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Guate pues

This last weekend marked exactly six months of being in country. Six months of new friendships, painful moments, and a mountain of learning. My life is completely different than it was a year ago at this time. Different country, different diet, different language, but for all its differences this life shows some incredible similarities to life in the states. Despite all the cultural barriers between the states and Guatemala I’ve found that many qualities aren’t specific to a certain country, ethnic group, religion, or culture. For instance, I’ve people who are generous with their time and money in every area of the world I’ve been to, I’ve also found people who are stingy with their money. I’ve found people who are grateful for everything they have in both the poorest parts of Guatemala and the richest parts of the states. I’ve found people breaking with cultural norms in the states and Guatemala alike. I’ve seen alcoholism wreck families in Guatemala and the states. I sometimes see issues that bother me in Guatemala, but then I hold judgment for a moment and realize that people are often acting out of the hurt they’ve experienced. Not that former experience justifies treating people poorly, but it helps me to give a reason for their behavior and love them regardless of their behavior.

Some people have asked me what I’m doing in Guatemala. Honestly, when I boarded that plane six months ago I didn’t really have a good idea what an extension agent even was. Now I’m starting to get a better grip on it. My job is to support MAGA which stands for ministry of agriculture, animal husbandry, and food. They work in every area of Guatemala, but my team is in one specific municipality. Our work varies from day to day, but mainly involves training groups of people ranging from farmers, women groups, and school kids. I have three main work partners, but I’m not limited to working only with those people as there are a lot of organizations doing similar work.

In the last month I have started preparing my own meals. I love going to our little market and buying what I need. I’ve even made friends with a few people who recognize me and challenge me to learn a little more Ixil which is the local language. I also love that I can buy local, fresh produce. It sincerely is such a blessing knowing that I’m supporting the local economy and getting quality produce at the same time. I read a statistic the other day that the average food in the states travels 1,800 miles before it gets to your plate. That’s insane to think about especially considering the transportation cost that then goes into your purchase. Anyway, back to Guatemala. My main meals consist of some variety of beans and rice. The other staple foods include cilantro, garlic, tomatoes, limes, onions, bananas, oatmeal, and salt. This will change though depending on the season. Usually once a day I splurge and buy a large fruit item like watermelon, cantaloupe, or pineapple to share with my host brothers.

My main mode of transportation is either walking (I walk a ton) or taking a microbus. Micros (as they’re called here) are essentially large minivans that have roughly 15 seats but often hold about double that when combining the people standing inside and the people hanging out to the back or sitting on top. There are also school busses that came from the states that are often used as well, but those are less common in my site. Pickups are probably the next most common mode of transportation as there is hardly a limit to the number of people that will fit. I’ve ridden in a pickup carrying 25 people, and there’s always room for one more.

As in every place that I’ve lived people work, but they also enjoy their hobbies. Here the two main sports are soccer and basketball. I joke that my basketball skill went way up when I got here simply because of my height. I’m rarely not the tallest one playing and I’m only 5’11”. My team goes to a few of the surrounding towns to play and it’s definitely enjoyable. Some of the connections that I’ve formed on the team have served me well to invest myself in other areas of the community that don’t necessarily relate to my job.

The weather here has been incredibly pleasant. When I arrived, the rainy season was just beginning which means that almost every afternoon there’s a fairly strong rainstorm. The daily high is around 70 degrees, but that varies greatly depending on what altitude I’m at. The eastern side of my municipality is very hot and grows crops such as pineapple and bananas while the western side of colder and grows crops like beans and other colder climate foods. The nightly temperature is around 50 and without central heating or air-conditioning this can seem kind of chilly. The rainy season ends around November, so we’ve almost arrived. That will also be the coldest time of the year with some places experiencing freezing temperatures in the country.

Where were you?

Where were you? Where were you when the twin towers fell in New York? Where were you when you found the news that JFK had been shot and killed? Where were you when you first heard the shocking news that Donald Trump upset Hillary Clinton to become the 46th President of the United States of America?

I was reclining on a couch, reveling in the ability to take part in my first electoral process. Early that day I had gotten a ride from a friend to go cast my ballot, a process I found invigorating and exciting. The fact that I got to be a part of the greatest democratic-republic government to grace the face of the planet energized me. You see, I had followed the election-process closely. Since the fall of 2015 I tried to stay engaged and follow all the debates, on both sides of the aisle as well as the libertarian ticket. This was something in which I found a great level of vested interest.

I began the night joking about the results. I didn’t think Trump had a chance, so I wandered around the halls of my dorm yelling ‘TRUMP TRAIN’ and making jokes about who our next President would be. The results started pouring in from the east coast first. Trump won a few states, Hillary won a few states. Finally, some of the more crucial states began to fall – Florida, Pennsylvania, Michigan. Trump. Trump. Trump. A concerned look started to crawl over my face. The atmosphere in my dorm began to change. You see, I lived in the athletes’ dorm among a wide range of ethnic races, but the other five dorms on campus were almost all-white. My friends were primarily white as was the small group of individuals who gathered around in the lobby that late Tuesday night.

