Mad dash round Mexico

Known only as 'Mexico' to all who live here, Mexico City is indeed the essence, and antithesis, of all that is Mexican. The megacropolis stands proudly, yet has an ashamedly dangerous reputation. The people walk confidently down the crowded streets, but glance nervously around them as they enter all but the most well-trodden routes. It is a fresh, vibrant city with a simmering, dark edge to it.

Not that the physical edge is ascertainable; as my bus left behind the cactus-lined hillsides and approached the sprawling city in a six-lane ant trail of honking vehicles, I was taken aback by the oversized green signposts, high rise glass-walled blocks and scurrying scores of people littering the landscape. After the cultured quiet of Oaxaca, I had almost forgotten the way a real city makes your heart race along with the buzz of its streets, like a living breathing creature. Mexico is a city brimming with life, and simmering under the surface is a tension like the coiled force in the legs of an animal ready to attack.

At the bus station, I was instanty pounced on by an 'official', bewilderingly flashing name badges and stamped licences at me and leading me by my heavy bag strap towards his taxi. I was glad of my Spanish as we approached the completely unmarked, dented saloon, being able to explain that I was sorry, but I had been told only to use the City's official red and yellow taxis, backing away assuredly. Whilst I am always wary of tourist 'scare stories' the one about abductions of tourists in taxis in Mexico seemed real enough to be worth the effort of paying extra at a special taxi stand, where an official escorts you to the overly-labelled and licensed car having taken all the details of your life, and every turning you plan to make on the short journey to your destination. Sometimes it is better to be safe than sorry.

With just one afternoon in which to take in the atmosphere of this, the world's third largest urban area, I set off on a speed walking tour of the maelstrom of sights nearest to the central Zocalo, taking in a myriad mosaic of scenes, all completely different yet seamlessly apposed with each other. One moment I was standing in the shadow of grand architecture of the 1800s, the next being captivated by the sweeping colours in a modern art museum, the next in the historic midst of ancient stones of the two and a half thousand year old Templo Mayor and then caught up in the throes of a noisy march for students' rights. All in all, it was a wonderfully welcoming world, sights and sounds and smells bombarding you from all sides and leaving you feeling exhilirated and exhausted, in that happy-tired way. The ever friendly Mexicans pointed me in the right direction, invited me to try the food they were cooking up street-side, offered titbits of information on their favourite subject, the city they live in and are so immensely proud of. A uniting sight was the green, white and red of the Mexican flag waving in the warm city breeze, hanging off buildings whether ancient or modern, shiny new or tumbledown. The expanse of flags was probably exacerbated by the Mexico vs USA football match taking place that afternoon, blaring out of radios at newspaper stands and even outcompeting the reggaeton usually played loudly from stores.

Mexico City revels in its strange juxtapositions, and seems to have grasped with both hands the opportunity to clean up both crime and pollution, neither of which bothered me in my, albeit short, day here. However, as dusk fell, and my weary feet began to lead me toward bed, there was a palpable sense of those whispered dangers: the streets cleared as people hurried by, not looking up from their homeward path, piles of steaming rubbish from the days activities were left behind where vendors' carts had stood, and groups of young men prowled around in the flickering glow of the recently installed street lighting like street cats marking their territory.

As for me, I slept as peacefully as a cat that got the cream, a weary but content smile curling my lips as I dreamed of my amazing weeks exploring both Mexico and Guatemala. Of the colours, the vibrant greens and reds of chillis, the exuberantly painted shopfronts, the beautifully embroidered huiles and shawls. Of the landscape, both natural cactus studded rocks and gushing waterfalls, the exquisite architectural masterpieces in all the cities, especially the churches, and the ancient colossal ruins. Of the food, the spicy, fresh concoctions, the ubiquitous combination of lime, chilli and salt. The music, even the reggaeton and Mexican pop screeching out of shops growing on me. And mostly, of the people - so welcoming and friendly, and keen to share with you these things, the essences of 'their country'.

The everyday kindness of the local people more than makes up for the acts of greed in the headlines.
Charles Kuralt

Public health pandemic and the importance of handwashing

Considering the title of this blog, I should comment on what I have seen in Mexico relating to the H1N1 influenza pandemic.

As the first country to report cases of swine flu, Mexico was instantly scandalised in the media and all non-essential travel to the country was advised against by international foreign offices. And it was presumed that they would not control or monitor the disease progression effectively (as well as we would?). But the government suspended schools and non-essential activities and started a public health education campaign within days.

On the surface, as a visitor to the country, I have been impressed. On entry and exit, we all had to complete a simple health survey and report if we had any of the symptoms described on one of the many clear and accurate posters displayed at all border crossings. Walking around the towns and cities, daily I came across more posters and leaflets in multiple languages, public health stands under impromptu gazebos offering information and advice to members of the public, and signs displaying telephone numbers and addresses for where to get more information. Even in more remote villages and locations the local shop would have a little pile of flyers. In busier places, mobile clinics have been set up where both local and international doctors administer Tamiflu, other necessary medications and advice to those presenting with symptoms. In between the irritating beeping Reggaeton music blaring out of the radios, public health notices are read out.

Yet there is no feeling of panic, no undue overrreaction or fear. Whilst non-essential activities have reduced, transport, supermarkets, trash collection, clinics and pharmacies have remained functioning, and were even at the height of the initial outbreak. Some people wear face masks, though not many, most of these just for show, such as waiters inviting you in to their restaurants or those manning the public health stands. Some people carry hand gel and some flinch on the buses when someone sneezes in their direction, but in the main the Mexicans are just getting on with their daily lives. This is in contrast to the overreaction in other countries such as the USA's dramatic over-response to the threat, where I have heard from other travellers how in some airports they were made to wait in a quarantined area for hours whilst they were grilled on their movements, in Cuba, where one woman told me how her daughter was feeling a little woozy after a long day in the sun but was spotted by an official who rushed her to a hospital where they were incarcerated for four days whilst 'tests' were carried out, and the Philllipines, who banned all visitors from entering their country within days of the outbreak being publicised. Sometimes it is too tempting to make a pigfarm out of a pigsty.

The level of hygiene in Mexico is certainly not piggish and has been impressive in itself; whether this has been heightened by the increased public health awareness afforded by the outbreak I'm not sure but much seems to have been instilled in the public mind already. Children answering our surveys at the Centro de Esperanza, even those who are very poor and underprivileged, know the importance of washing hands properly with soap and proudly announce to us that they know 'microbios' are spread by dirty hands and not covering your mouth when you cough and sneeze. When I buy food from street stalls, even with just their little cart as equipment, the vendors wash their hands between customers with bottled water and soap stowed under the cart, and will not touch the money you pay them with their hands, instead using a plastic bag to take the dirty, grimy coins.

Still, the situation is not perfect. Of those who do catch the illness, their prognosis is less good than in other regions, the mortality running at approximately 1% in the Americas compared with 0.1% in Europe. People overmedicate themselves, as here you can go to a pharmacy for a 'consultation' with a pharmacist, who does not require any formal medical training, and buy all sorts of concoctions of antibiotics, cough medicines and painkillers without prohibition. Schoolchildren have suffered as teachers take advantage of the extra holiday and extend school shutting time. Swine flu has affected Mexico's tourism, an important source of revenue for the country.

