As I brushed my teeth (with bottled water) I got a whiff from the bathroom sink that was not pleasant, like death, rot and sewage. I hope I’m leaving Honduras in time, I thought. The water makes Guatemala’s seem pristine.
Crossing the border was easier the second time through. I presented my passport to the agent who commented on how many places I’d been. I walked into Guatemala and was readmitted there. Then I walked back into Honduras and climbed into the van, which drove me yet again into Guatemala.
Along the way I saw some signs that kind of shocked me: Los políticos son una mierda. Ya estamos hartos, which means (my translation) Politicians are shit; we’ve had enough already. It was surprising to see profanity on billboards, but I do agree with the message.
My shuttle, packed despite the early hour, arrived only 15 minutes late. It took six boring hours to get here, but there were no problems. Dropping down that last hill into Antigua, I felt almost like I was coming home. At our stop, I asked the driver where he was going, in case I could hitch a ride all the way to Callejon del Burrito. He agreed to drive me. Halfway there, he stopped and asked me to wait. He returned with a little potted plant that had scarlet flowers. I love them, he said. I talk to them. They make me happy. My house is very small but my plants make it cheerful.
After driving us the six hours from Honduras, he was going home to Ciudad Viejo (ten minutes away) for one hour, and then he had to make the nasty six-hour drive back to Honduras. He does that every day of the week, including Sundays. Yet he took the time out to drive me home. See what I mean about Guatemalans?
I didn’t do much for the rest of the day—blog-writing, e-mail checking, lunch with Maria and Doí±a Rosa, and a brisk walk into town for some provisions. In the Parque Central, men were cleaning the fountain so the sirena had temporarily ceased spurting water from her stony breasts.
The Parque Central is even wireless now, which is extremely weird considering that most locals can’t afford a computer.
I told Maria about the family on the bus, with ailing mother and baby. She told me about Rosa’s experience many years ago. No doctor would treat her sick three-month-old because she had no money. Clutching her baby, she walked from her town, Jocotenango, to Antigua. But everyone turned her away and the baby died. The baby had a treatable illness, but she told Maria that it was pobreza that killed her baby: poverty. That happened to her twice.
In the early evening, Maria came by again with her friend Mercedes. Mercedes had a good job in a shop for many years, but it closed and left her unemployed. She has two sons and is single. The place she lives is kicking her out because they’re selling the place. She had with her six handmade pocketbooks she was trying to sell to bring in a little cash. I didn’t like most of them that much, but I bought them all. She was elated.
“I love them”, he said. “I talk to them. They make me happy. My house is very small but my plants make it cheerful.”
Same here.
Except I don’t talk to my plants.
Nor do I love them.
But, my house is very small and, sometimes-when they aren’t shriveled and dying-my plants make it cheerful.
While I don’t ever take for granted that I have an alive (and well) baby, I am not always aware of how lucky I am to have access to care, in the first place, much less insurance (and reputable doctors and the option to choose from a pool of them, as well as living in a region where patients’ rights groups exist…)
Thank you for talking to me. You and that guy almost have a lot in common.
Yes, we are very fortunate, some of us. While a lot of us in the U.S. don’t have health insurance, we still have better access than the average person here. In the U.S., I wonder if they’d turn away a sick baby and let it die. I don’t think so.
Toodle-ooo,
Comparison Turntat
That *is* a rather impressive passport, my dove.
That guy sounds really lovely. I also talk to my plants, I do, I do. Even more than Eleni does. What did he DO with the pot, pray tell? Was he just showing it to you, or giving it you…?
Oh, Rosa. What a life. So sad. And so bloody common in this world, I’m sure. We are lucky.
It’s not so impressive a pasapuerte.
The guy really was lovely. No, he bought the plant for his own wee house. Funny thing was, yesterday as I walked through town a guy said hola to me and I said hola back and walked on, and then screeched to a halt, turned around and said, ¡HOLA! because I realized it was him. He had just driven back from Honduras and was about to go back. What a life. I asked how his plant was and he said fine, and that it was the color of my shirt, which was la verdad.