Eye to Eye...Hand to Hand

It's dark. And cold. Is that a bulldozer? Oh no, just someone snoring over on that bunk. Are they whining, too? How strange. I pull reluctantly out of my sleeping bag and put my shoes on, beginning to move a bit faster. Didn't realize I had to go to the bathroom so badly. Not going alone though.

"Caroline, wake up. Come to the bathroom with me."

The huge iron door groans as I unlock it and pull it open. We don't even need our headlamps; the blue moon is shining more brightly than it was last night. The whining is louder out here. We look down and a tiny, shivering, black puppy is trying to climb the stairs, looking for warmth and food. Its cries grow louder when it senses our bodies and there's nothing but to shoo it away. It's got to fend for itself, heartbreaking as it is.

The night isn't quiet here, surprisingly. Mangy dogs bark all night; hens, chickens, and turkeys cluck and gobble. Nothing sleeps. It's 4 in the morning and light and music are blasting from the shack just over that fence. The moon does nothing for the shadows; they're dark and I don't trust them. We book the 30 yards to the bathroom and book it back, good thing, too, because I swear something bigger than a dog or a turkey just flashed through those shadows. But no matter, we're safe in our sleeping bags. That puppy is still whining.

When have I ever experienced anything so oddly familiar in a place so foreign to my mind? Mexico is the same as America. There are dogs, animals, people; life flourishes wherever you look. And yet, it's so different. Maybe it's the open-air markets with fresh fruit assaulting the eye with color, the handcrafted trinkets, the intricately hand-sewn scarves and dresses. And the smells. Coffee. Oil. Sweat. Cows. Smoke. Meat. A barrage of vibrancy stimulating all five senses of the body.

Through the windows of the van, I watch the real world fall away. The strong, sturdy buildings no longer appear on the road, replaced by the deep green of pine trees whipping past. And then a cornfield and a wooden shack. Some rib-caged cows. Dogs, dogs just lining the dirt road. More wooden structures and cement homes colorfully spotting the landscape above and the small valley below. It's more rural and primitive than I thought it would be, like going back in time 500 years. Where's the paved road? Where are the stores, the businesses? Traffic lights? Honking? Well-kept lawns? Cars in the driveway? Driveways?

The ruts and potholes make for a bumpy ride. Dark, brown eyes peer at us from behind doors and windows. We're Americans, entering a village full of people who haven't laid eyes on white people in 50 years, most have never seen a white person in their life. Not that seeing a white person is so amazing. We're a bunch of white, pasty hams next to their beautiful browned bodies, toned from carrying buckets of water, babies, and bundles of wood on their backs, sometimes all at once. A basketball game is enough to prove that.

It's cold and rainy. I'm in Mexico and I'm wearing a sweatshirt. Stephen's wearing a beanie. Mom's wearing a ski jacket. We're all wearing gloves. The mile walk from our dorms to the school warms us up. But the kids we say hi to everyday on our way up there aren't around. Probably inside sitting around the open fires in their kitchens, breathing in the smoke enveloping them, trapped because there is no chimney to guide it out. Someone said these houses look like the inside of a smoker's lung, soot and ash accumulating, building up so that it hangs like dark, black cobwebs from the ceiling. The big, new metal stoves are intruders in these humble dwellings, but the families let us replace their fires with them and cut holes in their thin tin roofs for the chimneys. The gratitude in their eyes extinguishes our frustrating language barrier.

Wood planked walls. The cold wind whipping outside finds its way through the cracks; it's hard to pay attention to the white lady teaching English. The four shiny, new, white classrooms for the undersized middle school children with insulation, lights, and windows make their eyes light up and their faces shine. Education is what they need. Farmland is running out, money is running out. The people of Carmen Yalchuch face much bigger problems than unpaved roads and starving dogs if their youth don't get an education. There will be nothing for them. Already there is nothing for them to do. The women cook and take care of the children, the men sit around and talk, drunk men wander the village and lay passed out in the gutter. They recognize the problem, they know that education is a plausible solution. It's just a matter of making it happen, and now they have the means to do that. But it's up to them.

They dance for us, play music for us, and feed us the soup so popular to these indigenous areas. In their eagerness to show thanks, they overwhelm us with their culture, a culture rich in Mayan history, a culture they are intensely proud of, a culture animated by tradition. How lucky to be included in that, how privileged we are to take part in something so respected. We came to give them a school, something we felt to be substantial contribution. But we got so much more in return - an education about life, about people, about the world. People everywhere are the same. We all come from the same place. It doesn't matter that one lives in poverty while another lives in wealth. Divided by belief, ethnicity, or class, we can be united by the humanity dwelling within the soul of each person we meet.

In my warm home, in my cozy bed, so tired from traveling, I wonder at the past week. Why did I just go spend a whole week of my life in that village with my family? What was the point? Yeah, the people of Carmen Yalchuch have a school now, some of them have new stoves. How do we know that it was worth it? How do I know it was worth the exertion, the not showering, the weariness, the cold nights, the disgusting bathrooms? Was it worth it?

It's a simple life, it's a genuine life, and it's real. So far removed from what I feel and see and do everyday. Sincerity in strangers is a rarity, but it emanated from those villagers. And it was refreshing.

It was very worth it.

Oh man...

Roasted Red Pepper and Tomato Soup plus a hot cheese sandwich = the most
delicious lunch after a crisp, beautiful morning of skiing.