GUATEMALA -4-

ON THE WAY TO LAGO DE ATITLAN  

At breakfast table, Maria is consulting with Zeynep (how sweet to see that she is becoming a doctor) about her cough that has been lingering for some time now. I mention her red eyes and raise a question about her blood pressure. She doesn’t know her blood pressure, not surprising. Zeynep recommends her to go to the clinic and see a doctor. She is convinced that she needs to do that. We clear the breakfast table, she leaves before us to get in line, we will stop at the clinic to give her the one key Zeynep will use to lock the outside door. When we arrive in clinic I am stricken with a ‘deja voux” feeling.  The waiting area is packed with people of mostly indigenous, poor Maya. There is almost no room to set foot on in the waiting area. I wonder how many physicians will attend to the needs of this some hundred patients (In the evening I will have a dream with a blond petite female doctor, who has to see some hundred patients in one day. She doesnt' seem to be upset, though, in fact pretty cheerful, too). I bet it is one single doctor, who will be able to dedicate only 5 minutes to each patient. I recall the days I had to go through a hundred or more patients in clinic in Turkey, way back 25-30 years ago (I had replaced only the color of hair in my dream, otherwise it could easily be me). It is much better now, the numbers are down to 40-50 patients per doctor per day in public hospitals, which is still way beyond what we have to deal with in the USA. How can a doctor dedicate the WHO minimum of 20 minutes to each patient under these circumstances? Then, how can a doctor avoid making mistakes and not miss important diagnoses?

Maria with her red eyes, not feeling well

Zeynep meets some of her volunteer friends outside the clinic. This is the clinic where Zeynep volunteered as well. She and all her friends are concerned about the corruption eroding the Spanish schools and volunteer programs that attract scores of American students to this community every year. They believe, of the large sums of funding that flow into these schools, some (very little) is paid to Spanish teachers, and after the cost of the overhead (very little) is deducted, the rest flows to the owners of the school systems, most of which in theory, needs to be funneled to the community through volunteer projects. Zeynep says, whatever volunteer project they come up with to conduct, the string holders say "We dont' have money for that." Poverty, in many circumstances brings the worst out of people, especially of a select group of smart, opportunistic ones. Corruption is everywhere, as one colleague who had done a rotation in the poorest region of Turkey many years ago had put it “Lift any stone, you’ll find exploitation underneath.” We will experience many examples of such throughout the week across the country.

Patients waiting in front of the clinic underneath Zeynep's school


It is time to depart. Xela soon will be a pleasant memory. Our shuttle picks us up at the door, alas I won’t be able to experience the chicken bus adventure. We have lots of luggage since Zeynep had been living here for 6 weeks now. Shuttles pick up their customers from their “door” and deliver to the “door” of their destination. I am sure us Gringos created a market for this, but with so much weight, I can’t help feeling grateful for this convenience at this point. Shuttle service is very expensive for the locals, who, thus, prefer the chicken buses, there is a tenfold price difference between the two, it is still quite reasonable for us US dollar spenders. Door to door delivery, thus taxi service included makes the price very acceptable. I get a bit anxious seeing that the shuttle is 15 minutes late. But nobody else seems to be, including my daughter, who becomes one of the natives wherever she goes in couple of weeks, anyway. Apparently this is the norm here, nobody gets concerned about delays unless it is more than 30-45 minutes! Eventually, it does arrive as everybody has been telling me, ending my anxiety. We are loaded onto the mini-bus, comfortably heading toward Panajachel, one of the quirky towns on the north coast of El Lago de Atitlan.

It is so fun to see how elegantly Zeynep is leading us through this trip. Except for the airport hotel for our last night, she arranged everything for us, made the travel plans and took care of transportation and accommodation reservations. This is our first trip abroad together and our first trip, during which she is making decisions for both of us and taking care of me. It looks like it takes 25 years for the offspring to start making decisions for the parent. It feels good, it will feel even better as the week goes by seeing how sensible, smart, fun, and adventurous decisions she made for both of us. I’ve believed throughout my career that every pediatrician must have a child since the best teacher a pediatrician can have is his/her own child(ren) to learn from. Zeynep has taught me more than anybody else on how to take care of, treat, and learn from a child to become not only a better parent but also a better pediatrician. I feel blessed with that opportunity. And this, two-way cross-learning, over the years, led the way to a sweet, precious friendship, which I treasure more than anything I have.

