Despedidas

This week is crammed full of despedidas, or “goodbyes”. For Guatemalans, a despedida is a social obligation for anyone who is going away on a long trip, and it has a semi-ritualistic format. The people gather, some sort of meal is shared, and each person present gets up to “dar palabras“, or say something nice about the person going away. In large groups, this can be a long and repetitive process, as each person thinks up a new way to rephrase things that have already been said five or six times before. But they are Mayan, and have a lot of patience.

After we finished the construction in Yulais, we planned to have an opening ceremony to inaugurate the projects. As per Peace Corps custom, we invited our boss Basilio; coincidence also allowed us to invite the three new volunteers who will taking over after we are gone, as well as Nick and Katal who had been specifically invited by the Yulais elders. Since the inauguration was so close to our departure date, we figured that it would probably evolve into a despedida as well.

What we DIDN’T expect was how much effort they would put into the party. On the selected day, we followed Diego up the path into Yulais, and crested the hill to see a pretty elaborate party set up in the town basketball court: tables, chairs, a backstop, pine boughs on the ground, a sound system. “Come, sit down,” Ximon said over the loudspeaker, gesturing to the chairs at the fore.

A little startled, I took my seat in a seat of honor, and watched things unfold. Several town members got up and said how grateful they were for our health talks, how much they’d learned, and how good it was for the community to have these water tanks, floors, and stoves. As they spoke, I couldn’t help but be amazed at how much organization it took to put this party together. Many got up and gave thanks on behalf of the community, and eventually the agenda fell to us.

“As we were building,” I said as I took my turn at the microphone, “people many times told me, ‘This is Jaime’s work!’ But the truth of it is, this is not my work, it’s YOUR work. This is Ximon’s work. This is Gaspar’s work. This is Eulalia’s work.” They want a hero, but the hero isn’t me. It’s them, and they need to know that, even if I have to say it every single day I work. “You all made this happen. You all should be very proud of yourselves.”

Then we got to handing out diplomas. Diplomas hold a special significance in Guatemala, a place where few have education, and there are no organized and accessible records to prove it. Everything of any significance that you do in life deserves a diploma, and those who receive them hoard them away in case they one day have to get a job of some sort, at which time they wheel out these carefully guarded pieces of paper. Knowing the seriousness of the occasion, all four of us experienced Santa Eulalia volunteers dressed in local traje*.

As the ceremony started to wind down, I motioned to Emily to give me the microphone one last time. “I have a few special awards I’d like to give out,” I explained. From my bag, I pulled out several tools that I’d spray painted gold a few days before. “These golden tools are to recognize three special people who did a lot of extra work to make this project happen. All of you worked hard, but these people put in months of extra work, many times working after hours: ordering matreials, filling in paperwork, organizing deliveries, arranging bank accounts. Their sacrifice for the community is an aid to every one of you, and they should be recognized. From this day forward, when ever you see someone working with one of these golden tools, remember that they earned it through sacrifice for the good of the community and they deserve respect. They will forever have MY respect.”

I then handed them out to Juárez, Ximon, and Diego in recognition for their support. Everyone seemed pretty excited about it, causing quite a stir. I wish I could claim the idea as my own, but it came in part from my father-in-law, an avid Boy Scouter who suggested that special recognition be given to Diego for his work. The gold paint idea came from my own Dad, who used to make “golden awards” for achieving Scouts back when I was a kid. Applying a little Scout showmanship to a Mayan ceremony seemed like a sure thing.

Once all the words had been spoken, it was time for the entertainment. A weird tradition at Guatemalan ceremonies is “lip synch” concerts, where teenagers put on rodeo clothes and hats and shuffle back and forth with a micrphone pressed against their mouths, looking down at the ground so you can’t see that they really don’t know the words to the Mexican banda song they’re “singing”. It’s hilarious (though I don’t think it’s supposed to be). After that, an elaborate troup of masked kids dressed as monsters came pancing up, and pulled us onto the makeshift dance floor to do a few rounds of marimba. The four of us old-timers are experts at this sort of thing, but I can’t help thinking of the three new volunteers, who had the “what the heck?” face off and on thorughout the entire afternoon.

Once the ceremony was over, we all gathered to dine in Diego’s house. I smiled as we entered; after a year and a half of giving health lectures on his dirt floor, we were eating on his BRAND NEW CONCRETE FLOOR. And I must say, it looks pretty nice! The women all pitched in and made a really tasty kaq trigo, a sortof chicken soup of thick wheat gravy. Originally, the village decided that since there was no money left in the project fund, everyone would split the costs… and Emily and I offered to pay for the other volunteer’s shares as well as our own. But the ladies decided that since we’d not had the chance to eat in everyone’s house during the project, they would pitch in and we weren’t allowed to pay. That was an awfully sweet gesture from people who don’t have a lot of discretionary income. As I sat eating, I looked around the room at so many faces I’ve come to know, people whose houses I’ve spent time in, who I’ve helped to build a water tank or a stove. People I probably won’t ever see again. “Jaime, chili,” a smiling lady said, handing me a bowl of peppers. Most Mayans don’t put chili in their soup, but word got around months ago that I love it, so they all take great joy in making sure it’s available if I am coming to dinner. That’s how they are.

As I finished, I made my way to the kitchen, which was filled with many women I know from the health lectures. They were all chatting happily, eating their share of the meal (the men generally eat at the Table, with the Honored Guests- an awkward situation for the female volunteers, who are Honored Guests and threfore the only women at the Table). “Yujwal Dyos, mero watx’ kolobej,” I said, thanking them for the tasty meal. The looked up, smiled back, and I came in to give goodbye hugs to my friends. About then is when they realized that they wouldn’t see me again for a very long time, if ever. It all got very sad after that, and I don’t remember much more until I was walking down the hill away from Yulais.

“Take a picture,” Emily said, crying as she was walking away.

I was confused, and she pointed back the way we’d come. There, standing on the hillside amongst the tin and adobe shacks, were a few dozen women. They were all standing in their Sunday best, watching us go, waving at us as they’d done every week for over a year. But this time, they were weeping instead of laughing.

That was a very public despedida, but we’ve been having all sorts of private ones as well. Here’s Emily, reading to Delmi one last time. I think this was one of the hardest things Emily had to do during her whole service. This near-daily ritual has become so important to both of them, it makes ME sad imagining how they will get along without each other in the coming months. I think this time they read The Best Nest by PD Eastman, an old-time classic that I read when I was Delmi’s age. Emily likes reading it to the kids because they started yelling “Cham Jaime!” every time they got to the picture of the bearded guy sitting on the bench reading. Hmm, I guess he DOES look like me when I have the beard on.

* Nick still doesn’t own his own capishay, so he had to borrow my spare one. But the good news is, he’s getting his own to celebrate his one-year anniversary in site!