Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Reflections on leaving Guatemala

Once again, I’m in the position of sitting back in the comfort of the US reflecting on the already distant experiences that not long before consumed my existence. It’s been a month since I left Guatemala, flying back to Vermont three days before medical school classes began. The retrospection, thank-you’s and planning I’d planned on have been buried in getting settled in and studying more than I’ve ever done before. Halfway through biochemistry, I’m feeling back in control again. The curriculum is challenging but innovative. Although the material can seem abstract compared to the vivid daily urgencies at the clinic, the hands-on perspective I gained abroad puts the driest facts in a whole new context.

As usual, leaving Santa Cruz was a traumatic experience. I always become so immersed in life it is next to impossible to tear myself away, and the final month was a sprint to accomplish as much as possible. I am particularly proud of the expansion we made in the number of patients we treat, both through doubling our outreach clinics and as our popularity grows through work of mouth.

Growing isn’t easy to do, especially when the resources you work with remain more or less constant. Despite my best intentions, I tangled with bureaucracy and even local corruption. Most disappointingly, many aspects of the truck had to be left in limbo on my departure. I am gradually realizing that successfully implementing it as an ambulance will be a marathon effort and I am hunkering in for the long haul.

Despite these complications, the end of the stay brought many successes. The donated medical supplies I’d solicited from the amazing NGO Heart to Heart finally made it to the clinic. The process was long and complicated. The original intention had been to drive them down in the truck, but we were repeatedly cautioned that was a bad idea. Besides the risk of robbery of breaking down, we were most concerned about making it through customs. The Guatemalan government typically charges about a 30% import tax, regardless of whether the item is meant for charitable purposes. Since these medical supplies were worth at least ten thousand dollars, I could have been put in the position of forfeiting them at the border.

I unsuccessfully explored numerous options, including using contacts in the airline industry to fly the crates in and negotiating with Chiquita bananas to smuggle it in empty shipping containers. At long last an old friend of Dr. Sinkinson’s, Marian Stahl, who has close ties with rotary and a degree of customs immunity. She arranged to have the materials flown down with a Rotary Team, charging us nothing for the shipment or the customs. The supplies are incredibly vital and of top-notch quality. They include blood pressure cuffs, an EKG, a vision-analyzing device, electronic thermometers, specula illumination systems, and top-notch oto/ophthalmoscopes. It is all vital diagnostic equipment that we use on a regular basis.

The last few weeks in Guatemala also packed in some of the most hair-raising and dangerous situations I’ve been in. The road between Pajomel and Chuitzanchaj was completely destroyed in a mudslide in mid-July, completely isolating the village. Although it was clearly impossible to drive, we hoped perhaps we could hike across the exposed mud-field to conduct an outreach clinic in the village. Dr. Sinkinson, Nohemi and myself started to wade in to calf-deep mud, each carrying loaded packs of supplies. It was impossible to proceed much faster than a couple steps a minute. The suction threatened to pull the boots off your feet and the effort or lifting one leg would simply push the other one in deeper.

After ten minutes we were about a third of the way across the slide path when we heard deep rumbling from above us. Three or four Mayan women who had watching us from the far side of the washout started screaming. About ten feet in front of Dr. Sinkinson, a molasses flow seemed to start spontaneously from the ground up. It was the most alarming sensation I've ever felt. Although the earth seemed trapped in slow motion, the inexorable amplification mass and momentum was unbelievable. Tree trunks and underbrush groaned and snapped as suddenly the vegetated hillside was rolling past in front of our eyes. As it crested over the edge of the roadway, it erupted in hair-raising clattering as it swept boulders down thousands of feet into the Jaibalito canyon.

We turned to flee in absurd slow motion. I left my mud boots entombed behind me. All told it was a small landslide--we had been very close to the point of release, about ten feet wide and forty feet above. But I'm sure death would have been certain if we'd just been a dozen steps further along.