"In Cancun, we live from the tourism. It's like a chain: If there's no tourists, there's no work, there's no food, there's no nothing. And such a beautiful place. Paradise."

Jody Gaynor, 53, a researcher at Procter and Gamble from Cincinnati who was lounging in a beach chair outside the Grand Oasis Cancun, said: "I feel really bad for the people, because nobody's going to come back. First they had the scare on the gangs . . . and then this."

Gaynor has taken precautions and decided against a bus tour to the Mayan ruins because she wanted to avoid the crowds. But she said it is silly to panic. Her nephew's family in Cincinnati, by contrast, won't pick her up at the airport as usual, she said. "They don't want us to be exposed to their baby."

On the beach nearby, Alison Krupczak, a nursing student at Northeastern University in Boston, said she has noticed fewer Americans than she expected in Cancun.

"Canadians are the only ones crazy enough to come here," said her friend, Northeastern student Jon Grimm. "We brought a thermometer to take our temperatures."

"We're not really going out of the hotel," Krupczak said. "We thought that would be best."
Washington Post April 2009

The situation is slowly improving, and I have certainly seen plenty of others taking advantage of the empty beaches and less-crowded than usual tourist sites. The biggest irony is that I have heard more reports of people catching swine flu from home, and received more warnings of risk from my university in England, than any real risk I have encountered here. We need to remember that just by being a developed country we are not immune - we seem to have a presumption that because we have flash, fancy healthcare, we can forget about simple health measures. The Mexicans are definitely better at washing their hands than most people I encounter at home; when do you ever wash your hands after handling money, after playing with your pets or sneezing into your palms? The recent push in our hospitals to wash our hands more is well-founded.

Freedom of speech and the power of words

On my last night at the coast, I met a Mexican 'philosopher' over dinner of fish steamed with tropical fruits, who was, as many who like to philosophise are, intriguing for five minutes, vaguely interesting for fifteen more, then as self-obsessed in his ideas about life, and telling you about what he thinks, and about himself, as the American girls I had met earlier in the day who had insisted on me knowing everything about their 'free' life back home. This got me thinking about what it means to be free as a person (uhoh, philosophising myself coming on here...) - and to me, it certainly wasn't what the Americans were portraying, of having money and things and what they called 'opportunities'. Freedom is about opportunity and education, which is linked to wealth, but not just through money or objects. Mexicans are not free, because they are suppressed by corruption in their government; but Americans are not really free, because the way they think is suppressed by their educational insularism and sometimes narrow-mindedness (this is a huge generalisation, and not true for all, of course). I asked the Mexican what he thought about the political problems here, and he said the people knew they were cheated, that money was the key to the power at the top, but the peoples' voices were the key to overthrowing that power.

And they are vocal here. Oaxaca itself is a hotbed of political unrest, sometimes violent. Whilst I have been here, the city has been a tranquil, relaxed place, people peacefully promenading about the clean, litter-free streets. Yet locals have told me it is not always this way. Because I arrived at the time of the Guelaguetza, a time when the eyes of the nation are on Oaxaca, the local government had clamped down on any protesters (I'm not sure by what means...) and had put money into cleaning up the place, wiping out any graffitied evidence of complaint which apparently usually brightly covers the buildings, even the historical churches and museums. I can't help thinking this city has such a voice because it is a centre of education (the main protests in 2006 were headed by teachers and students): it is full of museums and art galleries and theatres and music concerts. These things are what we call 'cultured', signifying education and the middle classes. But sometimes words and pictures don't seem enough, power ultimately coming down to fighting with our bare hands, whatever our level of 'culture' or 'class' or 'education'. Violence is most vocal unfortunately.

Still, the more Spanish words I learn, the more I have the power to express myself and to understand others. And this is the greatest personal power of all.

Beach Bum

Time for a holiday... I decided to spend my last weekend here at the beach, soaking up the sun and relaxed atmosphere before heading back to the real world.

Fluidly meandering round bends like oxbow lakes in a minibus, the soothing scent of pine and fir forests blasting through the windows in the sticky, warm night air, I did start to feel that holiday feeling of emptying your mind (as much as possible when being thrown from side to side in a dizzying bus ride). We arrived late at night, no sight of the sea, not a speck of sand or grain of salt on the skin, but definitely beach temperature at 20 degrees at 10pm. We were thankful of the pool for a midnight swim.

I slept like a baby, despite or perhaps because of the gentle hum of the fan as it blew slighter cooler air around my bare feet. Flinging the balcony door open, I was suffused in the seaside: bright sunbeams reflecting off giant curling waves glimsed between the palm-thatched huts on the surfers' beach of Puerto Escondido, keen guys already out trying to catch the waves. The town itself a strip of the usual suspects: bar, postcard seller, restaurant, beach ball shop, surf shop, bar, tourist tat, bar. Mikey and I set off in a peeling paint fishing boat, the proud captain prodigiously protruding his tanned, rounded belly as we bounced and ricocheted over the jostling, choppy waves on the hunt for turtles. Not a real hunt, which was banned here only recently, an interesting Centro Mexicana de Tortuga in Mazunte extenuating their cause.

You can't swim at the beach here as the undertow is deadly, ripping your feet from under you as the tide pulls back into the vast powerful ocean, so I sunbathed before washing off the sand then enjoying barbequed dorada (with chilli, of course) on the beach as a golden fireball moon rose steadily over the rocky outcrop edging the bay, casting a weird red light over the ink black sea like a swathe of oil bursting into flame. We spent the night on the beach with Margaritas, fire dances and midnight snacks of fresh fish tacos.

The next morning I needed a swim, so headed off on my own whilst the others surfed to find a quiet, secluded bay nestled into the jagged coastline like an azure jewel hiding in the rocks and glittering in the midday sun. I swam, snorkelled, people watched from behind my sunglasses. Even though sunbathing is a solitary pursuit, I did start to feel lonely - in big crowds, single people blend in, assimilate themselves, don't feel so isolated, but on this tiny beach with scattered families and groups of friends I wanted to be swimming like the shoals of fish, with others. As the sun cooled in the late afternoon haze, I wandered back towards Escondido, stopping off at another beach crowded densely with holidaying Mexicans (avoiding the gringos). They know how to do a beach - huge groups splashed about in the water, refreshing themselves at one of the many plastic-chaired cafes shaded along the beach, every speck of sand taken up with 'Sol' emblazoned umbrellas and picknicking people.

Hitching a lift in a camioneta further down the coast on Sunday, I got soaked as the skies opened in an ear-splitting thunderous outpour. Hair clinging to my face, I steamed dry as I looked around for a place to stay in the tiny, undeveloped town of Zipolite, finding a beautifully simple cabana with a low bed covered by flimsy mosquito net with a hammock swinging outside right on the beach. The sand swathed around the bay for miles, craggy rock formations providing the backdrop. I sat listening to the roar of the frothing waves crashing onto the rocks and the wind blasting off the salty sea in to my air-dried tangled hair. The skies clouded and darkened in the atmospheric evening, the half-hidden moon making the waves seem even more fearsome and powerful. The explosive storm kept me awake half the night, the sky ripped open by streaks of lightning, a gaping hole through which great lion roars of thunder and bulbous, leaden drops of rain pelted through, shaking my little cabana. It was so loud it blocked out the hum of the fan rapidly rotating above my head, even muffled the sound of the waves crashing on the sand metres down the beach. I lay in the dark, hoping I would weather the storm...