Here is my girl, who has become my best friend and guide at age 27

Boats are lined up along a make-shift looking pier, but I know well from similar piers in Turkey, this is their one and only pier for this town. We are getting on the boat that is ready to leave. I have been curious about where they would store our four-piece luggage. Zeynep asked me to bring a spare luggage for her to bring her Guatemalan acquisitions home. And she acquired quite a bit. I am no better than her, though. I already bought a beautiful, 100% wool blanket from one of the vendors at her school. I want to make sure my blanket is safe, more than anything else. But there is a problem, the captain is throwing our luggage one by one on top of the canvas covering the seating area.  The metal bars surrounding the canvas are barely 6 inches high. I am hoping they will tie them to the metal bars or something. Nope, none of that. I can’t help expressing my worry a bit. The captain is adamant they are safe.

I look at Zeynep, she has already gotten used to the ways of locals in Guatemala, she shruggs her shoulders. It looks like I am on my own on this. After couple of exchanges about our, rather my concern about the luggage and the captain’s dismissal of my concern, I give up a bit anxious, but only after buckling Zeyno’s backpacks to my luggage and one of the bars! I am sure the captain is murmuring to himself “God help me with these Gringos”. Zeynep is sure he swore at us in his Mayan language when the unbuckling makes him lose a precious minute or two at our final destination. Looking back how the luggage didn’t move even an inch through all the waves that soaked us thoroughly despite the tarp the assistant captain gave us and leaps the boat made, I regret I didn’t submit to captain’s confidence. The last impression I'd like to make is that of a typical North American, and unfortunately, in their minds, I did exactly that. Too late now, all I can do is to trust my captain on the way out. Surely, in two days, on the way out, they throw our luggage on top of the canvas, I jump in the boat without even glancing at where they landed...

Here is our captain, not very happy with me

I turn my attention to our “castle” that will be the highlight of our travels. Casa del mundo: House of the world. It is indeed the house of the world, owned by an American man and a Guatemalan woman, who are married. The house is run by their son, I learn from Zeynep. The customers we will meet over the two dinners we will have there will be from all over, Israel, Germany, USA, Canada, Spain, Portugal, on and on, and on. We start climbing up the stairs leading to the house nestled into the rocky sheer cliff akin to an eagle’s nest. Zeynep has one of her backpacks and my carry on, I have one of her backpacks, and my main luggage, the heaviest piece is lying on the dock. We hope somebody can help us carry it up. Hundred some steps, each at least a foot high, take my breath away, literally; by the time I am at the reception desk, which is also the pay station of the restaurant, where we will have our dinner soon, I am totally out of breath. Luckily, there is a small but sturdy Mayan boy around, willing to carry our last piece of luggage to our room. I feel sorry for him, he doesn't know what he is getting himself into, but what can I do? Glad that he is there. Zeynep explains the young man where the luggage is, we all head in different directions, he down to the dock, we up to our room.

This is how steep the cliff into which casa del mundo is carved.

GUATEMALA -3-

MARIA MAGDALENA      

  

Finally we arrive at a Spanish style old house blocked off from the street with big blue metal gates, the house, where Zeyno has been living for the last five weeks with a woman in her 70s, Maria Magdalena. Her two children live in America, the other two in Guatemala, one of which is in Xela offering Maria Magdalena several grandchildren visiting her on a daily basis. The big metal gates allow entry into a court yard after quite some screeching and squeaking. Cement covers the ground in the court yard, around which are several doors painted with bright greenish blue. One of the doors opens into a room with a bathroom in, the largest of the rooms Maria is renting out to the students of the Spanish school Zeynep attended for four weeks. The floor is covered with textured flowery tiles. Although it looks pretty dilapidated, I will discover later on that this room actually is the ‘luxury suit’ compared to the rest of the house.