By the time the three of us made it to solid ground, we looked like we'd crawled out of a concrete mixer. As the adrenaline subsided, we tried to scrape mud from our clothes, treated a sizeable gash on Dr. Sinkinson's hand, and discussed the pros and cons of continuing with outreach clinic that day or turning back. We ended up taking a 45-minute detour hike up and over the source of the mudslide. At times we were grabbing handfuls of jungle vegetation to pulling ourselves up the steep and muddy path.

At the top we were meet by the very same local women who had first yelled to alert us. They had climbed up from the other side to help guide us down the other side. They even took Dr. Sinkinson and Nohemi’s packs. When we arrived for outreach clinic at Pajomel, two hours late, the word of our journey had clearly spread to every corner of the town. I've never felt so welcomed.

A few days later our clinic staff was alerted about a middle aged woman with multiple chronic diseases in dire shape in San Pablo. On arrival, we found an 80lbs 45 year-old, diabetic and with multiple system failure, who hadn’t left her bed in months. Her glucose was well over 500 despite only eating a cup of corn porridge a day and she had a mass the size of a bowling ball in her stomach. Examination of the pelvic area revealed decubitus abscesses combined with some sort of massive fistula/abscess/PID, involving at least a liter of maggots and pus. It turns out she has AIDS as well, which explained why her family had not cared for her in any way at all. The stigma is so strong that they preferred to let her rot in bed rather than transport, wash, or care for her. We took her by ambulance overland to the hospital in Sololá, where she died not long afterwards. The clinic covered all the costs of the ambulance and hospitalization, but the family then angrily demanded we cover the cost of the funeral and burial as well, since it was our “fault” she had died away from home. Yikes.

Meanwhile, the official side of bureaucracy was no easier to deal with. I had already sold the truck to our clinic and paid my import taxes on the truck at the Mexican border—a process that took 11 hours and cost $800. I believed at this point I’d made the last payoff to the Guatemalan revenue service. Unfortunately this wasn’t the case. As the importer, I still had plenty of tramites (red tape) to get through to get Guatemalan plates and transfer ownership to the cocodes. When I went in to inquire about the next steps, I learned that I would need to pay another $300 and leave my passport at a government office anywhere from two weeks to a month. That wasn’t a chance I was willing to take with my flight home in three weeks. Furthermore, our plan to give the cocodes the legal right to own a communal vehicle turned out to leave them liable to a huge range of tax code.

I was faced with the choice to do something hasty and ill-advised or exercise restraint. In a few-day blitz of activity, I signed over a power of attorney to allow the truck to be used by our clinic to continue conducting outreach clinics in the three communities and to transport ill patients to the hospital. It has made my return to Guatemala next summer imperitive. When I return, I will undertake the remaining tramites, including forfeiting my passport for three weeks, to complete the process of transferring ownership. If I come up with the funding, I may choose to refurbish the truck’s exterior. This winter, I need to raise the money to send Malaquias, our 19 year-old driver, to driver’s education school in Sololá. When I return he will have an official driver’s license, and I’ll be legally able to help teach him the ins and outs of the truck.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

How to donate!

If you are interested in donating to the clinic itself or to my personal project, you can send a check written to either Peter Cooch or Mayan Medical Aid (a 501-c-3 organization, so tax deductable) to 3469 Peth Rd, Braintree VT, 05060. Or you can drop it off with Sandy Vondrasek at the Herald. Thank you so much! We can do a lot with just a few extra dollars.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Mid trip update



A particularly tough case of earwax removal during outreach clinic in Pajomel. The word is out that we are very good at it and we've had plenty of people show up!


Things are carrying along at a mad pace here. After my last stay of seven months, it’s hard to believe what an absurdly short time ten weeks is.

Most of the clinic’s work remains considerably affected by Agatha. Of course the resulting evacuations, drinking water shortages, and homelessness have meant were seeing more patients than ever. The Guatemalan Ministry of Public Health’s bankruptcy several months ago hasn’t helped either—in that time, none of their staff has been paid, nor medications purchased, and we’re trying to pick up the slack.