It was in the moment that I began to regret what kind of nation we had become, what kind of a nation that I had tolerated. Growing up I had often heard jokes about Mexicans, women, and blacks. They were the norm for small-town rural Iowa. Turns out, they aren’t all that uncommon in a predominately white, small, Midwest college either. I saw my testosterone driven friends walk around chanting ‘Trump Train!’, but this time I couldn’t join them. My heart sank. My heart sank knowing the insults Trump had unleashed against immigrants characterizing them as robbers, drug smugglers, and murderers. My heart sank at self-proclaimed comments from our newly elected president calling himself ‘the least racist person I know.’ That night as I laid on that couch I didn’t have a solution, but all I could do was sit with my discomfort and know the American people and church ostracized an incredibly large segment of the American public.

Today, times are different. I see America from a different perspective. Ironically enough, Trump is now my boss as the Peace Corps is directly under the executive branch. Now instead of loud, white football players I’m confronted daily with small, indigenous Guatemalans who love to player futbol. I hear their stories of their friends who just arrived safely in the states by crossing the border. I see lives that have been transformed by men who were able to work for a few years in the states before coming back to be with their family. Even here, lives continue to be affected by the daily tweets and comments of our President and my heart continues to ache for those who are marginalized by the actions of the most powerful man on the planet, only this time I have the opportunity to love the marginalized, to show them hope, and hopefully to show the world their stories so we can see how destructive off-hand racist comments can be on the lives of real people.

Stories

“So, I really haven’t experienced Guatemala then have I?” a tourist sitting across the table in my hostel asked me.

“No, you have, just not most of Guatemala” I quickly reply. “You see, Guatemala is people, and people have stories, and you’ve only heard stories of the most touristy places. Those stories are still representative of Guatemala, but they don’t tell the whole story. I’ve lived here for five months now, and every day I hear another story which adds to my understanding of Guatemala. No one will ever completely know Guatemala, not even Guatemalans. It’s too rich and diverse for that type of knowledge, but all we can know is bits and pieces that lead to a grander story.”

I continue to be amazed at the stories of Guatemalans. With over twenty-two indigenous languages spoken I can’t help but marvel at the beauty contained in a country smaller than my home-state of Missouri. Recently in one of my work reports it asked the question, “The one thing I wish people in America knew about Guatemala is…” and all I could think of is how diverse this country is. We have rolling mountains and volcanoes, lakes and oceans, dry areas and extremely wet areas only twenty miles away from each other, huge rivers and beautiful waterfalls, caves and wonderous night skies. We have ladinos from Spain and Europe who immigrated here hundreds of years ago, and we have indigenous Mayan people who immigrated here thousands of years before that.

With all the focus on differences though, I have often thought about some of the similarities. One of the biggest ones that I’ve found running through every culture is the desire for a better life for oneself and one’s family. This is why immigration lays so heavily on my heart. It’s no longer an issue on the platform of two political candidates to me. It runs much deeper than that. These people are now my brothers and sisters, my family members and work partners. I live with a family of the last name Sanchez for Christ’s sake. People who want to provide for their families. I’ll leave with telling just one story from yesterday that can sum up a lot of people’s experiences here in Guatemala.

Yesterday I was in a far-out village working alongside members of the local government and the health center. We went to check on a one-and-a-half year old child with malnutrition to see if he was recuperating. His father gladly welcomed us into their humble home that was barely more than a dirt floor and some wooden slats for a bed. He said his other four children hadn’t had this same problem of malnutrition and he couldn’t understand why his youngest one wasn’t growing properly. We asked about his work and he said he goes down to the coast to cut sugar cane six months out of the year, and then he comes back and farms some land the other six months of the year where his family lives. I let my mind wander to opportunity and what it means to have privilege. I thought about the current immigration crisis in the states, and what I can do about it. I thought about how much money he could make in the states in only three months and then come back and work his farm the rest of the year. This would help solve his child’s problem of malnutrition and it would give him dignity and it would provide low-skill labor in the U.S. Why are we fighting this so hard? Why are we making it so hard for people in these impoverished nations? We need a system that works for Pedro. It doesn’t matter how many well-meaning NGO’s are working in the area if we can’t provide dignity in the form of a job to a father. If we want to keep sending money to NGO’s to help kids with malnutrition because we are compelled by some pictures and stories that’s fine, but if we want to solve the problem and get real about it we will start getting real about immigration and providing jobs and opportunities for real, honest, hard-working men like Pedro who just want a chance, and that’s just a small part of his story.

Community

Travel, travel far and long. Travel till you have seen all the countries in the world and seen all the seven wonders of the world. Travel and meet incredible people and learn new languages. Travel and live freely. Travel and don’t look back. Travel.