I did, and I got up to pick my way through the puddles to visit a local organisation for rural indigenous people with severe disabilities. Pina Palmera has existed here, almost in the middle of nowhere, for 20 years, caring for people who would not have a chance otherwise. A friendly man with severly bowed legs gave me a tour of the centre, starting at the kitchen where volunteers were patiently helping semi-paralysed children to have their breakfast. There was a physiotherapy room, a speech therapy centre, an arts and crafts room, a doctors' office, a social area and a small ward for the four permanent residents. I was amazed at the service they were providing, giving a way of life and stimulation for disabled people and their families that would simply not be possible in their own isolated rural villages, both at the centre and on home visits. It made me realise that it is possible to provide medical and social care and attention anywhere, with a little hard work and ingenuity. Ok, they did not have lifting equipment or manual handling training, and moved the paralysed children about wrapped up in white sheets, they did not have specialised wheelchairs and bumped over the sandy paths in salt-rusted devices, they didn't have life-changing expensive medications but had carers and volunteers that were committed and hard-working in the face of any difficulties. As a completely paralysed young man stared up at me, arms and legs contorted with spasticity, his only movement a flicker of the eyes, I wondered what he must be thinking as I tried to think of something to say to him in my faltering Spanish.

To be trapped inside ourselves is surely a fear of everyone in this world, no matter where, something that no special equipment or no words or actions can reconcile. And this can happen when we are perfectly healthy physically, regressing into our own minds, mentally isolated. Loneliness is not about being physically alone; we may be surrounded by others and feel alone in this world (as I did on the beach of families); if we cannot communicate what we feel, cannot reconcile what we are thinking with others or ourselves, we are lonely. The human spirit is healed by sharing, helping us to weather any storm hurled our way.

Please sir, Can I have some more... Corn?

As part of our research at the Centro de Esperanza, we have been weighing and measuring the children, using cranky old scales kindly donated by the Kellogg Foundation, and asking about their diets.

Most of them do not appear undernourished or thin per se. In fact, especially the older ones, walking with packet of greasy papas or ketchup-slathered hotdog in hand, are rather overweight. Walking along the road, you would never believe that many of these children do not get the nutrients they need to grow.

But when you work out their height for age, they are small.

Now this may just be because Mexicans are short people. However, the charts we use to work out their ideal height and weight are averaged for this population. So it must be their diet and lifestyle. I began to ask myself, and those at the centro, why this is so.

Some of the poorest families really do not get enough food to eat. I blushed ashamedly when I asked one small boy what he had yesterday, and he replied ´frijolitos´(beans). I pressed, what else, what did you have for lunch and dinner, looking enquiringly at his anxious looking mother fidgeting her her seat. ¨Frijoles´ she replied for her small son.

Others get enough calories, but of the wrong sort. The traditional diet is high in carbohydrates and fats: tortillas, tacos, quesadillos, rice, covered with cheese and beans and often fried for good luck, eggs eggs eggs every day, corn chips, corn on the cob coated in more cheese, cornmeal puddings, and now, cornflakes.

So the poor get protein and carbs, but hardly any fruit and vegetables, or good meat. The markets are full of produce but the problem is twofold: firstly, antojitos (snacks from roadside stalls) are cheaper than fresh produce, and easier when you have a large family to feed and not necessarily a home or kitchen of your own in which to prepare it; and secondly, the poor want to eat ´rich mans food´ as it follows that this food is good for you (not so, as we all well know) and they see this as the American burgers, chips and Coca Cola.

But actually, the cuisine of the better off in Oaxaca (plus the tourists) is rich, delicious and healthy. Chiles rellonos, peppers stuffed with chicken or nuts or the delicious fresh Oaxacan cheese (a cross between mozarella and goats cheese), mole, an intoxicating belend of chocolate, chile and spices used as a sauce for meats and vegetables, caldos, flavoursome stews full of tomotoes and herbs, sopas of cactus and squash, and empanadas stuffed with a multitude of different moreish mushrooms and courgette flowers, and wonderful fresh sweet fruit cocktails. It shames and disgusts me that I walk around being able to buy these delicious treats for what seems like pennies (I can get a three course lunch for $5, including drinks) whilst there are local children who have never even tried some of the cuisines of their city. I have given to handing over whatever snack I have bought to the children working selling trinkets; I would rather do this than buy tat I don´t really need from them, and whilst it is nowhere near enough, the happy smile of a seven year old I have just given a bag of mango, pineapple and papaya to at least allows me to carry on by without feeling sick to the knees.

The other interesting thing about corn is its trade. As a nation of corn lovers and prolific corn growers, you would expect that they are rather self sufficient in it. Not so.
Most of Mexico´s corn is shuttled north to the USA, where it is not enjoyed straight off the cob, turned into flour, made into spirits or used usefully. It is converted into ´high-fructose corn syrup´, used to sweeten the nation´s soft drinks and just about every processed edible thing in the vast supermakets - on average, an American consumes sixty-two pounds of the stuff each year. They use corn syrup (fructose) instead of sugar (sucrose) because it is cheaper. Sounds perfect. Also not so. In the human body, fructose acts more like fat than sugar does, so could be implicated in the rising epidemic of obesity and type II diabetes, both in America and in Mexico, as they copy their neighbours´diets.

The issue is not only health, either. Many of the Mexicans trying to cross into the US are doing so because, since the North American Free Trade Agreement, their country has been flooded with subsidised American corn, a disaster that the Mexican government estimates has cost two million farmers and agricultural workers here their livelihoods.

All this makes processed foods much cheaper than fresh, which means the poor eat it and feed it to their children. It used to be that the poor had gaunt and spavined bodies. Now obesity seems to be as sure a sign of poverty as thinness used to be. Instead of nourishing the poor, they are filled up with carbohydrates and fat. And instead of keeping independent and subsistence farmers on the land, it keeps the food processing industry in healthy profit.

Enough to make your stomach turn with the cob raosting over the fire.

Cleansing in Capulalpam

Today I went to do a little research of my own, into indegenous medicine practices in this region. Another hot, jam-packed bus ride, this time so full I ended up sitting in the dusty aisle, mich to the bemusement of those already seated, but I know my terrible sense of balance well enough to know it would not withstand standing as the cranky bus lurched and leaned around u-bends in the pine-forested highlands. After two uncomfortable hours, I stepped with relief into the cool mountain drizzle; though I nearly chased after the rapidly disappearing lights of the old aluminium bus as it wound down the deserted road, suddenly feeling very alone in the deserted village of Capulalpam. I asked directions in the drizzle, and began to relax as I worked my way up the steep village track towards the medical centre, damp mountain air smelling sweetly of sap and fresh leaves refreshing me. Though it was tainted by something more acrid - the smell of huge bugs, which had descended, writhing helplessly on theirt backs, twig like legs kicking the air futilely until they were crushed by some unforgiving footstep, releasing their pungent aroma.