The saving grace has been how well the clinic operated in my absence, and now in my extreme occupation. The efficiency and innovation that our local staff Nohemi and German have put into managing the pharmacy and restocking outreach clinic supplies is unbelievably encouraging. I am thrilled that such vital activities are no longer dependant on the fickle presence of volunteers at the clinic.

Paulina´s ulcer today, almost totally healed (the part that's still left is on the inside)

What the ulcer looked like when I left last November. It had already improved significantly. It was no longer infected and you can see the new tissue coming in (pink as opposed to red or brown).

Paulina´s ulcer when we first started treating it, after initial debridement. The white is pus.

She is really about as tall as yoda. This is not CGI!


Paulina always crosses herself before taking any medication

Of course I’m still looking out for my favorite old patients. Dona Paulina’s improvements in particular have been unbelievable, and I’ve devoted myself to the (unlikely) cause of completely closing her ulcer by my departure. So far that’s meant four visits a week and plenty of protein. I’d become worried that she had scabies, so last month I bought her a new mattress and took all her blankets and clothes to be washed. It turned out she had a huge ants’ nest inside her old sleeping pallet, eggs and all. No wonder she itched so badly! Sometimes I am absolutely floored by the things people endure here. But she’s up and walking about and raising chickens and absolutely radiant.

Although I could devote myself full-time to the clinic, I’ve making as much time as I can to keeping my individual project on track. Over the past few month I’ve transitioned to spending about half of my time living in the hill town of Chuitzanchaj, giving consultations when I’m able and doing my best trying to assimilate.

Progress has been steady on converting the truck for ambulance service, both legally and physically. I’ve convened weekly meetings with the members of the cocodes (village council members) from each of the communities. The decorum and deliberation (in Kaqchikel of course) that accompany every decision has been quite the introduction to diplomacy. And that is to say nothing of the underlying family politics, rivalries, and interests across three hamlets with perhaps a dozen last-names.

Still, we’ve successfully elected a legal representative in whose name to sign the truck over, chosen apprentice drivers and more experienced townsfolk to train them, and starting informing all involved parties of our intentions through formal letters. They are preparing to petition the mayor to cover gasoline and maintenance costs, the hospital to grant us radio communication and passage at the ER, and the ministry of public health to allow us to conduct outreach clinics in the town. Meanwhile, I am still trying to convince the cocodes themselves to allow Mayan Medical Aid to use the ambulance to transport our staff up for outreach clinics, while lobbying hard against any other uses of the truck in my absence.

In the meantime, I’ve been putting a good deal of money into fortifying the suspension, replacing worn break pads and broken windows, and the myriad other improvements. I put down the deposit on our massive oxygen tank on a past trip to the city and this weekend will be spent reconstructing the truck bed with a cot, benches, and storage space.

At times it makes me deeply long for last year when just seeing patients all day was a job well done. But despite the unexpected delays and costs, it has been a deeply affirming process, and a hell of an adventure as well. It is pretty cool to feel how well she handles driving in the area. The roads are truly in very bad shape, especially with the storm and continued rain. There are some places where the road is literally a rut across a mudslide hanging over a hundred-foot waterfall, often at the headwaters of a new chasm torn into the lake shore. But so far we haven’t come across anything she can’t handle, even shuttling eight cocodes home in the cab after a reunion. And there’s plenty of serious motivation as well—like seeing the eight orphaned kids whose mother died in labor last fall playing in the street.

As one would expect, there’s always sad news mixed in. Last year Espíritu Santa, a 27-year old mother of five who works for us as an interpreter, attempted suicide by hanging. Her husband is an undocumented worker in the US. To pay for his passage, he owes the first 10,000$ he earns to the coyote who smuggled him in, and their house and plot of land was left as a collateral. For over a year he’s been incommunicado and has yet to send any money. It was assumed he had abandoned his family, and the coyote has threatened to seize the property. Our clinic doctors were able to stage an intervention to postpone any loss, and with employing Espíritu for extra hours and starting her on antidepressants, we’d hoped we’d turned a page on this story.

