honest.

"Not only that, but several dishes and kitchen items are gone. I know what my countrymen are like. Maybe you can take care of yourself, but the Spanish doctors are delicate. Las Milpas is like a hotel; you can't just bring in anyone you want. Ask our permission first and keep a log of anyone who visits." The conversation switched to my scholarship program and proceeded to bounce oddly between the two seemingly unrelated themes. "I know you give scholarships to several people here, and the problem is they become insubordinate and don't want to work. I know you meet at Las Milpas with the people you give scholarships to.  I would like some clarification as to who they are."  He mentions many people's names. I help fewer than five people go to school, and only one has anything to do with the hospital.

"Only Ingri," I say, instantly regretting having divulged information, but not wanting people I don't help to be blamed. "Some other former volunteers pay her tuition, I just help a little with books and transportation costs." They reply that she doesn't work for the hospital, as if that wasn't the name they were looking for.

Two days later they fired her giving an excuse that made no sense (the gardener wasn't doing his work with her around, and also there are very few volunteers at Las Milpas...?) For her, it was not a huge economic loss, only four to eight hours per week. But the vengeful, jealous attitude is a huge problem, an overzealous  and reckless desire for control that leaves behind a fearful, overly cautious, resentful group of workers who are anxious to leave and find somewhere else to work. Two students I sponsor have left in the last few months.

Ingri's loss is Juanita's gain, at least for a few weeks until I leave.  I told her I would pay her $3.75 a day, $5.00 when she learns the job as well as Ingri, which is twice what her mother earns, and I hope that won't create problems. At the end of her first day I told her she was an outstanding worker and would get the higher amount. Last year an older woman named Rosa cleaned the place. Jared, who was in charge of Las Milpas at the time, always made us leave dirty dishes for her since she didn't do anything else. Ingri and Juanita both know how to look for dirt, so we try not to leave dishes.

The following day I go back to the gym. Julia, from North Carolina, comes in for a work out. She is the first woman I've seen at Gimnasio Atitlán. She was there the day before, two hours after I left, and said that was a mistake. Instead of closing, Gerónimo invited friends to come and get drunk with him.

My Ahijadas and Their (Very) Extended Family

I never know how many invitees I'm going to get when I entertain, and I entertain several times a week here. Sunday I picked up my two sponsored daughters (ahijadas, we call them here, which is a much nicer term than 'sponsored daughters', because it also means goddaughters) with afternoon plans of swimming in Lake Atitlan and preparing and eating dinner together. Six others joined us, all family members, from 18 years old down to 16 months (those two being mother and son).

Their house in Chukmuk is a mile and a half from Las Milpas, so when a tuc-tuc approached, we grabbed it.  There was another person in addition to the driver already on board, so we were eleven in the tuc-tuc.  If you have never seen one, it's a motorcycle with a shell and a backseat which seats two adults comfortably; only the driver is legally allowed in the front seat. Eleven is probably close to a record.

Everyone had such a good time swimming, bathing in the water (even though the cyanobacteria is back), cooking together and eating, that we decide to do it again Wednesday, except that they would teach me how to make tortillas then.

And Wednesday was nearly a repeat of Sunday, although no less fun, but also included a lesson in making tortillas.

Words do not do justice -- watch the videos!

The Sanitago Fair

Ilda

All week long, Santiago celebrates.  Wednesday the Reyna del Lago (the lesser queen, being from here but not a traditional Mayan) is chosen; Thursday the competition for Reyna del Pueblo goes from 6 till midnight; Friday is the parade.  I learned just last night that my goddaughter Ilda would be in the parade, and set out to get some pictures of her.  Her school, Chukmuk, represented the Garífuna community. Theirs, with their high-energy dancing, was one of the best groups.

This group represented South Africa

Parting Thoughts on Belize

There are many things I enjoyed about my time in Belize.  Jogging down Ex-Servicemen's Road and seeing flocks of parrots, the blue morpho butterfly, and hearing the sounds of the jungle; occasionally leaving the road and following one of many jungle trails, that invariably lead to a site where a tree has been felled; and not caring that I was getting drenched by tropical rainfall, neither cold nor hot, only refreshing.  Jogging through remote parts of town like Indianville (named for the Mayans that live there, not the East Indians) and Carib Reserve.  Swimming in the warm waters of the Caribbean against gentle waves. I enjoyed the market with its parade of the different ethnic groups of Southern Belize, and the anticipation of seeing something new each time, like the Mennonite girl with dirty feet in rubber sandals who barely spoke English selling cream in bags, and buying freshly caught shrimp and fish and rushing back to the apartment to cook it for breakfast, and seeing the buses come in from the outlying villages. 