I’m afraid we’ve built a box around ourselves, a box of ‘freedom’ and ‘exploring’, but a box nonetheless. In all this commotion we’ve forgotten one of the fundamental elements of the human spirit – one that all the traveling in the world can’t cure. The element of community. As the instragramification of our national parks has taken over, it seems that people are often rushing to outdo one another, to post cooler photos showing how awesome their life is. I know I’ve been guilty of this in the past, sometimes even now. We are always in a rush to see more, do more, post more. Post. Post. Post. I scroll through my social media, and while I love seeing my friends doing incredible things (I really love seeing pictures of my friends enjoying nature and the cultures of the world), I feel like we have forgotten what it looks like to live in a community. We have placed traveling on a pedestal where it doesn’t belong. Mark Twain once said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot by acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s life.” I can’t help but disagree. This quote discredits so many of the marginalized groups that exist in the world. What about the family that loves where they live, and doesn’t have the means to leave? Are they less prejudiced because they live in ‘one little corner of the earth all one’s life’? In my experience, no. No, because they are my family. They are my countrymen and fellow humans. Traveling isn’t this magical experience that transforms a person from being narrow-minded to open-minded in the matter of a few months by living or traveling abroad.

Community is what ancient cultures were built around. It mattered much less what you did than who you belonged to – your family, community. This is obvious in the Hebrew Bible when describing genealogies which list names of people and what family, heritage, and legacy they belonged to. The connections of the people were drastically more important than where they traveled or what they did. The analogy that I often think about is when I’m hiking ten miles in the backwoods and I come across another human, I stop and talk to them for quite a while. We have a shared story even if that’s only that we happen to be in the same wilderness at the same time. We both know that if the other person needs something we will be there to provide for them. I find the same attitude to be true with rural communities. People need each other, and it results in close relationships and a feeling of belongingness. I believe this sense of belongingness can reduce the rate of divorce and suicide because community gives people a sense of purpose. They belong. I think somewhere along our struggle to ‘develop’ in the last hundred years we missed something. We missed what it means to belong to a community. Instead I hear stories of people commuting on trains for hours a day and hardly saying a word to another human soul. I hear stories of aloneness and a longing to belong. How do we get back to where we want to go? How do we get back to a sense of belonging and the strong communities that we so desperately need? I think we start by losing our constant need for traveling and exploring, and start getting to know what it means to love your neighbor – like the person living across the street and around the block.

This has a profound impact on the world around us if we truly let it. If we consider a warming climate and the effects of fossil fuels we can immediately see that travel is a big cause for global warming (think planes, cars, trains that all run on fossil fuels). We are told we should be able to see the world without considering the effects on the world around us. One of my favorite quotes says, “Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry.” We put as idols those who live in the vans as vagabonds, and consider people who live in the same community their whole life as a waste. Is it really a waste to love where you live despite how much it seems like shambles to every ‘successful’ person? Is it a waste to neglect those parts of the world that need our attention most? We need rural places if for no other reason than to keep as a slim hope that sense of community that has carried us through the ages. Rural places aren’t the only place to build community by any means, but it seems to be much more prevalent when you walk into the same gas station every morning for your morning coffee and the cashier calls you by name. Community solves so many of the problems of our time, and as long as we idolize traveling we’re missing the beauty of the world that may be just outside our front door.

Do something that matters

What does it mean to be a change agent in this world? Growing up in church we often heard the term ‘world changer’ and we thought it was achievable. We believed it. Maybe we were wrong, maybe we were right. Anymore, I wonder if we even have the abilities to change ourselves yet alone the other seven billion people on this planet. I do believe in change though. That’s why I’m dedicating two years of my life to service and volunteerism.

What does it take to change something though? I often see the very politically charged articles that my friends or colleagues post on Facebook, and I wonder if they do any good besides just polarizing the general public. The world is so divided already, does it need any more? We don’t need another right-leaning or left-leaning news source to tell us what’s wrong with the nation, and we definitely don’t need more political pawns to share said news sources. It’s not working. Our information overload is killing us. We receive more information in the course of a day than I’m sure our ancestors did in a lifetime, and we simply don’t know what to do with it.

It’s amazingly easy to point out what’s wrong with an issue and it’s roughly 100 times harder to fix it (source me). Thinking back to the information that I’ve consumed lately I haven’t seen one article detailing how to fix any of the issues that we’re confronted out. They only seek to enrage us, pitting brother against brother, or more often than not parents against children and children against parents. It’s just more of the same garbage recycled over and over. As Lewis Mumford once said, “our economy has converted the seven deadly sins of pride, envy, anger, sloth, avarice, gluttony, and lust into virtues after a fashion and the seven virtues of faith, charity, hope, prudence, religion, fortitude, and temperance into sins against gross national product.” I could hardly disagree, but I would argue that the same statement can be made about the news that we consumer. We thrive on hate, anger, and disagreement. It’s what drives it, and it is what fuels our conversations around Thanksgiving and Christmas as well as on those long threads on Facebook. We don’t seek to understand anymore because that’s not sexy, hip, or cool.