But beleaguered by continued financial problems, Espíritu left for the US as an illegal last week. Her 15 year-old daughter has been left to care for the other four children. She made the announcement to the clinic staff at the birthday party we put together for her three-year old son. Watching little Esteban play with his new fire truck, completely unaware of the news his mother was breaking, ranks among the most chilling and surreal moments of my life. Our attempts to change her mind fell on deaf ears. For Mayans like Espíritu , who’ve barely left their home village, the concept of the horrors and hardships of such a voyage are impossible to convey. Everyone here knows someone that’s lifted their families out of poverty from remissions. These success stories seem to hold more traction that the abysmal job market, rampant murders and coercions in Mexico, or destruction of many clandestine routes during tropical storms Agatha and Alex.



White thunder crossing a particularly bad stretch of road between Pajomel and Chuitzanchaj

Since then it has become completely washed out by a series of landslides. It is almost impossible to cross by foot, let alone by car.

If there was one point I took away from driving through Mexico, it is how dangerous and backbreaking it would be to cross it as an undocumented worker, to say nothing of entering the USA or finding work. Especially since I just read Roberto Bolaño’s 2666, a novel based around the deaths of hundreds of such unknown women in Cuidad Juarez. And the debt is unconditional. Even if she is immediately deported, or even dies in the journey, the debt will remain unsettled on her or her children. I see absolutely no good coming from this.

In addition, Rony Elvis’ cleft lip repair, performed by HELPS, has not closed up nearly as much as it should of. It was always scheduled to be a two-part surgery, with a cleft palate repair to follow, so we hope we’ll have another opportunity soon to try again.

Last Monday, I was up in Chuitzanchaj when I received a knock on the door of the little house I rent. A concerned neighbor led up the road to a hut. The funeral-like dirge of an entire extended family in prayer emanated from within. Inside, I found a woman in her thirties soaked in sweat, suffering from stabbing abdominal pain. I was almost floored by the sensation of déjà vu.

I don’t know if you remember or if I told you, but last November I found myself in a similar situation that ended very poorly. I had been hiking through Chuitzanchaj, on my last day in Guatemala, when I was called over to an almost identical house. The woman I found within was feverish, had a tender abdomen, and had been suffering from bouts black diarrhea for days. I was alone, had no equipment, and had come on foot. I recommended that her family bring her to the hospital immediately. Impossible, I was told. There were no vehicles in the village to drive her to Sololá. If one had hazarded by, the cost of transporting her along with the family, let alone their lodging outside of the hospital, would cost several weeks’ of wages. In the end, I ended up arranging for a course of anti-amoebics for dysentery hiked up from the clinic.

I learned she died a few days later from a ruptured appendix. That event wracked me with self-doubt and recrimination and crushed any illusions I’d harbored of single-handedly curing any village. But it has remained one of my most powerful motivations as I strived to make the ambulance a reality.

This time, I convened the entire family. A quick conference addressed most of their fears involving the cost or unfamiliarity of the hospital. Within half an hour she had been bundled into the pickup along with her husband and eldest children and we were lurching along in 4WD.

After hours of waiting in the emergency room, a nurse finally arrived with laboratory results in hand. Petrona had pyelonephritis, caused by a UTI than had gone untreated for weeks. She was on IV antibiotics and already improving. It has only been one initial success after month of effort and costs. But the conversation the event has fostered in the villages has me hopeful this is a first sign of many successes to come.