Entering the newly-built, crystal white building that housed the indigenous medical centre, I thought the sign must be wrong and wasn´t sure what to expect. After a flurried welcome, the practices of ´limpias´ (cleansings) and temascal baths (a little like a healing sauna) were explained to me, and before I knew what was happening I had agreed to undergo a limpia myself. Slightly warily entering a dim, tile-clad room, a short, intensely-staring lady ushered me to sit, taking a deep, powerful breath with her eyes closed. There is something frightening aout the magic of medicine, about the mysteries of healing and powers of healers. I began to understand how this may be how patients feel at home, not really knowing or understanding what is happening to them, or what is going to be done to them: the feral fear of the unknown.

With a sharp release of that empowering breath, the healer began. An egg (thankfully, whole) was rolled all over my body, a quiet incantation repeated in the woman´s deep tones. Then the egg was cracked ceremoniuosly into a glass of water, the delicate wispy fronds of albumin rising up and unfurling like smoke on a dusky evening, revealing secrets - apparently evil spirits leaving my body, and telling the healer I had stomach troubles and neck ache apparently (strange, as I had spent the night before last vomiting ungraciously, and had a neckache from the cramped busride). Then I was briushed all over with bunches of raw herbs, still damp and smelling of the warm earth, pure and sweet. The whole process was deeply relaxing, if nothing else. My skepticism as to her diagnoses (what white person travelling here wouldn´t have a bit of a stomach upset and headache?) and as to whether I could possibly be ´healed´ by the process felt rather irrelevant: it was much like a gypsy reading palms or intricate patterns of tea leaves at a fair: we smirk and do not believe, yet for some obscure reason are drawn to the intrigue and mystery of what they can tell, paying good money to see what nature or spirits can tell us.

On leaving, I happened to bump into a doctor from the Seguro Popular clinic opposite in the foyer - interesting how the two takes on medicine interweave here - and was given an impromptu guided tour of the brand spanking new clinic, complete with spotless shining stirrups in a delivery room, a tiny minor trauma room, plush leather and mahogany-filledconsultation rooms and a pharmacy full of donated American drugs. Quite incongruous in the tiny, rural village, and quite empty - I wondered who had funded such a clinic, and whether the show on the outside was replicated in the care they provided for the community here.

Whatever their needs, I can see the benefit of combining modern and traditional medicine techniques, of respecting their heritage and embracing it, whilst providing modern care where possible.

My stomach problems have resolved, and I slept like a baby.

Mayan Mysteries - Monte Alban and Mitla

The state of Oaxaca is rich in Mixtec and Zapotec culture (http://www.whatoaxaca.com/pre-colombian-oaxaca.html), both ancient Mayan settlements dotting the hillsides and modern day descendants still practising generations-old beliefs and rituals.

First I visited the hilltop site of Monte Alban, winding up from Oaxaca to an unbelievable 360 degree view of the surrounding landscape in the early afternoon sun: with a vantage point like this, it was easy to see why the solid stone stepped ´talud tablero´ structures of the ancient Zapote capital grew up here 500BC. It is a magical place, the solidarity of the warmed stones under me reminding me of the perseverance and desire to settle, of the human race. Then on to Mitla, a strange town with countless Mezcal factories, catering for the first-class coachloads of toursists dumped on the edge of town to see the famous ruins. But arriving in the late afternoon, I managed to miss most of these, being left in near-peace (except for the hundreds of artesan pottery, jewellery and tunic stalls set up along the road) to stare astonished at the detailed carvings in the rocks and tombs. The heiroglyph-like, geometric carvings were exquisitley precise and incredibly well preserved, hinting at the mysteries of a long-forgotten language and culture.

Though in fact, the Valles Centrales in Oaxaca are home to at least 16 different indigenous languages, from Triqui and Zapoteca to Mixteca, Nahuatl and Chinanteco. It is because of the difficult topography and rural isolation of communities in the Valles that so many different ethnic groups have been maintained. Whilst this makes for an exciting and interesting cultural diversity, it poses problems; in some families, Spanish is hardly spoken at all, making it difficult for the children to go to school, and for the families to access services such as healthcare.

At home, we are always trying to encourage diversity; we even have specially designed communication skills sessions at University exactly to practice awareness and understanding of others´ cultural needs and expectations. Yet here, where the culture is so diverse, individual needs are so easily neglected. The ancient Zapotecans and Mixtecans built communities on solidarity and brothergood, and we should not forget them, as their structures still stand solidly today.

Centro de Esperanza Infantil

I climbed the short steep hill from my hostel to the Centro de Esperanza Infantil with a spring in my step at the excitement of starting my next placement, of exploring another new culture and set of health beliefs and of meeting the people I will be working with for the next three weeks. Ringing a grand bell on a huge old oak door, I was ushered with smiles and warm greetings through to a pretty red tiled courtyard, sunlight streaming down on the welcoming children´s paintings adorning the walls and smiling faces of families waiting politely in white gilded patio chairs. The whole building was very pleasant, clearly having received a lot more funding over the years than Primeros Pasos in Guatemala, with a well-stocked children´s library, kindergaten full of bright plastic toys, office full of computers and a shiny, clean doctor´s office.

I was invited to join the families in these chairs, small children hopping about with boundless energy up to teenagers sitting a little more sullenly, but friendly nonetheless. The Centre sponsors children from the age of four or five right through until they leave school, providing the poorest families in Oaxaca with the means to put their children through school (which is not free in Mexico), providing the fees, school books, bags and uniforms necessary, provide a nutritious meal which the children all seat down to enjoy together in the relaxed and social dining room, provide social care and help through the community centre based here and healthcare and education for all the families. It is not clear as to how many streetchildren there are in Oaxaca, but I do know that when I stroll contentedly through the Zocolo (the city´s main plaza), I see countless small children skipping barefooted with baskets of chiclets, or a shoe-shining box, hoping to lure in a customer so they can afford to eat that night.

The only problem with the shiny, modern doctors´ office is that is goes too frequently unused. The organisation (Oaxaca Streetchildren Grassroots, http://oaxacastreetchildrengrassroots.org/) cannot afford to employ a full-time doctor, so they can only provide medical care when special funding or grants are received, or they have visiting medical volunteers. This means that the provision waxes and wanes over the year, being greatest during the summer months when more people take time away from studies or work to volunteer (like me).

I am working with a team of pre-med students from Stanford University, led by an intriguing, hard working infectious diseases doctor (Professor of all sorts, actually) and an honest, open, well-informed social worker, to carry out a survey of the health needs of the families visiting the centre. Each child is measured and weighed, their vital statistics and general health inspected, and then asked a questionnaire on health habits (the good old washing hands, brushing teeth, diet - a seemingly simple set of questions not to be sneered at in community preventative health), as well as being asked about their access to healthcare.

I will also be working on my own project designing some health education materials, just a simple leaflet, that could be given to all the visiting families even at the times when there are no health professionals available at the centre. For even when we cannot be right in the action, education is a legacy which is passed from person to person, word spreading like the communicable diseases we hope to minimise.

