Return To Patzun

I settled back in my seat and peered out the window at the roof tops of houses and buildings as they shrunk into a random patchwork of reds, grays and browns. The 737 pierced the broken layer of white clouds obscuring Guatemala’s capital city from view…my thoughts turned toward home, sleeping in my own bed, a hot shower and a shave. As I began to put some time and distance between me and that small rural village…the memories of the past week started to replay. It was a week spent with a medical team at a rural clinic/orphanage run by the Franciscan Nuns. Even though this had not been my first trip to Patzun it was a powerful reminder of two very different worlds separated only by a six hour bus and plane ride.

The week prior to the trip I questioned my reasoning for going. I am a non-medical person. I am more about math and physics, engineering and construction, repairing and fixin’ stuff. Ok! Actually…duct tape and bailing wire are my forte. I have long passed that youthful stage in life where everything has to be an adventure. I no longer want to circum-navigate the globe on a one man sailboat or climb Mount Everest. All my exploits are now confined to lying on the couch and watching the Discovery Channel. So…why was I going? I fought with feelings of not wanting to go, spells of anxiety and thoughts of all the terrible things that could happen. I never could come up with a really good reason for not going so I decided to just “tuff it out”. Besides, the trip would be an escape from all the campaign poppycock and piffle of the last week before our 2008 presidential election.

The day before leaving home my reoccurring thought was “please don’t let anything happen to me on this trip”. Then it occurred to me…that’s not a very positive approach. So I changed my prayer to “Please, Lord, let something GOOD happen to me and to each and everyone on this trip.”

Being the professed procrastinator that I am…I found myself packing at the eleventh hour. My “carry on” had all my personal stuff…tooth brush, a couple changes of clothes and a sleeping bag. And for the “check-in” stuff; one duffle bag filled with 50 pounds of medical gear and the second with 20 pounds of tools, leaving 30 pounds for anything I wanted to smuggle into the country. Knowing the children could always use clothing I headed down to the local Goodwill store hoping to find some bargains to fill the remainder of my second duffle bag. After asking about the bargain rack of children’s clothes and being quoted a by-the-piece price that I felt was beyond my budget, I explained my intentions and I was ushered into the back room where again I explained to yet another staff person what I wanted. She found a large crate with assorted children’s apparel and began counting out the items. As she counted I told of the children at the orphanage and of the medical team that was going to Guatemala to do a marathon of surgeries. As I spoke the price became more and more affordable. By the time I got to the cashier I had put away my credit card and was able to pay with what little folding change I had in my pocket. Wow! I thought “something good is already starting to happen”. I stuffed the items into the duffle bag along with some plumbing fittings and a shower head hoping to improve the design of the make shift shower, dusted off my passport and away I went.

The Houston airport…I had to chuckle to myself as I listened to the announcement over the airport P.A. system alerting everyone to the fact that we were now at security level “orange” and that a “sense of humor” would be treated as a security threat. What has our land of the free and home of the brave come to? When I arrived at my assigned gate for boarding I was greeted by last years team members and introduced to the new faces.

Then one “in-flight” movie later we descended through the clouds and made a wide right downwind, turned final and lined up on runway 01. I could see the sleek modern buildings that contrasted against the rusty tin roofs of the shanties and huts in the sprawl of the Guatemalan capital city.

This time I already knew about the chicken buses, the unabated exhaust fumes and the crowds of people. Also my fear of a strange language was not as severe this time. Not being an election year in Guatemala there was an obvious lack of election posters missing from every building, pole and tree. That was a nice change from last year. The bus ride from Guatemala City to Patzun, by comparison, was a relatively calm and safe trip. Last years bus driver apparently had graduated from the minor leagues to either NASCAR or Formula I racing.

After an unceremonious arrival, we began setting up the equipment and supplies. Dr. Garrett, a.k.a. “John MacGyver”, was also well versed in the use of duct tape and bailing wire…this made my job easy. I turned in early and looked forward to the next day’s activities.

The first morning I arose as the roosters began their symphony proclaiming the coming sunrise. The air had a faint scent of a wood fire and of corn tortillas cooking. The popping firecrackers announcing someone’s birthday, the blast of a bus horn, and the sound of an engine winding through the gears in the distance could be heard with amazing clarity in the crisp mountain air. The volume of noise increased as dawn approached. As I sat on the concrete steps of my temporary home I could see the early morning glow as it backlit the hills and outlined the dark clouds that were brushed across the sky like a Van Gogh painting. I love the subtle changing of colors, shades and hues as the clouds and light mingle in a constantly altering arrangement…it is a good time…a good time for me to think (even though my thinking is as primitive as rubbing two sticks together in an effort to start a fire). It’s my time alone with God and I enjoy it.

Mid morning…I paused to watch the children playing in the yard… I noticed that the sky seemed bluer, the clouds appeared whiter and the mountains looked more vibrant with shades of purple and green. The meaning of life was clearer in this place, a place seemingly forgotten in time and passed up by progress but yet there was a pervasive presence of happiness. The children played, laughed and smiled, with apparently no worries. No complaining about not having the latest electronic games or toys…they played with what they had. I watched the young boys as they wheeled the Paul Bunyan sized axe apparently with no supervision. Playfully chopping wood…they seemed to enjoy the activity every bit as much and as any game. The game provided entertainment for them and the wood provided the fuel for stoves to cook the corn tortillas.