At the same time, is there no room for righteous anger, and if so what/whom should it be directed toward? I know Jesus definitely thought so as he flipped the tables of the thieves and robbers in the temple, the most sacred place of its time for the Jews. Should we be angry toward our President? Surely there are a thousand reasons to be upset with him? Maybe, but then what form should that look like? Disgust? Anger? Repulsion? I’m sure my friends would readily agree with all of the above, but that doesn’t solve anything, right? Is there a different way? Is there a way that promotes the seven virtues of faith, charity, hope, prudence, religion, fortitude, and temperance, and if so what’s a good example of that?

I would argue that yes there must be, or otherwise what are we still doing here. As Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “You cannot drive out darkness with darkness, in the same way you cannot drive out hate with hate, only love can do that.” Our discourse has fallen (or maybe it never existed) from what it could be. It could be a conversation about the issues that matter like the environment, abortion, women’s rights, birth control, immigration, and a billion other things, but instead few seek to understand and everyone vomits their opinion into a virtual world that is overflowing at the brim.

David Orr argues in his book Earth in Mind that the way to fix so many of the problems that plague our country and world today is to stop focusing on the GDP of the country and focus on the higher virtues aforementioned. Our education system must teach students to be good citizens and to live with humility, putting the wants and needs of others before themselves. We must learn respect – of ourselves, others, and the world around us which includes the environment. We must love – deeply and sacrificially. We must forsake the messages being cast our way in a billion different ways that scream to consume. One day we will realize how much is enough. We don’t need more clothes, a newer phone, and even a cool car. What we desperately need is connection, gentleness, respect, kindness, love, belonging, roots, and a purpose for living, and none of those can be found in your latest politically charged Facebook post.

Holding Two Truths

Life is often trying to find the balance between two conflicting ideas. I’ll give you a couple of examples to explain my point a little better.

Yesterday I was on a hike with one of the other volunteers who lives close-by. We started in a fairly large city where she lives and then headed out on a micro (imagine church van but smaller), and got to one of the aldeas (villages). From there we set off on foot and meandered through two other aldeas before getting to the trail that leads to another aldea literally on top of this mountain which has no roads or way of getting there except by foot. The hike is about a 3,000 ft climb and it wanders through cornfields and pine forest before eventually topping out among a rock-strewn, cold, eerie plateau. Instead of fences made of barb-wire and wooden posts, the fences consisted of a small wooden gate and rocks stacked about four feet high. I felt like I had walked into a different world, or perhaps Ireland 500 years ago. We strolled down to the town which consists of about 20 houses or so and one of them had a sign that said “tienda” with an arrow pointing toward a small window where a few small belongings were kept. As we stared in the window all we saw where a few small packages of Tortrix (national snack of Guate), beans in a can, and a few beverages. We bought some chips and beans and headed toward a perch to enjoy your well-earned snack. As we rested and chatted I thought about how different this was from my life the past four summers in Colorado where I would often see dozens of people on the trail all elbowing for the same ‘Instagram photos’ to show how cool their summer vacation was. In contrast, we had met maybe ten people who were all indigenous Mayans. This isn’t meant as a bash on Colorado, only meant to point out the grand differences.

As we ate our ‘frijoles con pan’ we talked about our mixed feelings being there. The people in the village were not accustomed to foreigners, and understandably so since it was so far removed from everywhere and everything. They looked at us with distrust and instead of the normal warm Guatemalan greeting we were met with looks of puzzlement. I was so grateful to my friend for showing me the new ‘hike’ with all its wildness and isolation. While hiking I often imagined that this is what tourists hope for when they buy that plane ticket to come to Guatemala, but instead they’re met with bustling crowds, street vendors, and hostels. I wanted to tell my friends about what a ‘treasure’ I had found so that everyone I know can come and do it as well, but wouldn’t it then lose its wildness? This isn’t just a hike through a National Park like I’m accustomed to, this is peoples’ lives. People live and work here, and do I really want a caravan of foreigners to come in and ruin the peace and quiet that we experienced yesterday? My conflict lies in wanting to show others a beautiful part of this country that I’m falling in love with, while at the same time respecting the lives and values of the Guatemalans that make the country so beautiful. I don’t want to turn their livelihoods into a tourist attraction regardless of how beautiful and wild their homes are.

The second example comes from living with an indigenous Mayan host family. They speak a native dialect called Ixil that has been spoken for who knows how long. There are only three towns in the country (and world for that matter) that speak Ixil and all three of the towns speak a different dialect, so much so that the people from my town prefer to speak in Spanish when visiting the other two towns even though the language is technically the same. Talking with other volunteers this can often be a point of frustration and contention because they don’t feel included in group conversations. For instance, I went with my work partner to give a charla (talk) on nutrition and most of the women attending the talk only spoke in Ixil so my work partner gave the whole thing in Ixil and me and my friend were lost pretty much all of the time. Input becomes practically impossible when you can’t even figure out the context of what is being said. This is not a one time incident by any means. After talking with other Volunteers and experiencing other meetings or charlas myself, this seems to be a regular occurrence. It’s only human nature to want to feel included and know what’s going on, right?