It is incredible the difference visible between the children out on the streets, and those enrolled at the centre. Whilst they are still clearly poor, some hardly having eaten in the last day, the children here are clean, educated, polite, full of life and fun, take pride in their clothes and belongings, are more confident in their shy, reserved smiles than those working all hours just to feed their families, let alone have the chance of going to school or receive any kind of medical care.

What worries me is that all of this work is sponsor-funded; without the kind gifts of donors, all the children would still be out there touting tourist on the Zocalo. There seems to be very little governmental support for the plight of the poor, with the Seguro Popular government-supported health insurance system only accessible to the ´richer´ of the poor: infant mortality is ten times higher in the Ministry of Health system than in the private healthcare sector (http://www.medtogo.com/mexico-health-care-system.html).

I returned to my sparse but pretty little room, overlooking a courtyard with a sweetly-scented fuschia-blooming pomegranate tree hanging by my small window, to rest from the noise and bustle of the streets below. Such a tranquil spot to take in my thoughts from the day, but never too far from reality, with views of the building tops of Oaxaca over the balcony and the honking of bus horns to remind me that peace and comfort and prosperity does exist here, but that you have to work hard to get it.

A Oaxacan Welcome

After nearly 12 hours on the surprisingly comfortable night bus, save for the inexplicably frequent ´security checks´ by burly guards rudely awakening us with glowering flashlights, I arrived in Oaxaca (pronounced wo-ha-ka)just as the town was warming up with the morning sun. NOt many youth hostels here, but I found a cheap, basic but clean hotel to dump my heavy rucksack before setting off bright-eyed to explore the place I will be living for the next three weeks. http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oaxaca

And what a day to be introduced to this wonderful city. Unbeknown to me before I arrived, this weekend is the annual ´Guelaguetza´, an all-singing all-dancing festival of Oaxacan folklore and custom. I orientated myself a little to the main streets of the Centre around the architectural Zocolo, street after street running into treasures such as beautifully crafted churches and temples, peaceful, cosmopolitan squares, countless interesting art galleries and museums, artisan craft markets and the buzz and pace of a youthful, vibrant community. Oaxaca is famed for its cultural prowess in Mexico, leaflets being thrust into my hand as I paced the streets inviting me to private gallery showings, free open-air music concerts and traditional cooking courses. I got the feeling I was going to like it here.

The most pervasive posters for today were those inviting all and sundry to the Guelaguetza Auditorium, a ridiculously steep climb up the hillside to the highest point in Oaxaca. I joined scores of crowds, mostly Mexicans from the Oaxacan state, mixed with some intrigued foreigners as myself, to ascend the steps to the sky-high show. Opportunistic traders lined the narrow pathway, creating even more of a cattle market of the crowds, and there certainly was no queuing to enter the grounds: we bumped and jostled, tightly packed, vendors squeezing between the masses to sell ice cold drinks and lollies, to obtain the best free seats. I managed to squash myself in next to a family of about eleven on the stone steps, and had the height advantage to e able to see over the countless bobbing heads in front of me. All in all, 10000 sombrero-topped, excitable spectators crammed into that auditorium, with astounding views down to the stage and then on out across the whole of the city to the mountains in the distance. What a stage for a performance; and performance it was, a band blaring out traditional songs whilst luridly costumed dancers performed their magnificent, sometimes comical dances with utmost professionalism and sincerity, each dance greeted by roars from the crowds as patrons of the different regions in Oaxaca State cheered for their local dancers. The Guelaguetza is a strange fusion of indigenous Zapotec and Mixtec rites with Christian celebrations for the Virgen del Carmen - a fantastic example of the seamless joining of two seemingly worlds apart cultures I have seen all over Guatemala and Mexico.

As the skies opened into a thundrous downpour and umbrellas popped upover the sombreros, suddenly hundreds of people whipping out plastic capes to sell to the unprepared (such as myself), I scurried back down the hill into the centre of town. As evening fell and the skies cleared to a warming, clouded sunset, tourists spilled out into the Zocalo to enjoy the free performances there: weekending families, couples and myself happily strolled around watching clowns perform, a live marimba band play sonorous, beautiful tones into the warm night air, local artisans selling traditional pieces such as tiny carved painted animals and all sorts of hand woven materials. I sat, happy and relaxed, at one of the cosmopolitan square-side cafes to enjoy a famed Oaxacan hot chocolate and watch the world pass by.

The only flip side to all this delight were the street children. Having come here to work with a streetchildren´s charity, I was expecting the problem to be visible. But I didn´t account for how much it would affect me: a I sat, late at night, large, doleful eyed children with ruffled hair and bare, tiny feet would walk up to my table holding out little trinkets to sell, sent by their parents from across the pavement. And walking back along the tourist-thronged streets, I had to step around countless whole families preparing to sleep on the streets that night, holding out hats for money but never intruding on people, quietly accepting their fate as they all huddled together, the youngest children fast asleep in their others arms while their sleeps ran and played and laughed in the road. Whilst the playful kids didn´t seem unhappy as such, you could see the look on the parents´ faces, pleading with you ´Please don´t let my children grow up like this´. I returned to my room, upbeat yet disheartened, excited yet bewildered as to my day of explorations.

As I sleepily clambered into bed, I wondered how I would be able to resolve myself to the fact of enjoying being a tourist here, taking in all the wonderful cultural opportunities, whilst stepping over less fortunate young people trying to make a living playing accordion or selling gum on the clean, cobbled streets. But then that is why I am here, to work with an organisation who is trying to tackle this problem: as ever, not one person by themselves, but joining forces to try to improve the situation for at least some people. Tomorrow, I will discover the work they do, and for that, I will prepare myself with sleep.

Mayan medicine and mythology

San Cristobal has so much to offer. Much like Xela, it is a town of two halves: tourist trappings in the centre, including a beautiful architectural main square, Mercado de Artesanias and a obsolete tram tour of all the sights (you can walk them in an hour, which I did instead) enclosed by interesting streets full of delights such as hidden taco shops, old women selling hot, fruity `ponche` drinks from metal flasks with soup ladles, and local people celebrating in one of the many churches, most of which are up a thousand steps - perhaps to prove their faith, but for me worthwhile for the views of the small, compact city with numerous steeples breaking the clear skyline.

I spent an intriguing morning at the museum of Mayan medicine, learning about the traditional rituals, plants and beliefs still used today. Lotions and potions included ground up cactus leaves (sounds more painful than the sore throat it is to treat), crushed armadillo shell for rheumatism (though surely an armadillo walks a little like a man stiff in armour anyway?) and the use of a live chicken rubbed over the body of a woman in labour to ward away evil from the baby (I think a squawking chicken would be enough to scare anything off...). It is an odd thought, to think that even some of the young people I see in the streets dressed in modern, fashionable clothes with their ipods blaring in ears will still go to their traditional healer over the modern hospital. Whether it works scientifically or not, one thing I think they definitely get right is how close human healing is to nature and to the heart; there are numerous studies, starting decades ago, and much anecdotal evidence, suggesting people heal faster when they have hope, and believe they will get better (http://focus.psychiatryonline.org/cgi/content/full/4/1/140). Faith and time are definitely the greatest healers - where modern medicine steps in is where our time is almost up for this world, to work its own magic.