And taking the bus to those areas and hearing the driver and his assistant converse esily in English with the Chinese merchant as they loaded deliveries of groceries for the village stores, and then switch to Mopan to talk between themselves and then respond in Spanish to one of the passengers.  And sharing the excitement of the World Cup with people I'd never seen before in bars and restaurants and the guesthouse.  And eating gibnut and fried fish drinking watermelon juice and lime juice mixed with dragon fruit juice, and discovering Allison's Corner Bakery where she makes subs and donuts and is easy to talk to.  And being invited into homes and front yards to get to know people like my Garifuna neighbor Thomas who carves rings from palm nut shells and polishes them with the oily fruit inside.

And the challenge of cooking most of my meals without a refrigerator or an oven, only a few gas burners.  And the challenge of being approached by beggars several times a day and not being ashamed that I'm enjoying an ice cream, and refusing to give them half a dollar.  And my farewell party at Satiim, where we started drinking at 2 in the afternoon and finished many beers and many karaoke songs later; they showed me, on my last day, where the good bars are -- they're all several miles outside of town.

Most of the bars in town are okay early in the evening.  You can have good conversations early in the evening, but soon people are pretty drunk and the atmosphere changes.  Then you see the Punta Gorda of drug users, of teenage mothers, of violence and poverty.  Not so much the poverty of people who live in grimy shacks, but cultural poverty, where education is not valued, where the pristine surroundings of jungle and ocean are not valued, where the future of the area and its people is not valued.  Trash is strewn everywhere, people spend their meager earnings on international brands of soft drinks, chips and cookies, on "packed" bread and canned meats, on cheap rum and beer.  The heat in the morning is hard to tolerate, and people tend to be unproductive until the afternoon breezes cool things down a bit.  Mosquitoes are everywhere and transmit malaria and other diseases.  The power goes out routinely, and when it's on, it's dirty and ruins appliances.  I lost 2 fans in my first two weeks there, and no one was able to get my refrigerator working.  Shortly after the power goes out, the water stops flowing.  The water is considered potable because it is treated with plenty of chemicals, but when it sits still for a short time sediment sinks and some oily compound gathers on top.  These are the downfalls of being in Punta Gorda, not counting the fresh lizard feces in my apartment every morning or the crash of thunder that woke me many nights, urging me to close the windows quickly, sometimes being soaked by rain streaming horizontally through the slats -- those are charming features.  But the oppressiveness of the climate and the poverty are difficult.

I find the poverty of the western highlands of Guatemala to be much less oppressive, and will write more about that next time.

Photo Essay -- My Lunch!

Life in PG

My morning visitor.  There are a couple different lizards that hang out around my sink, and I have as many as ten geckos running around the walls, chirping like birds.  I get an occasional bird in the apartment as well...









Every morning at 6 am, the Catholic church bells 100 yards from my bed ring.  They ring again 15 minutes later, and shortly thereafter I can hear the gentle sounds of morning mass.

This morning a gorgeous sunrise woke me up before the bells,  and the Sea invited me to swim.  I like to go straight out from the shore, go as far as I feel safe, and then head back.  If I go too far I fear the boats might not be looking for people in the water, so I limit myself to about 500 yards.

From out there you get a good view of the jungle to the south of town.  Next time I'll start swimming from the southern end of town, go out a few hundred yards and then continue south, and get an even better look at the wild land.

A few days ago I walked several miles down the road to Boom Creek, which goes through mostly uninhabited land.  I saw several flocks of parakeets and heard strange roaring sounds in the distance.

There isn't much to do in town.  Recently I got invited into Paul's house where he and Hector were sitting in the doorway drinking rum mixed with water.  Paul is 65 and lives apart from his wife and kids.  He showed me their report cards.  The two girls were doing well, but the boy, in 4th grade, is not much of a scholar.  He failed everything. 