The way this is manifested is that the majority of classes that are taught in schools in this region are taught in Spanish because that is the national language. With this comes the gradual loss of indigenous languages whether that’s the intended consequence or not. Thus, as David Orr says, “Education has become a great homogenizing force undermining local knowledge, indigenous languages, and the self-confidence of placed people.” As I’ve witnessed from first-hand experience the first generation to learn Spanish can still speak the local language as well as Spanish. The next can understand the local language, but not speak it, and by the third generation it tends to be lost altogether. Obviously, that is a great generalization, but it has tended to hold true in the circles I’ve been around.

The conflict of this whole situation is that I want my host family to speak in Spanish. I want to know what they are saying, to laugh at their jokes, and to get to know them as people, but that can be challenging when they are only speaking in Ixil amongst each other and I only know about ten phrases in Ixil so even grasping the theme is difficult. The other frustrating part is that I know that the majority of them speak fairly good Spanish so it wouldn’t be that hard for them to switch when I’m around; however, my host mother doesn’t speak much Spanish so out of respect for her they only really speak Ixil when she is around. Nevertheless, it’s a challenging balance because I want to speak Spanish, but I want to respect their right to speak their language, because after all, I’m the one who came into their world and they have embraced me with open arms. Such is the life of holding two truths and seeing the world as it truly is – a few streaks of black and white with a whole universe of grey.

Commitment to Service

What am I doing here?

First, I want to start off with a quote that we heard the first day of training in Houston before we got on the plane. I specifically remember Allan getting on the bus as we were all sitting there and saying, “Peace Corps is not a one-time commitment.” Those words have been replaying over in my mind over and over these past two months. Some days are easy – the Spanish comes easily, everything goes smoothly with the host family, I jive well with the other trainees, and I don’t have diarrhea. Other days – well, not so much. Those are the days that I have to remind myself of my commitment to serve. When my host mom gives me frijoles for the fifth day in a row and I just miss my dog.

I decided more than a year and a half ago that I wanted to serve abroad for two years. It seemed so exciting and challenging. I decided then to apply and now as we are less than a week from swearing in to become official Peace Corps Volunteers, I am renewing my commitment – not for the first time or last time, but rather for one more time in the long chain of continual commitment. I am committing to give everything that I am to the country of Guatemala – my time, money – both quetzals, and energy to improving the daily lives of Guatemalans. I am committing to living with the people and getting to know their customs, their likes and dislikes, their culture, and how they conduct themselves daily.

A quote from Two Ears of Corn stuck out to me the other day while I was reading and I want to quickly share it with all of you. It goes, “The closer program leaders come to living as the villagers do - the more we can leave behind our cities, towns, embassy crowds, and missionary compounds - the better our work will be. It is only when we have spent all day stooped over while transplanting rice in flooded paddies, when we have raced out into the family courtyard to rescue drying millet from a sudden rain, when we have survived for days on nothing but boiled field corn, and when we have fallen in love with the villagers’ enchanting children, that we can come to speak with the villagers’ vocabulary, understand their priorities, and fathom their feelings and wants. And it is only then that they will truly come to trust us.” That is my goal, to integrate and learn to love in the next two years and that is what I will commit to every day of service.

Site Reveal Day

This post isn’t meant to be inspirational, fun, or even interesting. More than anything I desire to document how I feel at this moment in my life.

We received our sites today! After waiting patiently (or not so patiently for some) for eight weeks in country they finally handed us all a piece of paper with the name of a site, our host family information, and our work partners. It feels so weird to have someone decide where you’re going to live for two years. That’s a lot of trust in the U.S. government. I barely have that much trust for myself. It’s weird giving up control and deciding that other people are smarter than you are at times.

My site is in Northern Quiche. What does that mean for the folks back home? Not too much I suppose. It’s way far away from everyone else, and fairly isolated. On a bus from the Peace Corps office it takes roughly seven hours on buses. I say buses because I have to take four different buses to get to my site. It’s quite the haul to say the least. On the bright side I will have three other volunteers in my site! I’ve met one of them who is in the same training cycle as I am, and I’m pumped to work alongside her for two years. She’ll do great.

One of the other volunteers is named Connor. I haven’t met him yet, but I did get the chance to talk to him for about 20 minutes on the phone tonight. One of the other trainees went to his house for field based training a few weeks ago and referred to him as the ‘woke bro.’ He told me about my host family a little and apparently I’m living just down the street from him so I’m happy about that! It will be nice to have someone else who loves to be outside and who generally shares my culture.