That Friday, it decided to take the step that I’ve been putting off for weeks. It was time to head to the frontier to make the truck officially Guatemalan. I spent Thursday night in Xela, and woke up early to make it to El Carmen by nine. I had been seeking out advice on the importation process for the past two months. Since I had no bill of sale, the taxes I paid would depend entirely on the value the officials put on my vehicle. I was assured that with the physical damage and over 200k, it wouldn’t be much more than $400 or $500. The catch was you couldn’t find out the exact sum until you arrived.

By noon, I was fairly sure I’d made the trip in vain. I had spent hours in the no-man’s-land between Mexico and Guatemala, pleading my case with a half-dozen import agencies. Everywhere I was informed the rules had changed. The mileage and condition of the vehicle were no longer being taken into account. Without a bill of sale, I would be charged a tax of over $1500--more money than I'd paid for the truck in the first place, and almo more than I had in my name. I would have to repeat the fourteen-hour round trip later, if I could even raise that much. Meanwhile, I had a temporary car permit stamped in my passport. This step, designed to dissuade anyone from trying to import a vehicle without paying import taxes, meant I couldn’t leave legally depart Guatemala unless the vehicle left with me. Even if I had a family or medical emergency, I was told I'd be detained at the airport.

In the end, desperation won out. I was able to talk business with a small import office under a disco-slash-brothel. Through means I was assured were perfectly legal, they told me it ought to be possible to produce a bill of sale from a used-car dealership in Texas. The price was still outrageous, but barely within my means. After a taxi ride to several ATMS across Malacatán, I had emptied every account I owned and just reached the revised sum of Q6,100 (nearly $800). I felt sick to my stomach as I pushed through the street vendors, hawkers, and prostitutes with the roll of bills in my pocket. The man in the office whisked the money and my passport out of my hands and into his pocket with a mischievous grin. I wish I could see his eyes through the aviators.

For the next six hours, I waited at a taco stand, watching telenovelas and sweating bullets. I literally had no money left, and had freely given over my passport to a document forger. The sun set. At 7:40, twenty minutes before the border closed for the night, I was told to start up White Thunder and pull into the queue, still dozens of cars long. At 7:59PM, as I pulled up to the turnstile, my facilitator appeared at the window. He slipped me a manila envelope and disappeared. I passed it over, contents unseen, to the customs officials. While the truck's undercarriage was sprayed with insecticide and interior searched by flashlight, I watched as a flurry of stamps and signatures ensued. As the lights turned off and the metal screens came slamming down over the custom agency windows, I was waved back into Guatemala. A heavy drop of rain hit the windshield.

I drove about an hour before stopping to look at the papers. The bill of sale was from M&M motors in El Paso. The signature of our clinic's pediatrician, Dra. Carmen Cerezo, had been forged numerous times. I had spent 11 hours in the seediest place I’ve ever wandered in, a cross between the Cantina scene in Star Wars I and 1968 Hanoi. I had essentially paid for my truck a second time for the right to give it away. And I still had to drive half the night, climbing 10,000 ft in a thunderstorm, to make it back to my hostel in Xela. But, as far as I can tell, the deed has been done and I can now pass the car to the village cocodes, as well as start medical school next month.

Meanwhile, my cherished emergency committee in Tzununá did me proud that same afternoon. A woman thirty-four weeks pregnant, and a half-mile hike up from the shoreline, went into seizures. The members of the emergency committee arrived on scene, identified eclampsia and called for the ambulancha. At this point five women and four men carried her in a stretcher down a massive boulder-filled river bed left in the wake of Agatha, at one point crossing the water-choked ravine via a log. Meanwhile MMA’s nurse practitioner Guadalupe, was on call at the clinic. In what she calls her “mala suerte” (bad luck) but to the patient’s great fortune, it was Guadalupe’s fourth eclampsia within a year. She intercepted the patient on her journey down, and the woman was receiving Magnesium Sulfate intravenously by the time they arrived at the dock. During induced labor at the hospital, she gave birth to a perfectly health baby boy.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Mother Nature causes trouble


The Thursday night after our arrival, a couple things hit at once. Volcan Pacaya, an intermittently active volcano within sight of the airport, erupted. Three people were killed and hundreds of houses were destroyed. A thick haze of volcanic ash covered much of the surrounding countryside.