They convinced me to cough up $2.50 for another bottle, and gave me a new plastic cup to drink from.  That was good because Paul's house is pretty grimy -- I don't think I would have wanted to drink from one of his cups.  I don't think he has a toilet in the house.  Half of his house is hidden from the road by another small house that sits very close to it, and both he and Hector urinated in the strip of land between the houses several times.  There were lots of flies and mosquitoes in the doorway.

We talked about Garifuna culture.  Paul insists he is not Garifuna, but Carib.  He claims to be the only Carib here, and that his Carib grandfather was blond, looked like a German, to which Hector agreed.  Paul is very black.

It turns out I met Hector last summer.  I was walking to town and he struck up a conversation.  He told me he had lived in Arizona, in Nogales, Eloy, and Phoenix, and convinced me to buy him a pound of beans.  We both remembered that.

Two of his children showed up at the door.  I didn't catch much of the conversation as it was in Creole (Pidgin English).  Hector asked me to give his kids 50 cents so they could get something to eat. 

He speaks English, Spanish, Creole and Garifuna.  He works about three days a month, for the city, general labor.  I asked Paul what he did to earn money to buy food.  He looked at me for a long time through his bloodshot eyes.  "That is a good question..."

Place in PG

I have a place now, an office / apartment above a popular guesthouse in PG.  At left is a photo of the entrance to the room.  I was worried it might be too hot, but it's very well ventilated.  I have been sweating like a pig outside walking, but was fine in here with a fan on.

The kitchen works.  I have 2 pots and a few utensils and a gas stove that the wind blows out if I don't pay attention.  The little fridge doesn't seem to work, but the owner said he will replace it.  I'm pretty sure if I don't keep it clean I'll have more guests than I want. 

Here's the morning view.  I'm just 50 meters from the shore.  Last night we had a very loud thunderstorm and I had to get up and close the windows.  The storm served as a distraction from the mosquitoes.  I have a net, but it wasn't set up last night.  That will change tonight!

Farewell Dinner, 2010

Several days ago we invited Irma & Ilda's mother, Magdalena, over for Saturday dinner.  We spent Wednesday & Thursday traveling to Chichicastenango with the girls (my apologies for no blog post on that, but my patient readers will learn about it when the situation permits...) and had a blast.  We bought them a few items of clothing, ate in a fancy restaurant, and stayed in a hotel with tv and hot water.  Magdalena was pleased to agree to come to dine, and had a good time with us last year.  We expected that she might bring a few people, as that sometimes happens.  Last year she brought her mother and Irma.

We also invited other good friends -- Ingri, Nyla, Rosa Viviana and Francisca.  Nyla often brings her cousin Manuel, so we thought we might be feeding 9 or 10 people plus ourselves.  Pizza, bread, spaghetti with meatballs, fruit salad and chocolate cake were planned in honor of Irma's 12th birthday.  Just in case, I made a huge pot of beans and bought several dozen tortillas.

That was good planning.  Some guests started showing up at 5 because they had to leave early.  Irma's family was supposed to show up at 6.  They still hadn't by 6:45, so Viviana & I hiked up the path to the road to look for them.  They weren't there.

Shortly after 7, after we had given up hope and were enjoying the mountains of food, Magdalena arrived with our sponsored daughters.  She also brought her daughter Juanita and her baby.  Her mother Candelaria came.  So did Magdalena's sister with 3 or 4 of her children and her sister-in-law with 4 or 5 of her children.  I kind of lost count, but I believe they were 16.  They were late because no truck would stop to pick them up and they had to walk the mile or so to get there.

They are a beautiful family as I hope you can see from the photos.  It was beautiful how all of our friends from the big city of Santiago pitched in to help serve this poor family from the outlying areas.  Culturally, they're so different, and it's common for the elegant city dwellers to look down on their poorer neighbors, but our friends are awesome!

Irma & Ilda

Last year we decided to sponsor Irma. She's 10 and has a smile that melts my heart. Through the sponsorship, she receives such things as school supplies and medical care. We go well beyond normal sponsorship. We have visited the family, had them over for dinner, and given them all sorts of other things including traditional clothing.

When we bought Irma's corte, or skirt, last year, we also bought one for her sister Ilda. We weren't really thinking of Ilda, but the skirt is basically a square of cloth, and for a little girl, they cut it in half, so there are two. You buy the whole square either way, so it cost us nothing to be nice to Ilda.

At Christmas, we contracted a local family to make two guipiles, or blouses, so that Ilda would not be left out. We didn't want her to fell left out.