The second door opens to the main house with three rooms and a kitchen. One of the rooms is Maria’s bedroom, in which is the only bathroom in-house, saved for her own use. Tenants are assigned to use a shared bathroom, which is out in the yard, akin to the squatting homes in Turkey. Zeynep and I will share her bedroom for the one night I will stay there, just for the sake of getting to know how at least a local actually lives and also to avoid the potential bed bugs that are routine residents of most hotels in Guatemala, I hear. I do check the bathroom out in the yard, my goodness, I would have to clean that place for two days before being able to use it. I can understand, now, why Zeyno was doing sponge baths during the week and taking her showers at hotels during her weekend travels for the last 4 weeks. I will wait to take my real shower at Casa del Mundo, to which we will move tomorrow. Sponge bath before going to bed will have to do in this house.  I am embarrassed with my American way of feeling and thinking, but I can’t bring myself to getting in there to make myself dirtier than I already am having flown for half a day.

My humble bedroom of one night

Fortunately, the tenants of the ‘luxury suit’, who are Zeynep’s friends from the Spanish school keep their door unlocked so that we can use their bathroom, the toilet, that is, very happily, it is clean. Zeynep is very comfortable, not the way I was sensing she was feeling during the first couple of weeks of her stay here. She is so as-a-matter-of-factly in a very sweet way. “Well, at first it is hard, the concept of hygiene here is totally different than ours. After being a bit frustrated for about a week or two, you come to terms with this, accept the fact that you must consider anything and everything you touch will be dirty and develop a way of protecting yourself without asking for too much from the locals.” Hence, all the plastic garbage bags covering surfaces to create a lining for toiletry, for clothes, for sheets, for electronics when they are not in use… Human kind can be extremely creative.

Maria Magdalena is a chatty, affectionate woman, who has prepared tea and watermelon for us, before dinner, for my arrival. It is clear that she likes Zeynep. Zeynep already has told me lots about her and how she developed a grandmother granddaughter type of a relationship with her over the last four weeks. I am grateful for that knowing how important my mother has been in Zeynep’s life and how painful it still is for all of us, but much more so for Zeynep to see my mother disappear gradually toward her end after a very unfortunate car accident. She was telling me on the phone how she was spending most of her free time with Maria, chatting with her, watching TV together lying at the opposite ends of the same sofa, like family members. Her American friends were astonished with how close a relationship Zeynep had built with Maria, when it felt so natural to Zeynep since these had been just some of the things she had done with her grandmother as she was growing up.

                                           Maria and Zeynep

Maria and I exchange a few appreciative sentences to express our mutual gratefulness. I can use my Spanish! What a wonderful satisfaction it is to be able to communicate in another language other than Turkish and English, both fully part of me now. A kind of rejuvenation. I decided to learn Spanish a few years ago and gave it a try on several occasions, which helped me with establishing a background for it. But my real effort started after Bill’s death. The pain was so hurtful, I had to do something with myself to reduce it to a bearable level. I increased my exercise program to every day, helped a bit but not much. I started taking out Spanish teaching CDs from the local library to listen to in the car, after all that was when I was most exclusively all by myself and with my thoughts and my sadness. It helped tremendously, to my pleasant surprise. I then signed up for a Spanish class at the university for the spring semester. It was indeed working. That is how I decided learning something new that requires all of you is, if not THE, but one of the best remedies to grieving the loss of something or somebody special.

Of course there will come times I will be at a loss with what Maria was saying. Zeynep knows me all too well, reading my facial expression will come to my help right away. I can’t believe how Zeynep’s Spanish has sky-rocketed in only 4 weeks. Her accent sounds like she has lived here all her life. Her intonation has the same musicality of the locals. When I get out of the picture, Maria and she carry on a beautiful conversation, only half of which I can understand. I gradually start getting a sense of who Maria is. It is clear that this woman is not of low SES. Even if her house and the way she runs her financial affairs are similar to the lowest of the low in America (even in Turkey), her manners, body language, and the way she treats us are more attitudes of the middle class. Zeynep verifies that she actually is a middle class woman in Guatemalan standards. It is heart breaking to see the distinct divide between the living conditions of the middle class in America (even in Turkey) and in Guatemala even if there isn’t much difference between how people from the same SES, pretty much all over the world, think and feel.