This all occurred a few hours after Caroline had boarded a shuttle to Guatemala city, and about ten hours before her scheduled flight the next morning. Her shuttle was delayed two hours as it churned through six inches of volcanic sludge. When I finally got through to her hotel, she was completely unaware of the eruption. Black rain and gridlocked traffic had apparently fit her expectations of Guatemala’s sprawling, dirty capital. We were told the flight had been rescheduled to Monday. After Iceland, we should have known better.


Seeing as we had been granted an extra weekend, that Friday afternoon I drove into Antigua to pick her up. My idea was to spend the weekend in the Mayan ruins in Copan, six hours away. I’d heard a tropical depression was forming in the pacific, and I hoped we could find some sun to the east.


We awoke in Antigua to a downpour, always a bad sign. Usually, even in the depths of the rainy season, it doesn’t cloud over until after noon. Undaunted, we dashed to the truck and headed east, once again via Guatemala City.


Soon it became evident this wasn’t a typical rainy day. We could barely see through the windshield, and droplets were seeping through the gothic rose-window cracks onto the dashboard. Figuring we could take care of long-postponed business, and perhaps let the rain pass by, we asked directions to a windshield repair shop.


An hour and sixty bucks later White Thunder had a new windshield, but it was pouring harder than ever. Water was accumulating faster than it could drain off the central boulevards. Furthermore, the fan on our defroster died (perhaps due to the dousing sustained by the dashboard). Along with the acrylic miasma of sealant, this forced us to drive with windows open, mopping the windshield and bailing our interior with a sopping towel.


After several false turns, I decided to further seek shelter in the mall. We could watch a movie, clear our heads and let the car dry out in underground parking. Around noon I got a call from Santa Cruz. The depression was now Tropical Storm Agatha. Our neighbors and villagers were battling mudslides, flooding, and dozens of torrential rivers that were chewing out their own paths. Power and water were out, villages were being evacuated, and acts of heroism being committed. The ambulance boat and an armada of volunteers had mobilized to evacuate families off of collapsing docks and calving embankments.


I couldn’t stop thinking of the chaos back in Santa Cruz and the bizarre paradox of the Cineplex. Leaving the parking garage, we found that if anything the rain was only coming down harder. Although it was only three it seemed like nightfall. Standing water up to a foot deep covered the city.


For the next three hours, we labored through some of the trickiest driving I’ve ever done. Electricity went out. The phosphorus flicker of downed power lines and the pulse of blue lights filtered through the deluge. Rocks, trees, and broken-down vehicles loomed in the road. Changing lanes was idiocy yet essential to merge around obstacles and follow detours. I have rarely been so relieved to make it anywhere as I was to pull back in front of our hostel in Antigua.


The next morning, I was awoken early by a panicky cell-phone call from Guadalupe, our nurse practitioner. She was running the clinic on her own, without power or running water and short on medications. Caroline and I jumped into the truck without checking the news. The sky was perfectly blue.

We soon found most of the highway had only one lane cleared . The devastation was unbelievable. After creeping along for most of the morning, we arrived at a line of traffic that wasn’t going anywhere. The next five kilometers of the Pan-American highway were completed blocked by landslides. Road crews were working in from the outside one layer at a time. Our second aborted attempt to leave the hostel got some good-natured laughs from the staff.


Mudlides in the 5km stretch of the PanAmerican highway that was blocked during the storm


We took advantage of our exile to follow the news. Over a hundred people were dead and missing across the country. Highways across the country were destroyed. We’d driven in the heaviest rainfall the capital had received in over sixty years. A freakish sinkhole over a hundred feet across had opened in Guatemala City, swallowing a three-story building. It was only a short distance from where we’d have our windshield changed. The airport, of course, remained closed until further notice.