I experienced more tradition and rituals on a side trip up the mountain to the quaint village of San Juan Chamula. I had heard rumblings in town that it was a very odd place, that I would feel rather like an imposter and to watch what I did and try not to upset the locals. Now I am not one to upset anyone on purpose, and pride myself on my ability to fit in places, but when I stepped off the truck I had hitched a lift in with returning market traders (and of course their many boxes and baskets containing all sorts) I began to understand the feeling. That little jumping in the pit of your stomach that says your every move is being watched; that feeling which is so often imagined, when we are too aware of how we appear to others, only in this case I really was being watched from behind doorways and market stands by beady, intent eyes black as coalpits, and hiding as many secrets it seemed. To make it even stranger, all the locals dressed in their traditional garb of black shaggy wool skirts for the women, and white goats hide tunics for the men, all of whom seemed to be carrying rather large sticks. I hoped for walking along the unpaved roads, rather than chasing intruding tourists down them... For this is an insular community of utter faith in their church, which I was allowed to enter only on paying a `tourist fee`, having my bag hastily searched, and told to take photos on pain of death. Now I was really intrigued to see what the duck egg blue and yolk yellow church held inside - such fun, happy colours on the outside. On the inside, I gasped as quietly as possible - it was like stepping into Narnia through the back of the wardrobe, which was the great, heavy clad door. Thick, herbal smoke blurs your vision and mingles in your nostrils with the scent of crushed pine needles sliding under your feet across the whole wax-covered floor, the billowing smoke of thousands of candles adding to the thickness of the air and the heat of the room. The atmosphere created is one of intense concentration yet letting go, allowing spirituality to seep through you and calm you; much the same effect one feels when stepping into a sauna with the sap of the wood and almost unbearable heat forcing you to empty your mind and senses of anything except the reason of being there. I carefully stepped around kneeling locals, murmuring enrapturing prayers and incantations loudly to their chosen plastic-doll saint, and giving up offerings of candles, eggs, herbs and... fizzy drinks. This I really could not understand - when the addition of soda to their ancient rituals happened I have no idea, but I am sure Mr Schweppes was very happy about it. The live chickens sat at some of their feet seemed less happy with the whole affair... The whole process was enthralling to watch, but I was acutely aware I was stood staring at people trying to pray, though they seemed completely oblivious to our jaw-dropped gazes (and I suppose you would be if the tourist fees paid for the upkeep of your church).

Anyway, I escaped alive, to pay a quick vist to the Cafe Museo, where I saw the ancient Mayan techniques of farming coffee and cacao, many of which adaptations are still used today, Incredibly, there are still pavements and patios of land in the hills around Chiapas used for farming that were first created over 2000 years ago. And it certainly produces a fragrant, eye-opening strong cup of steaming coffee (nothing to do with the tequila or rompope (local version of advocaat) they add to it, of course).

I enjoyed a late-night snack of honey-soaked cake with preserved fruits which is rather popular here, women selling all kinds of sticky delights from chequered cloth-lined baskets all through the warm night, to prepare for the long journey ahead: 12 hours on the bus to Oaxaca. The bus turned out to be ridiculously comfortable, with fully reclining seats, complimentary coffee and the cleanest toilet I have seen in weeks. So I happily settled back in my chair, disturbed only by the countless `security checks` by burly guards all through the night, to look forward to the new challenge of working at the next place, and considering all the Mayan magic I have seen and how I could incorporate their ideas into my own practice. I`m sure I could make a business out of curing people with kindness and cakes.

Micheladas in Mexico

I tried to keep my sleepy, drooping eyelids open on the long, bumpy drive through deserted villages and plantations to the Mexican border, for my last view of Guatemala. But weeks of new and exciting experiences, conversing in two languages, desperately trying to get my head around the mindset and medicine of another culture, have left my head spinning and my brain exhausted. A disconsolate lancha ride across a muddy river, from one desolate frontier town to another, took me from Guatemala to Mexico in two minutes flat. No time for gushy, soppy goodbyes, though that wouldn´t be very British now, would it? I do feel sad though, that whilst I have had a short chance to explore a bit of the Guatemalan culture and countryside, that however much time you have in a place, whether it be days or months or years, it never seems quite enough. Perhaps that says something about human satisfaction, and the need to achieve something in a place, to leave our mark like cats on a territorial tree.

My sombre, pensive mood was deepened by the oppressive mugginess of Sothern Mexico, breaths caught dead in an atmosphere as warm as my own moist lungs. And for this, I was thankful I was not in a crammed, oxygen-depleted Guatermalan collectivo, and instead in a modern, clean, spacious air-conditioned Mexican version, on the way to Palenque. I would never consider Mexico rich, but compared to its´Central American neighbours, it is far more modern (though this, I have discovered, means no less organised...).

The town of Palenque felt like a strange reincarnation of Flores, a few years down the line, already gentrified (or ´gringofied´, I suppose). Here, the neat promenades were finished, tour agencies bustling and restaurants thriving. My tired senses were reawoken anew, a lively marimba band playing in the main square whilst large Mexican families enjoyed comidas tipicas whilst the children laughed and danced in that special, unhindered way reserved for unembarrassed toddlers. I sat in a nearby restaurant with my first michelada, a spicy, refreshing cross between a beer and a Bloody Mary (cerveza spiced with tomato, chilli, lime and black pepper and salt).

I discovered what seemed to be my ultimate tour - bus rides to the Palenque ruins, to cool off at nearby waterfalls and ending up in my next destination, San Cristobal de las Casas - for only a few pounds more than the direct bus there.

So the next morning, we set off to the much talked-of Mayan ruins. I wasdn´t sure what to expect, having been to Tikal so recently. I wondered with a guy called Tim whether it was possible to become ´ruined out´, as you can become ´churched out´in Europe or ´templed out´in Asia. We agreed that you can become accustomed to a type of scenery, or building, but that you never get over the wonderment or beauty, justy the shock of such. Shock can only arise from the unexpected, the unbelievable, the never before seen. It is much the same with physical shock: people only begin to recover when they accept what they have seen or experienced was real, and that they have survived. But it never leaves for good, flashbacks or memories forever plaguing (or in the case of the tourist, delighting) the beholder.


Palenque was swarming with tour groups, even early in the morning, and similar to the town, is a version of Tikal a few years and a few thousand dollars down the line. Perfectly gravelled walkways snake neatly between the temples, which seem a little less magical for their ease of viewing, but which none the less are magnificent. These walkways are edged by a continuous string of sellers tidily laying out rows of jewelerry, maskd, carvings and etchings, sadly drawing tourists´eyes from the real attraction to the more immediate gratification of gifts. I began to enjoy Palenque more as I searched out the smaller, crumbling structures hidden deeper in the jungle and a little off the beaten track, crumbling sandy rocks seemingly growing themselves out of the twisted knotted roots and soft furry mossgripping to its sides. And some incredibly detailed artefacts and freizes have been preserved in the museum, the Mayan artists putting many more modern painters to shame for their detail and accuracy.

After the sweltering heat of Palenque, we were all glad of the cooling jets of spray hurling off the caverns at Misol-Ha waterfalls, and the tempting aquamarine and azure pools of water at Agua Azul. This was another reincarnation of Guatemala, I feel like I haven´t quite left it behind, the glassy shallow pools reflecting those at Semuc Champey. The difference in Mexico is the crowds: they have had a few more years to advertise to tourists, and more of the locals can afford weekend trips.