The language spoken there is primarily Ixil. That’s terrifying. I’m still working on improving my Spanish and now I’m going to be thrown into a whole new situation with a Mayan language. What a life. Connor said I don’t have to learn it, but it would give me great repertoire with the volunteers who are already there so I’ll give it a shot! So much to be learned. I have to keep reminding myself that one of the reasons I signed up for Peace Corps all those months ago was to challenge myself in my Spanish, what I believe, who I want to be - all of those deep questions.

I didn’t really want to be placed in Quiche. One my questionnaire they asked me where I wanted to go, and I put Solola which is the other department we work in, so when I received my site today I was kinda bummed. Apparently other volunteers cried when they received their site, but I kept reminding myself to have an open mind. It’s always a challenge - day by day. I know it will be what you make of it, and after talking to the volunteer in site and my friend who I will be working alongside who is also in training I feel a lot more confident. My work partners are fun and exciting, and there is even an opportunity to join a basketball league so who knows?

The closer program leaders come to living as the villagers do - the more we can leave behind our cities, towns, embassy crowds, and missionary compounds - the better our work will be. It is only when we have spent all day stooped over while transplanting rice in flooded paddies, when we have raced out into the family courtyard to rescue drying millet from a sudden rain, when we have survived for days on nothing but boiled field corn, and when we have fallen in love with the villagers’ enchanting children, that we can come to speak with the villagers’ vocabulary, understand their priorities, and fathom their feelings and wants. And it is only then that they will truly come to trust us.

Two Years of Corn by Roland Bunch

Not a One Time Commitment

“Peace Corps is not something that you commit to one time in your life.” I can still hear the words echoing through my brain weeks after they were uttered. I first heard them during our PC training event in Houston, Texas, the day before we flew down to Guatemala as a team. They’ve passed through my brain on some of the best days in country and during some of the most difficult moments.

They started to make me think beyond just Peace Corps though, and into other realms of my life. They ring true about a plethora of ideas.

For my friends who are Christians, Jesus is not something you commit to one time in your life. Maybe there was one distinct moment you may recall as your ‘decision’, but Christ calls us moment by moment - in the tough moments and the moments of ease.

For my friends who believe in abstinence, that is hardly something you commit to once. It’s a daily struggle to fight for what you believe when your body is screaming otherwise.

For my friends who believe in the effects of running/exercise, it’s not something we commit to once. Friends and accountability help, but I find myself recommitting day after day at 6:00 a.m. when my alarm goes off. I’ve never gotten back from a run and regretted it, but that doesn’t make it easier to commit to it day after day.

For my friends who believe in being open-minded and accepting the beliefs of others, it’s not something we commit to once. This idea has rung true living with a group of people with beliefs so different from the environment where I’ve grown up. Sure, it’s an idea I learned in a class, but that’s not when the idea matters. Open-mindedness only matters when it’s put up against a test of choosing to listen and grow or putting up a wall consisting of my personal beliefs that block me from seeing how another sees the world. Every day is a chance to choose who we want to become.

Moments of Mattering and Moments of Marginalization

One of our first days in country I heard one of the Peace Corps staff say, “There will be some really hard moments in your service, and some incredible moments, and they may even come in the same day within hours of each other.”

This afternoon was hard for me. I wasn’t connecting well with the volunteers who I was surrounded me, and I was discouraged. I felt like I wasn’t good enough even though I was doing my best to be open-minded and accepting of other people and all that resulted was sitting alone in my room frustrated at how the whole day had unfolded. I thought about all of the conversations that led to me sitting in my room feeling lonely. I didn’t want to leave my room, but I know my running group was meeting in a few minutes so I gingerly put on my shoes and slid out the door.

I strolled to the house where we meet every day, and part of me prayed for a long, hard workout to get out all of my frustrations. The schedule for the day called for a half mountain which means running half-way to the ecological park in town (900 ft of vert) and looping back down through a tiny colonial town. 3, 2, 1.. counted the leader and pum, we’re off. The fastest in the group, Edgar, quickly edged his way to the front and I tried to keep up. Step by step on the way up I pushed my body and stayed right on his heels all the way to the spring at the top where we begin the downhill.

He quickly put some distance between us on the way down even though I was running well under six minute pace. In the colonial there were stray dogs so I was a little worried about running solo. When I arrived the dogs were nowhere to be found and I quickly scampered down the rest of the mountain back to our starting location where I met up with Edgar.

Guatemalan culture truly values relationship, thus when the runners all gathered they pooled together their money and bought some cheese puffs and Coke, and together we sat around talking and enjoying each other’s company. As this was probably my fifteenth time running with the guys I felt comfortable in their company even if I couldn’t understand everything they were saying. It’s funny how little language has to do with feeling comfortable in the company of others. Laughing and small gestures go a long way in making others comfortable in your company.