That night, the truck was broken into on the street. The side window had been broken. There was almost nothing inside to steal, other than a stack our burned CDs (mostly bluegrass and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo), some old clothes, and Caroline’s sneakers (with $300 orthotics inside, the worst blow). It wasn’t quite looting, but it added to the general sense of chaos.


Flooded highways two days after the storm


We make it back to the lake that day, with another detour to replace the broken window. It was a feat that the highway had even been opened. The landslides were big—nearly five kilometers of single-lane, alternating traffic, where the mud had been shoved up into thick walls on either side. Upon my arrival in Panajachel, I immediately picked up Noé and Micaela, local Mayans who worked for the NGO Amigos de Santa Cruz. They’d been my initial contacts with the three communities due to their extensive work there. We’d had no word how they’d fared and intended to find out.


Farmers in Solola standing at the foot of a mudslide that wiped out a barn and fields


We turned around and drove to Laguna Seca, then Chuitzanchaj. We plowed along in 4WD, being turned back three times to more circuitous pathways due to impassible mud and landslides. It was the first time White Thunder has visited the towns she’d later live in. Fortunately these two had been relatively spared, with only a few collapsed houses. The road to Pajomel was completely impassible, but it appeared other than their isolation they’d been similarly fortunate.


The road between Pahomel and Chuitzanchaj, after being cleared of debris. Since then, unsurprisingly, it has continued to deteriorate and is now impassable once again.


It was dark by the time I arrived in Santa Cruz, so I wasn’t able to take in the scope of destruction until the next morning. Even at night, it was evident the lake was covered in layer of trash, pumice stone and branches.


In the morning, I was blown away by the destruction. The saturated earth had torn out like zebra stripes in the hillside. Huge ravines scarred the shoreline where torrential rivers had risen out of small drainages. Acres of property, forests or fields had disappeared. The village of Jaibalito, a twenty minute walk away, had been evacuated multiple times, most recently by the military in the middle of the night. Houses were buried in mud and gravel up to their ceilings. A refugee camp had been erected in the Santa Cruz municipal building.


Houses destroyed by a new riverbed that opened in a drainage


Of course, much of the destruction had been long predictable. Guatemala was no stranger to mudslides. The walls of the lake, actually the crater of an ancient eruption, seem to approach vertical. As villagers were driven further to cut firewood and plant corn, the deforestation was asymptotically creeping towards the rim. Meanwhile, gringos and wealthy Guatemalans were parceling up the land along the shore, squeezing houses closer to river banks and pushing communities onto flood plains. Entire villages had been destroyed by landslides during Hurricane Stan in 2005, burying hundreds of people alive, but little had changed since then.



Streets are buried in mud in Jaibalito


That morning the clinic staff conducted outreach clinic in Jaibalito—a village we had rarely visited due to its small size and proximity to Santa Cruz. We saw dozens and dozens of patients that morning. People were traumatized and shell-shocked, with the added burden of the mud, cut-off water, washed-out latrines, and destroyed homes. Things weren’t helped by the fact that Guatemalan Ministry of Public Health had recently declared bankruptcy and none of its staff had been paid nor medications purchased for two months.


More houses in Jaibalito buried halfway in debris

Electricity ended up returning about three days later, and running water (still non-potable) within a week. Caroline’s plane got delayed twice more, pushed back to Sunday—nine days later than planned. The citizens of Jaibalito have refused to relocate their village, declared too dangerous by the government, and have therefore forfitted public assistance in case of a future emergency. Dozens of communities and hundreds of individuals in the path of hanging mud fields, denuded hillsides, and boulder-clogged ravines and watersheds. The concensus is that although disaster may have been averted this time, the scene has been set for a catastrophic countercoup as hurricane season moves in. In the meantime, it appears obvious much of our agenda at the clinic for the coming year will be dictated by the aftermath of Agatha.
Hiking around the hillsides has become a little tricky lately