This year the school began requiring a uniform to participate in physical education, and Pueblo a Pueblo, the sponsorship organization, bought one for Irma.

But not for her sister, of course. Ilda is very athletic, and I'm sure that it bothers her not to be able to participate. Even worse is the stigma of being among the poorest in a poor community while her sister is spared that shame in this case.

The uniform costs about $15. Their mother earns about $3 a day. The two older daughters are 17 and 19 and each have two children. The 19 year-old has returned home to live. Ilda is 13 and without help will likely end up married in a year or two. The main problem with that is that education almost always stops there.

So we have decided to informally sponsor Ilda. She's shy (though nowhere near as shy as Irma!) and sweet and the two have an excellent relationship.

 

She's in 4th grade now, having sat out several years when primary schools were allowed to charge tiny amounts of money. I asked her if she's hoping to attend básico (middle school) after sixth grade. She enthusiastically assented, but her mother added that it might not be possible financially. I smiled and said we would gladly take care of the expense.

We're taking both girls to Chichicastenango next week, so check back soon for photos of that.

Last Daze

I can only go forward. I am who I am because of what I will do, not because of what I have done. Yes, others will judge me based on what I have done, because that's the main thing they have to go on.

I cannot change what has already happened, but I don't have to accept it as any indication of what the future will bring.

Large momentum shift doesn't occur instantaneously, however. Only by infinitesimal degrees do we change the course of a massive object. Only through time, strength and patience do we change the errors of our habits, both individually and collectively.

These are the Last Days of many of those ways. Today I celebrate the Bad that has passed or that will die soon.

I celebrate the end of so many kinds of suffering and injustice and ignorance, too many to begin to enumerate here. Relief fills the air as the tension eases, and we catch our breath as we prepare the next wave.

I do not celebrate naively. I know that I could just as easily mourn this day, on which are born new sufferings and injustices and deceptions; on which the seeds of future calamity are planted as eyes are half-turned away. This day, one of the Last Days of much which is Good.

Today is for celebration because tomorrow is what we make it.

Sports Fan Mentality

My father started taking me to baseball games when I was six years old. We would brave the dangers of downtown St. Louis and the hassles of parking to watch the Cardinals. He taught me the details of the game, and always bought a program and recorded each batter's activity, such as Lou Brock leading off the fifth with a single. I was fascinated by all the statistics and within a few years could calculate batting averages and ERA's.

I became a dedicated follower of the team, listening to games on the radio, checking the newspaper to follow the standings and players' stats. If my team lost, I felt bad. When they did well, either as a team or individually, that made me happy. I was embarrassed by their lack of homeruns, but proud of their strong pitching and high batting average as a team. I knew the names of all the players and much about their statistics.

I continued to follow the team closely throughout adolescence, but as a young adult, I stopped following the details. I had some idea of their standings and certainly knew if they were in contention for another title, but lost track of who the players were. I moved out of the Midwest years ago and haven't watched more than a few minutes of baseball here and there for over twenty years.

And yet, to this day, even though I can only name one or two players on the team, I want them to win. I feel bad when they lose. They won the World Series a few years back with Pujols and some other people, and I was ecstatic. They've only done that a few times in my life. But this team today has almost nothing in common with the team I followed as a boy. The logo, the name, the Busch Beer family, that's about it. Why do I care now?

It's just a sports thing, right? There's nothing unhealthy about having a favorite team, cheering for the one you identify with. It's healthy. Isn't it?

The phenomenon of identifying with an idea for no particular reason, other than that you have identified with it for some time, and that significant others in your life have as well, is an interesting one, and goes well beyond sports. I see the same sports fan mentality in politics. If your parents, your friends, your community tend to hold a certain political belief, chances are good that you will too. Most people identify with or despise a political party or political label. Phrases like "left wing" or "conservative" often lose any meaning other than team affiliation, and people are delighted when their side wins, even if they have no concept of the values or actions of those they voted for.

Moreover, when a person has openly defended a team, it's difficult for them to come out in support of the other team. We see this often with respect to religious and nationalistic behavior. Adults instruct children to recite something they don't understand, such as a national pledge of allegiance, or a church's tenets of faith. The child now identifies with that team, and might never in his life question that membership. Since we may not even be capable of questioning belonging to such a group until well into adulthood, by then being already recognized by our communities as fans of that team, switching allegiance could be a daunting task, and even socially and economically damaging.