While we were sitting there the leader of the group, Jorge, perked up and asked me, “Do you want a shirt now that you’re part of the group?” I couldn’t believe what I heard. All I could mutter was, “Yeah, of course. How much does it cost?” He smiled and said, “No it’s a gift” as he meandered inside to grab a shirt of my size. He stepped out a few minutes later and handed me the shirt in front of everyone. I thought about crying thinking about how nice of a gesture it was, but I refrained because they are hardly the group of people you want to find yourself crying in front of. Instead I smiled and thought about how incredible it feels to be a part of a group where I belong, and at the end of the day that’s what matters.

Nispero

I’m typing the word ‘nispero’ as many times as possible in the hopes that by the 50th time typing ‘nispero’ I’ll remember it. Nispero is a small fruit that looks almost like a pear, but it’s yellow when it’s ripe. The fruit grows in pairs so when you find a ripe bunch you’ll likely have found at least eight. We cut down a couple dozen from a tree this afternoon to eat. They are yellow on the outside, but white on the inside. In order to eat them you peel off the yellow skin which comes off quite easily and then break them in half to take out the seed (sometimes there’s two), and eat the lovely remains. They are one of the sweetest fruits I’ve tasted to date, and honestly I can’t wait to get my hands on some more Nispero.

Futbol Guatemalan Style

I stood completely still, my hands quivering slightly as they were being used to cover myself. I feared for my head as well. In front of me stood a man about to launch a solid object at my body as hard as he could. Behind me stood a teammate attempting to keep said object from passing through a large metal frame. I glanced quickly at a fellow Peace Corps Trainee’s who are sitting in the stands laughing at what is transpiring. I snap back into the moment, and before I know it the ball is released from the opponent’s foot and soars past my head. “Pheww” I think, “I skated death another time.” The ball smacks the goalie’s hand and I start jogging up the field thinking about how grateful I am that it wasn’t my fault that we lost the game.

Today was my first time officially playing soccer. I arrived early because I was told the game was to start at 8. In typical fashion I arrived a little early and helped my host brother and co. to set up the nets. We mozied around for a while, waiting for the game to begin. I couldn’t believe that I was getting to play on a real field with a referee and everything. It was like a dream come true. Honestly, I was pretty nervous. I didn’t want to make mistakes and I thought I may be the worst one on the team. Then the rest of the team showed up and it consisted of some really quick agile people, but also a host grandpa on the upper end of 60 years old. I couldn’t help but smile and think about what a beautiful culture I’ve been immersed in. It took me back to playing football everything Thanksgiving with my grandpa when he was on the upper end of 70. It even made me miss him a little bit.

Our first game went by without a hitch. We won easily 4-1, and even though I played primarily defense I still touched the ball a few times to the cheers of the crowd. I was the beloved ‘gringo’. After one goal that we scored the announcer on the loudspeaker went crazy yelling ‘golosooooooooooooooooooooo’ as loud as he could. I know it shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did. I laughed and savored every moment of being Guatemalan even if it was only for an hour.

Timhop Guatemala

Two Years Ago, Today:

My feet flew along as I creeped up on the leader of the pack. My body hurt, but not in a bad way. It knew how much was left to give and it was willing to give it. Four laps to go. My pace quickened and I knew that I had a chance to win my heat. With each lap the distance between me and the leader gradually dissipated. Finally, we all heard the longed-for bell signifying four-hundred grueling meters to go. I slid around the leader into first, and as my teammates cheered I ran down the back stretch, knowing I was running the fastest 5k of my entire life.

I crossed the finish line and my time read 15:58, almost a thirty second personal record. I was surprised and elated all at the same time. It’s always a fun feeling when you set a personal best, and to overcome personal barriers through hard work and determination. My parents were there to celebrate as well along with Coach Bowen. I didn’t know where my life was headed, but I knew I loved running, and I was excited to see where it would take me.

One Year Ago, Today:

I was coming off the best period of training of my life. For weeks, I had run at least forty miles, and several weeks were close to fifty. I was healthy and excited to try and qualify for Nationals in the half-marathon. My goal was a 1:13 or faster, but a 1:15 or faster would qualify as well. The morning dawned wet and cold, and the race was postponed because of lightning so I sat inside huddled with friends who decided to brave the cold for me. Among them were my brother, a friend from Chicago, parents, and teammates.

The gun sparked the start, and I quickly took off on a flat rail-trail knowing what I had to do. After all, this was my fourth try to qualify for Nationals in the marathon on this very same trail. My legs flowed smoothly, and they skipped along merrily at a sub-six-minute pace. At the turnaround point I was several minutes ahead of pace, but instead of pain I felt excited, knowing I was going to make it this time. My good friend Kevin ran alongside of me for several miles, and it helped having company. With over a mile to go, and the goal well within my sight I couldn’t help, but smile and think about how good it feels to overcome a barrier. I crossed the finish line in 1:10:36, almost a six-minute personal best and a ticket punched to the National Marathon. Hard work payed off again.