Maria has other tenants in her upstairs rooms that are accessible from the same courtyard. The next morning, I see one of her tenants getting out of the bathroom in the courtyard. So that place, in worse condition than any port-a-potty I have seen in the USA is indeed used by her tenants and not only for a pee squatting up in the air but for a shower, too!! The guy getting out of the bathroom is akin to his tiny self, expelled from his mother’s womb a few decades ago. He didn’t even bother using a towel to cover up himself if what I unexpectedly catch with the angle of my eye is not an illusion. He just walked the few steps across the yard in his natal attire; I wonder whether this is Latino machismo, or not expecting anybody awake at that hour of the morning, or simply an innocent choice of a naturist.

Fig tree and figs in the rear corner of Maria's courtyard

GUATEMALA -2-

QUETZALTENANGO and GUATEMALA CITY

After Guatemala City, my first stop is Quetzaltenango, the place of the bird Quetzal, an ugly looking bird resembling a parrot with a long, long green tail, the icon for Guatemala. Xela, the nickname locals gave it is in a way becoming to it. I never thought a town in a developing country like Guatemala could sprawl like this. My daughter with her new-found Mayan “persona” meets me at the bus stop/terminal. With her white-red flowery asymmetric long skirt, her long red tear-drop shaped ear rings, her hairdo with her locally woven bandana, I couldn’t tell her from a Mayan mixed with a splash of Spanish blood. I take a picture of her, she fakes being upset, how sweet. She must indeed feel like a local and I am acting like a Gringo tourist, of course.

                                                   Quetzal, icon of Guatemala


She guides me through the eclectic streets of Xela. We walk on a divided boulevard, an “avenida” for a while, then find ourselves on a narrow street with sidewalks not even two feet wide, two cars barely fitting side by side, houses rising right by the end of the narrow side walk leaning against one another, color being the only identifier to differentiate one house from the other. We pass through the market place, buy local bananas, small, plump ones just like the local bananas we used to have in Turkey. Globalization brought the Chikita bananas, who knows from where, and local bananas are long gone in Turkey, now. There is so much in this town that reminds me of my activist days from 30 years ago when we used to visit the squatting communities, the gecekondu neighborhoods of Turkey to educate and politicize the working class, the migrants of the time. I breath in the same survival mode in this city. And this is the second largest city of a country.

Sprawling Quetzaltenango


Gradually, we move into residential areas. “Taller de mechanica”, auto mechanic shops sneak into even residential areas. I will discover soon when we ask a hardware store keeper that these shops are one of the hallmarks of Guatemala. I will continue being appalled with the overwhelming number of auto mechanic shops scattered all around the country throughout my stay. There is a reason for that, too, of course. The dilapidated, falling apart school buses not fit for use in the USA apparently are shipped to Guatemala. These shops fix them up miraculously and paint them into designs and cheerful colors that will become the colors of Guatemala for me in such a short time span.  These buses then become “chicken buses”. Now don’t assume they are used to house or transport chickens. They are used for transportation of humans but just as chickens are packed into a hen house. Two-person seats accommodate three. A make-shift seat is created mostly on the spot by a box or a luggage between the two seats to accommodate another traveler that completes the row to 7 seats instead of the usual 4 that it was designed for.

Chicken buses imported from America in Mayan colors

I will hear Zeynep’s friends chat amongst themselves “…. I changed couple of chicken buses….” describing how they travel to places. Chicken buses, referring to locals being carried to places like chickens. I am sure us gringos came up with that term. This is how we see them, when it is a way of life for them. How to change this? Is it possible? I ask my daughter what her observations have been about the discrepancy between the poor and rich in this country. She states it is huge and that in fact she hasn’t had any contact with the rich since they all live in huge homes walled off from the rest of the community in court yards reminiscent of the days of colonial times. She states, through her Spanish school and the volunteer work she has come into contact with only the poor and needy in the country. Intellectuals and the rich enjoy and protect from outsiders a totally different life style than the mainstream. She verifies what I read in my Lonely planet book that this society is highly hierarchical in terms of ethnic and socio-economical status and stratum;  pure Mayan indigenous unfortunately occupying the bottom of this almost-cast system.