The children followed me around vying to carry my tool bag, the box of repair parts or help with the ladder. They especially were taken with my digital multi-meter and all wanted to see how it worked. With their help we attended to the list of projects Madra Reyna had given me. Then I was summoned into the O.R. to check a leaking CO2 line. I dressed in full scrubs and entered the operating room with my trusty “MacGyver” multi-tool. I went in to fix a leak and ended up being wrangled into observing Doctor Juan repair a hernia. He just cut an opening, stuffed the part sticking out back in, then stuffed in some mesh netting and sewed it all back up. I likened it to repairing a blow-out or putting a boot in a truck tire…the trick is you have to work from the outside instead of taking the tire off the rim and putting the patch on from the inside. Yes! a bit trickier. Hey! This was not so bad…amazingly, very little blood. This bolstered my courage to stay for the next operation especially when I found out it was going to be a lumpectomy. Well! It was not quite what I expected. (I had to reconsider my aspirations of becoming a voyeur). It was educational and amazing how the doctor made an incision and popped out a golf ball size tumor.

Halfway through the next operation I began feeling a little clammy and decided it was time to get some fresh air. That was enough blood and guts for now! I returned to the list of chores at the orphanage; replacing lamps in light fixtures, repairing wheelchairs, and mounting those funny little examination lights in the clinic…this is the stuff I can do without getting that clammy feeling.

At the end of the day we all sat around the dinner table in the little kitchen and I listened wide-eyed to the medical stories and tales that the nurses spun. For the most part I found the discussions most educational and interesting. Although I am not quite sure which parts were fact and which were fiction, their stories painted a vivid (if not painful) picture. I am certain of one thing…I will never willingly submit myself to a mammogram, at least not without general anesthesia.

Sunday: As I navigated the cobblestone streets lit only by the early morning dawn, I passed a man pushing an odd one-wheel cart, some female pedestrians in native garb with baskets balanced on their heads, and a small herd of goats being driven by an old man whose wrinkled face told of life’s harsh reality. Without exception, each bid me “Buenos Dias”. I struggled to return the greeting with my Gringo accent. Finally I arrived at the church on the town square, climbed the steps and stumbled over a threshold that OSHA would have never approved of. At a minimum they would have required it be painted safety yellow. Entering the large old gothic style church, I found a pew and knelt down. As the Mass unfolded (even with every word in Spanish) there was nothing foreign about the liturgy. From the opening to the closing prayer all was so familiar I felt right at home. The homily was over my head…but that’s nothing new…even in plain English I have trouble getting the message. As I passed through the crowd going to communion… to my surprise… some of the children from the orphanage spotted me and reached out to touch me. They could barely contain their excitement and with smiling faces they whispered my name “Jim, Jim”. Apparently “Gene” is far too difficult to pronounce. Nevertheless, I can’t remember feeling so welcome, not even in my own land. As the emotions welled up inside of me I bit my lip in an attempt to keep from letting it show.

I suspected that I might have stood out. Certainly I was as out of place as a tuxedo in Wal-Mart. While I have never considered myself tall I easily stood a couple inches taller than anyone else in the entire church. I was among a nation of little people. Also, I was the only one with gray hair. Even the old guys had jet black hair. But still I felt completely at ease…as never before.

On the last day we had time for a tour of the ruins at Iximche Tecpan and dinner at El Granero. John Melon who owned the restaurant and surrounding 500 acres was an interesting entrepreneur with a heart for helping the local community. His ideas of marrying business with philanthropy had produced some amazing results. I’m sure I speak for the entire team, the other local doctors and the nuns at the banquet when I say thanks to Dr Pete Rojas for not leaving home without it (his VISA that is). The dinner was fabulous and the company even better.

What did I learn? Why do these people do this? Why am I on the team? It seems I always have more questions than answers. I don’t know why people do this but I suspect it has something to do with a deep concern for others and a willingness to unselfishly give of time and talent with true humility. I suppose it is best summed up by Dr Juan’s casual comment about the mission. “We’re just fixing some lumps and bumps”.

The team of magnanimous compassionate people: Julie Rojas, Kristen Rojas, Pennie Mathewson, Dr. Derrick Garrett, Shanna Williams, Ruben Moreno, Teresa Moreno, Linda Consuelo, Norma Martinez, Corina Flores, Ruby Rodriguez, Dr. Pete Rojas, Dr. Vincent Juan, Alba Taft, and yours truly “Jim”.



It seemed I did very little to contribute to the overall success of the mission but it gave me the time to reflect and to look inside myself and decide what is really important in the overall scheme of things. Something good did happen. I realized that in spite of the media trying to convince me that the world is being overrun with bad people doing bad stuff … that there are a bunch of good people out there doing good stuff.

A picture may be worth a thousand words but a thousand pictures would not explain the emotions and feelings, the sights and sounds, the smells and tastes that I experienced on my adventure. How blessed am I to have been asked to return to Patzun.

Thank you, Lord Jesus, for all the good "somethings".
Amen


12/4/2008