Happily relaxed after reading with the water gently washing over me, myself and a few others were dropped off at the ominous ´crossroads´for the final leg of our tour, the bus to San Cristobal. Here is where my cunning tour fell apart, and explains my earlier comment on organisation - the bus didn´t show. And instead of doing something sensible about it, the tour guides stood there blankly and dumbly, blindly panicking but pretending to us there was ´no problema´. As the lighht started to fade, we suggested they ring the bus company. We suggested they send one of their minibuses back to Palenque, and use the other to take those of us that were going on to San Cristobal. We suggested they find us a hotel for the night. And then we suggested they gave us some compensation. Instead, we stood there, at the crossroads, doing nothing. And then their (and my) bacon wasd saved, by the bus showing up, only an hour late. Arriving in a new town at 11.45pm, on my own, with nowhere to stay, was hardly ideal, but of course the tour company got away with it, it was ´no problema´to them once I was packed on the bus. This made me wonder where human responsibility comes from; at home, I would have demanded some compensation, or that they ensured I had somewhere to stay when I arrived, or at least the company would be required to have in writing something disqualifying them from responsibility. But here, they just shrug their shoulders ambiguously.

Our responsibility is our own. It is our expectation of others and what they should or should not do for us that leads to ridiculous health and safety rules, to our lives being hindered and all the excitement of exploring our world for ourselves taken out by rules and regulations. This is not to say we shouldn´t look out for others, or to be protected when necessary; but with the right information, we should be free to make our own informed decisions. I guess the reason for all the regulation is that some people are not in the position to take such responsibility for their own, and as such it falls to the state to do so. But we need a better way of judging who is, and is not capable of consenting themselves and putting themselves or taking themselves out of risky situations, not only in the medical world, but in day to day life.

Some things seem to happen for no reason, to be out of our control, and this is what leaves us feeling a little frightened, angry and out of our depth. But as Stephen Hawking said, ´I have noticed even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road´.

Turisticas en Tikal

After a slightly-more-difficult than supposed trip (I managed to convince some friends, Josh, Duncan and Rachel, to do it my way and skip the expensive shuttle in favour of the cheap-as-chips chicken bus), which involved our bags being chucked atop one bus then returning to find it full (that really means full here), being told to get another and change at the mysterious `crossroads`, having to cross a muddy river with all of our backpacks aboard a flimsy wooden raft then sweltering in a minibus with blacked out windows, we eventually reached Flores.

We were soon refreshed by giant, bowl-like glasses of fresh, sour limonada and fruity licuados in the peaceful ambient garden of our hostel, cooling our boiling blood and dispelling any hint of dehydration from the dusty drive. So I set off to explore the little island. As the most convenient town for the ancient Mayan ruins of Tikal, Flores is beginning to flourish as a tourist centre. It is beautiful in itself, sitting astride a small mound of earth linked to the land by one bridge, and so surrounded on all sides by a glistening, calm lake. But at present, it is a very odd combination of high class hotels and restaurants designed for the rich American tourists looking a little lost on its streets, which are currently being regenerated in the style of expensive Mediterranean resorts without quite being finished yet. Rusty spades and wheelbarrows lie abandoned on the half-paved streets, and the one section of promenade that is actually finished is conversely still lined by old shacks and rubbish dumps, yet to be converted into the swanky hotels! I liked Flores for this, for its backwards, unfinished charm, a hint of prosperity yet still hanging on to its poor roots.

We were up ridiculously early for the bus to Tikal (http://www.tikalpark.com/), in order to combat the already rising heat at 5.30am and to try to avoid the promised hordes spilling out of tour buses. Whilst it was still swelteringly hot, we did achieve the second of our aims, finding ourselves the sole people at some of the crumbling, mystical temples.


I would have been impressed by the magical setting alone: small paths weave themselves through dense tropical jungle, branches (replete with ´stay away from me` coloured spiders and bugs) hanging across at face height and the screeching and squawking of hidden animals surrounding your ears. Though they weren`t always hidden, on the walk we spied spider monkies acrobatically leaping aboves our heads, exotically plumed toucans and woodpeckers flapping from tree to tree in the maze of foliage, and a startled (both us and it) snake on the canopy floor. Then suddenly, magestically soaring right out of the heights of the canopy above, rose forboding temples, still standing with solidarity 1500 years after they were built with bare hands. The sheer vastness of the structures is incredible, let alone the hints at their once highly decorated plaques and freizes and the magical quality of the imagined rituals, prayers and colourful dances, fires blazing and drums runbling into the echoing forest.

You can climb many of the temples, up steep rickety wooden ladders that are certainly not as strong or stable as the edifices we were ascending - a `don`t look down`job for sure. The views afforded at the top take your breath away more than the climb itself, gazing out over impenetrable, a neverending carpet rainforest to the hazy horizon in the distance, the view broken only by the tops of distant temples, blending in as if they were a natural part of the forest and not a manmade structure. Modern architects could learn a lot from the ancient Mayan designers.

Returning to Tikal, mesmerised, we cooled off with an early evening swim in the lake, which was as warm as a bathtub and expelled delighted sighs and smiles from oour expoler-weary feet. The skies blackened, a tumultuous roar of thunder and huge drops of rain falling about our submerged bodies, but we stayed it out and the threatened thunderstorm thinned to become the most beautiful awe-inspirng sunset I have seen, flames of gold and ochre lapping the lakes`edge, splitting through the eery yellow-grey clouds with laser-like accuracy, lighting up our floating faces.

We had a perfect end to a wonderful few days travelling together eating freshly charcoal-grilled pinchos (kebabs of meat, peppers, chillis and pineapple) and enjoying creamy pina coladas at the lakeside.

You cannot get a better day than one filled with exploration and relaxation, to keep both sides of your brain happy. Even the rain cannot dampen that.

`Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.` Langston Hughes

Lazy days at Lanquin

I allowed myself the luxury of travelling by shuttle for the trip to Lanquin, expecting a simple half-day minibus ride over the mountains to the North. But it never happens like this - an overturned lorry on a highland pass, blocking the entire precipitous road, put a halt to our proceedings for nearly three hours in the sticky, sweating heat. The thing I found most frustrating was my own irritation at being hindered in my travels; I could not shake the feeling of annoyance that I had been hindered on a journey I had paid good money for, that it was a situation out of my control. I realised as time went on it was perhaps an irritation of shame and guilt that my minor inconvenience was overriding worry for the driver and that noone was hurt, because there was nothing I could do about that either. Eventually it was resolved, and three lanes of vans, horns blazing, continued on their journeys.

Any feeling of disquiet in me was dispelled as we descended in the darkening clouds to lush valleys, the minibus steeply crunching over gravel roads to the sleepy, somnolent town of Lanquin. Here I somehow managed to meet Josh, a friend from Xela, after a short hunt in the quiet village. Tired, hot and ready for bed at 8pm, we found the only can of cold beer in the whole place and settled down under flimsy mosquito nets for an exhausted, travel-weary sleep.