So let's suppose I have been brought up as a member of the Catholic Church, just to pick one example, and I've raised my children to be Catholics, and taught them a set of beliefs which they must accept on faith, and that at age 40 I suddenly realize that I don't accept these things to be true. Maybe I have come to see how religion has been used to control the masses for the gains of the few throughout the ages, and that I can be loving and forgiving and kind without thinking about whether or not Mary was or was not a virgin some 2000 years ago. How do I go about telling everyone in my life about the change of my beliefs? What will be the effects? It's possible, and it happens, but there's a huge barrier to be crossed.

My father became a fan of the Atlanta Braves when he got cable, because their games were often on television. But not being from St. Louis, he hadn't been raised to be a Cardinals fan like me. Interfacing with his television, a part of the community, was enough to switch his allegiance. When I used to spend more time driving, I always had the radio on a talk station. Fortunately for me, those angry talk show hosts only reinforced my identification with the environmentalist team (Enviro-Whackos, indeed!), but I found myself thinking often about the subjects they brought up, such as gay marriage, the legality of abortion, immigration, and so on. Nothing about preventing malaria in Africa or malnutrition in Guatemala.

Even when I listen to the media of my team, I don't want to be told what to think or what to think about. Of course that's impossible. The people of St. Louis want to hear the details of the Cardinals game first, and the announcer will use emotional language ("disappointing night for the Cards" instead of "great night for the Dodgers"), thereby establishing in the impressionable minds of their audience that this team is more important than others. The weatherman on the news will similarly tell you how you should feel about the weather, as will many so-called news outlets tell you how you should feel about politics.

To answer my question: Yes, it's healthy. Watching a sporting event without caring who wins is lacking in passion, and that's what sports are about. The sports fan mentality is healthy with respect to sports. When it comes to more serious matters, such as war, famine, justice, and environmental preservation, to name a few, we need to escape partisan thinking. We need to stop mindlessly slinging about words like Muslim, American, liberal and say instead what we really mean.

Walking in the Rain

This weekend my girls' team is in a tournament. We tied last night, and right before today's game, the wind kicked up and cold hard rain poured down. Initially we were told there would be a 30 minutes delay, but the rain didn't let up a bit. At 1:00, instead of a game, we went straight to penalty kicks, and lost 3-2.

Everyone went home wet and freezing.

That result of the game was not a bad, because the opposing team probably would have beaten us by more than that in a regular game. They've beaten us 2-0 twice this year. But I needed to know the result of the 5:00 game so I'd know if we took second or third in our bracket, since the games take place at different times.

Nothing on the website. I called the only phone number listed on the tournament page, and got a message machine. Geneen had taken our truck to work, about a kilometer away at the Park Mall, so I decided to walk to Golf Links Park, some 3 km away, to learn the score so I could notify the players' families.

Before I'd walked very far, drops began to fall again, but there were several encouraging blue pockets in the early evening sky, so I continued. I haven't walked much lately, and it felt good. By the time I was almost halfway there, the rain was coming down pretty hard, and for the second time today, I was soaked.

But the interesting thing is this: walking through this neighborhood is extremely quiet. There are people all around, inside their houses and cars, but the only sounds you hear are the hums of machines.

And not a single car stops to ask if you want a ride. And we all sympathize with that behavior. Who would want a wet person in their car? Who would dare to pick up a stranger in this day and age? Let's just mind our own business and not think, not get involved, not take any risks.

Soon I got accustomed to the rain and stopped noticing it, just as I am again becoming accustomed to ignoring strangers.

Months Back in Tucson

When I first came back from Guatemala, I greeted people as I passed them on the street. That didn't last long.

This part of central Tucson, close to Park Mall, has a few 5- or 6-floor office buildings, suburban-type neighborhoods built in the 1950's, and an obligatory strip mall at every major intersection. It's not built at all for foot traffic. Even in the neighborhoods, at the small parks, you don't see many pedestrians. So it's not like being in New York, where greeting is impossible; it's just that we're very closed.

We're accustomed to traveling by automobile, sealed off from our surroundings. The principal way we interact with others is to show them our middle finger or honk.

I thought driving would feel odd after 5 months of abstinence, but I was wrong. After only a few minutes, I was completely at home behind the wheel.