Didn’t I observe that in Guatemala City as well as I stayed with my colleague? She, living in Zone 9 or 10, parts of Guatemala City, where the upper middle and upper class families live, with her gym, her shopping center, etc, nearby, traveling to the city only for work. How different things were in the shopping center she took me compared to the Parque Central where the presidential palace was located with almost exclusively the indigenous people spending a leisurely Sunday at the street market and around. I will remember three things clearly among others from Guatemala City:

Presidential Palace was the very place where all political prisoners were tortured in Guatemala during the civil war. My jaw dropped! I am used to, from Turkey, the tormenting fact of torture being part of the political panorama. However, in Turkey, torture is conducted in concealed, distant places that would be difficult for lay people to either consider or discover. Performing this worst atrocity to fellow men under the roof of the very institution that is supposed to protect all citizens from maltreatment is such a bold statement: “I don’t care about democracy and the rights of all men and women, and I don’t give a s… that somebody may not like this!” My stomach turns, my head spins with disbelief and anger. Luckily she says those days are in the distant past. Let’s hope so…

            
              Presidential Palace, Guatemala City

Secondly, we bumped into a religious parade at the Capitol Square, which I am almost sure would never happen in my friend’s neighborhood however intensely religious they may be. Religion is for everybody, some may say, but more so for the poor, especially in this form that I am observing: Life size puppets of Christ, Mary, and saints on floats with clergy and lay people parading together; such symbolic expression of religious life. Passers-by cross their chests with the images they observe with an expression of full submission on their faces. They need this, how else could they endure what they do? Ruling elite knows this well; thus they need this, too, how else could they keep the poor content with what little they have?

But one scene will never go away from my mind’s eye. We are walking on the main street. Within the crowd is a trio: A young man and a woman, the man courting the woman, his eyes fixated on her. She is looking away, but her eyes are revealing how much she is enjoying his attention and likely, words, too. The third element of the trio is a boy of 8-9 years of age. It is clear he is with them, but he is looking away, too, as if he is forced to be there, but feels uncomfortable to be there. Scenes, some visual, some heard from individuals, related to the courting traditions in the lower SES or rural communities in Turkey come to me flying from decades back. I bet the little boy is the guardian for the young woman when the couple, in the process of getting married is allowed to get to know one another better. Love and affection to see in the eyes of young people elate my spirit one more time that there is hope. People continue loving and falling in love, that is good news…

Colors Maya taking over a Turkish girl: Zeynep the Mayan

GUATEMALA -1-

DIRTY HANDS AFTER SOME 25 YEARS                                              

I am finally aboard my United flight to Guatemala City. My daughter, who is in medical school is doing a global health distinction track volunteer program in Quetzaltenango, the second largest city of this Mayan country. We will spend her last week there together. She has learned the country, by now, inside and out or in other words “like the palm of her hand” as we would say in Turkish. She has been making plans for our week since her arrival in Guatemala. Plans that she revised, I don’t know how many times now. I am sure she is trying to get it just right. This is the first time I am going to her territory, in a way, first time she is making the plans for both of us after me taking care of her and the plans for both of us for 27 years now. I can feel she is trying to take care of her Mama in the best way she can.