Early to bed, early to rise - woken by off-key singing through a crackling microphone from the church opposite our hotel at 6am, we set off for the travellers´ultimate destination in Guatemala - Semuc Champey - a set of limestone pools sat astride a cavernous cave cut into the soft rock by the tumultous river below. The excitement of standing precariously in the back of a pick up for the short 11km journey wore off within about 1km, as the bone-crunching jerks of the vehicle twisted and turned into ever-denser forest at impossibly steep angles, us ending up at odd angles to countebalance the tilting truck.

But was the pain of the trip worthwhile? Judge for yourself by the photos - ascending slippery, mossy walkways in dense tropical vegetation, with insects screeching out their calls around us, we caught enticing glimpses of glassy turquoise pools, promising a refreshing coolness to the clammy climate. The pools themselves are a wonderment of nature, with the river tumbling and crashing its way over and under the limestone, leaving perfectly and incongrously calm pools on the cave´s surface.

You can jump, and swim, climband cave with candles, and do as I do and sit on the edge of one of the tranquil pools, admiring the view and clearing your senses with the water rushing below you.

Those senses were filled again in the evening, with graceful fluttering and mystical wonderment, as we sat perfectly still in a bat cave at dusk. A deathly silence descended upon all of us there, the only ripple of sound waves the rapid but delicate beating of the bats´wings and the odd squeak as they fluidly navigated around our frozen bodies. It was beautiful to behold, their movement en masse and ability not to disturb another living thing, all with total blindness. A lone blind man walking along the path has some of that grace, I think, but a blindfolded group of people become a wretched mass of bodies bumping into each other.

The next day was spent at the beatiful El Retiro lodge, on the edge of Lanquin, soaking up sunrays on the deck like cats on a hot tin roof, the river splashing its way rapidly past our feet, cooling off by squelching through the mud upstream and hurling ourselves into the icy, turbulent water, hoping we could grab hold of the rope provided to haul yourself back to the safety of the bank. A day of ultimate rest, intermingled with babbling fear matching that of the brook as the floated downstream!



A young girl came to try to take advantage of our Western riches, and sell us sadly melting chocolate sweetly scented with cardamon (70% of the worlds´ cardomon is produced here in Guatemala). I didn´t want the sickly bar, but she told us that she was one of eight children, whose father had died when she was 5 years old and so she had worked ever since and not gone to school in order to help support her many siblings. She asked us if we liked nailvarnish, and what music we listened to, and told us our blonde hair was beautiful. I realised she was just like any other 13 year old girl, interested in fashion and makeup and boys; but her grown-up frown did not reflect this. We bought the chocolate.

We ended our wonderful few days here in some style with a candlelit ´English´ buffet at the lodge (nutroast, chicken, salads, roast potatoes, brocolli and cauliflower - not too far off I suppose!). I was asked too many times what it is to be English tonight - and all I could think was retiring, stoical and snobby as seems to be the presumption! But I am less of a loner than I kid myself, and will travel to the next place with Rachel, Donald and Josh too early tomorrow morning.

Leaving the mountains of Xela behind

It is impossible to believe I have reached the end of my time here. As a beaming sun bore down on my last morning up in the dusty hills at Primeros Pasos, I looked around me and pondered whether I had achieved what I would like to here. And I realised that what you want to achieve will always be a step away up the mountain path, your work in a place will never be done, there will always be another stone that can be climbed, but that we have to learn to feel good about where we have got to so far and optimistic about what can be extended over the summit and into the future.

If all I have achieved is a sense of understanding even a little about medicine in another country, of broadening my viewpoint, and of sharing experiences with the people here, I am happy.

And I got to indulge my artistic side, painting educational materials onto the rough block walls with thick, gloopy paints and designing posters to adorn the waiting area. A tiny suggestion, but each tiny change improves the service provided.

Thoughts tumbled through my mind as Carlos, Zach and I tumbled onto an alreading exploding chicken bus headed for Antigua - at one point we were in the doorway, hearts racing with the whistling wind through our hair as we hung onto the bar for dear lives. The rush of adrenaline reflected my mood - a sense of excitement and challenge, but a deeper rooted fear of not overcoming the challenge. But holding on to each other, we survived unscathed, babbling as we fell out of the precarious doorway at our destination.

Guatemalan health is like the chicken bus ride; full of promise of the end destination, but a bumpy, dangerous path to get there. There are many undeniable problems faced by Guatemala if they are to improve healthcare. Decrease the social division between rich and poor. Actively improve women’s rights. Increase access to basic sanitation and potable water. Remove the sort of corruption that allows people to pass degrees if they have the money or the standing to pay examiners off. Work hard at education programmes to widen people’s healthcare beliefs. There are many voluntary organizations working here, providing much-needed services. What needs to be done is to integrate these provisions; to put human enterprise and willingness to help each other into its most powerful position – by uniting its forces. One person can be influential, can be intuitive and devise many fantastic ideas; but it is always the resourcefulness, hope and inspiration created by people working together that moves mountains.

We could learn a lot from this at home. It is rewarding to take the credit for achieving something ourselves, but the real reward comes from being part of that incredible force of nature, humanity.

Claire gets H1N1 (almost)!

Considering the title of the blog, I have been wanting to write that all trip, so much so that I can almost accept the choking, coryzal cough I seemed to have been endowed with.

I had that impending feeling of itchy, tickly throat last night and this morning woke without a voice. So my faltering Spanish now comes out in a squeaky falsetto, making it even harder to understand.

But hey, if all I pick up during the whole elective is a bit of a cough, considering small children and adults and grandparents cough and splutter in my face every day (they do not understand the concept of covering your mouth here as fine droplets spray onto vulnerable surfaces all around - we pretend in the UK it is because it is polite, but it is functional too) I will think myself lucky.

And from the looks of things, with rising cases in Cambridge, as emails from the University keep flooding my inbox telling me to watch out for symptoms, I think I am actually less likely to catch the disease here.

This map is a bit old, but I think it proves my point quite nicely

http://www.who.int/csr/disease/swineflu/history_map/InfluenzaAH1N1_maps.html

Pinatas and La Parranda

Today was Fergus’ birthday. We worked hard this morning, teaching a health education class about worms and parasites, Fergus having the special birthday treat of dressing up as ‘Valentin’ the evil ‘vorm’. The screaming, enchanted children with their cheeky smiles and playfulness certainly created a good atmosphere for a birthday, and made Fergus feel younger!

We then enjoyed moreish doughnuts from the Mennonite bakery here in Xela, and I scrupulously searched the thronging streets of the lively Demogracia market to find the best Pinata in town.

A party in the evening ended with dancing in La Parranda – think any cheesy British nightclub, remove measuring of shots, add some latin beats to the music and salsa flairs to the dancing. The photos probably say it best.

At one point in the evening, I looked around the partying crowds, and felt pleasantly surprised about how many faces I recognized and people I knew there. In four short weeks, in such a welcoming and friendly town, it is all too easy to make friends and feel settled in one place in this vast world. I feel excited about exploring new places, but sad to be leaving at the end of this week.

I now understand why one in three of the people I meet here have postponed their flights home. It is because when they are travelling, they think they are looking for something; and what they realise is that they are looking for companionship, a shared mindset, a feeling of belonging in the world. Which can only be fully realised by sharing experiences with those around us.