Today:

My alarm clock went off at 5:15, interrupting my dream and calling me out of bed into the cold, mostly dark night. I laid in bed for several minutes reading about Michigan Basketball, before I slid on my shoes, brushed my teeth and headed for the door. I pushed against the door to open, but it wouldn’t go so I tried again. Nothing. I didn’t have a light and couldn’t see a thing so I went back and turned on a light across the room. From my host family parent’s room the advice started, “You have to open the latches above and below.” Obviously, I could see now that the light was on. I opened them and went back and turned off the light. What a great way to start the morning.

As I stepped outside my body shivered as it was met by a cool breeze so I quickly walked into a jog on the way to the meeting spot with my Guatemalan running friends. I had met them almost two weeks ago, almost by accident and have run with them almost every day since. Today is their long run – nearly twelve miles, a distance I haven’t run in almost six months. One by one they emerged from the darkness into the street until we were seven. The first group took off and told the rest of us to wait five minutes.

I jogged slightly because of the cold, until finally it was my group’s turn and we took off into the morning, fleeing from the sunrise. Down, down, down we ran for the first four miles clipping in at sub-six pace which was a shock to my system. Around four and a half miles we turned around and started climbing, climbing, climbing. We climbed over 1,000 ft in the next couple miles as our pace slowed and breathing quickened. I caught up with the lead group around mile eight at a corner where I fended off a chucho, and one of the runners handed me a plastic water pouch. We glided along a dirt road for several miles, and all I thought about was how much pain I was in.

We arrived back at our starting spot and I stopped my watch, 1:28. That hurt. I sat on a curb trying to decide what hurt the worst. One of the runners strolled off to a local shop and bought juice and jello for everyone, which we readily devoured. I couldn’t help but think about how blessed I am. I thought I was giving up running for the next two years of my life when I joined the Peace Corps. I was ready to commit, but instead I found a way to continue to do what I love, and do it with people from my host country. God knows what we need, and he has provided for me along every step of my journey. I don’t know what my timehop will look like two years from today, but I do know that I will be provided for, and I hope that I can keep building relationships through a sport that has given me so much.

Que Chilero

Life is incredible. It provides limitless opportunities to love and be loved. It provides opportunities to laugh and cry, to run and play. We get to choose what to make of our one life. Some choose to end their life early while others pray to live forever. So what have I decided to do with my one chance? I’m never going to be this young every again.

I have decided to love, to laugh, and to give myself fully. I have decided to commit myself to a God whom I have never seen, but trust fully. It’s a scary thing, and living abroad with people who have a plethora of beliefs often challenges what I believe about myself and the world around me. I like it that way. I can’t live stagnant because I’m being challenged every day. It makes me love Jesus a little bit more because in Him I am able to find hope and life and purity. He is the only one who makes me a better man and a better human.

One of my loves is Zac Brown Band, and their recent album has a song called “Roots” and it talks about however far he travels he never forgets his roots. That’s how I feel living in Guatemala. It’s a new world and I’m throwing myself 100% into exploring its foods, people, and culture, but that doesn’t change where I come from and the truth that I carry within me from previous experiences. Being grounded doesn’t trap you, but instead it allows you to explore without fear of being blown away by every new ideology that comes along. Overall, I’d say that life is pretty chilero right now, and I’m happy with the life I’ve been blessed to choose.

The Grand Meander Continues

“Aqui” said Jorge, a tall and slender man about 40 years old.

I looked up the hill and said “Por alla?” almost incredulously. He simply shook his head up and down and charged up the hill. We turned and steamed up a dirt path that had been carved out over the course of years, carved out so much that my hands could touch both sides without dipping down. My breathing picked up as we neared the top where it eased off and I couldn’t help but think what a beautiful life that I live.

Only two days before I had gotten up at five in the morning because I thought that was at what time we were running. I found this group of runners almost by accident. I wanted to go running on Tuesday afternoon so I strolled over to the stadium in town which has a track around the soccer field. I saw a group of runners and asked if I could join. I did a few repeats with them, and they thought I was fascinating. That was when Jorge told me that they were running on Thursday at five. I didn’t bother to ask whether they were running in the morning or the afternoon so I showed up at five in the morning on Thursday.

Looking back I feel kinda dumb because they were running at five in the afternoon, but I didn’t realize that until the next day when I showed up again at five in the morning and as I sat on the curb I couldn’t help but think about how the difference in language was affecting my life. So I went back to bed for an hour and then met up with them in the afternoon. They were doing a competition that day of five miles and they started at intervals so that it was more fair. I was in the second to last group and passed everyone just after the halfway point. I haven’t run that fast in about 10 months. My first mile was a 5:20. I felt wild flying through foreign streets, dodging cars, buses, goats, cows, and everything in between. How fun and scary it is to live in the discomfort of new experiences.

Thanks Colorado for being hecka beautiful as always and thanks to my adventurous mother for meandering across the country! Also to @emilyshupak and @jamiegorman27 for being forever friends and hiking today! Oh and thanks @proninamaria for convincing me to get a haircut 💇‍♂️ (at Rocky Mountain National Park)

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