She already has planned a hot spring, Lake Atitlan, the most beautiful lake in Central America, I hear, Santiago Atitlan, the most authentic village in Guatemala, and the volcanoes around it to hike. She knows her mother has to climb up high in nature, I know she is doing this for me. She has never been that much of a hiker, although we started hiking when she was 6 or so. However, as she has been maturing, she’s started liking the nature and what it has to offer much more. After all, apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I have noticed, though, she is doing more things to please me even if she doesn’t have too much of an interest in them, for my sake, just as how I came to like dogs after she adopted a Great Dane, for her sake. In fact I am in love with the little “horse” now. Just as I was leaving Iowa City, I went to her house to grab things she had asked me to bring along. Zela, her dog got very excited seeing me, perhaps a reminder of her beloved Zeyno. She started licking my ear and cheek when I was giving her a hug, which has been a no, no. For the first time, I submitted, I must have missed her, too. She was so sweet, I did feel a different level of connection. This journey started simply to please my daughter and now became my own saga with Zela, how sweet… Who knows hiking and climbing high in the wilderness may become a passion of her own for Zeyno, too, when the right time comes.

Just as I am settling down in my seat, somebody approaches my seat and starts chatting with my neighbor enthusiastically. Clearly friends of many years, who haven’t seen each other for who knows how long. As I always do, I volunteer to exchange seats so they can sit together. Turns out one has a seat in the business class. I accept, it will be interesting to experience the business class one more time after 25 some years. I smile, they do, too, appreciatively. They don’t know part of my smile is to Resmiye at 25 years of age and her first experience in business class. I have always liked to travel with the mainstream, the 99%, both literally and metaphorically. Hence, I never flew business class other than these two chance flights 28 years apart, it seems.

As I move to my new seat, my inner eye has already turned to 28 years ago. Flying, let alone in a business class seat in Turkey (of 28 years ago) is almost exclusively for the upper class, majority of the population travels domestically by buses that are more comfortable than today’s airplanes, really. I am flying to Trabzon, a quaint attractive university town on the Black Sea Coast as an invitee of a conference based on research I completed to present my findings. To be flying instead of being on a bus for 18 hours is a gift on its own, I don’t have any idea on what else will follow of course. I find my seat and just as I am settling down, akin to today’s occurrence, there is almost a commotion in the alley nearby. Two women are in each other’s arms with delightful screams of longing, disbelief, and a kind of bliss. We are in the Mediterranean, of course; such wild expression of feelings in public is OK. Everybody around smiles with affection and approval; so do I. It turns out one of the women is to be my row mate. Without thinking much, I find myself uttering “I can move so that you may sit together.” Is that when I started doing this, volunteering to help people to be together, get together, to promote connections? Who knows? They certainly embrace the offer with gratitude in their eyes and smiles. Turns out one has a seat in the business class, just like it turned out to be today. As I move toward my new seat, they are already in a syrupy sweet and deep conversation, who knows what, hopefully, sweet things about the years that elapsed since their last conversation will unfold.

. 

I walk past that curtain, which always has stirred alien feelings in me. What happens in front of this curtain is not to be seen by the common people behind. Just like the walls erected around gated communities. Just like the doormen waiting in front of the country clubs. As if we, beyond the curtain are a dangerous species that need to be segregated from the elite. Or as if we are all starving and will attack the “curtain-eers” when they are served their drinks or food. As if we are contaminated with a bug that the stewardess of the curtain territory must make sure to protect her clients from by constantly drawing the curtain. As if, who knows what else.. I walk past that curtain for the first time in my life after it’s been drawn to “closed” position. Hmmm, it is almost like weekend puzzles on the newspaper: “Find the 8 differences between these two pictures.” Aha, the first one is that there are only two seats instead of three on both sides of the aisle with comfortable arm rests in between. Leg room is more generous. Looking at the well-fed, in fact hyper-alimented residents of the past-the-curtain lounge, they clearly need the extra space, too.

The stewardess is extra polite, all of a sudden bent at a more pronounced angle before me, leading me to my seat, which I could easily find myself. Would she have shown this extra respect had she known I am merely a poor resident at a children’s hospital and that my wallet may be emptier than hers. She doesn’t know that, all she knows is that I have a ticket that allows me entry to the beyond-the-curtain space of privilege, access to which requires a thick wallet. The moment I sit, she reaches for my jacket. For a split second, I want to defend it; but she is so sure of herself, I decide to let go of my jacket to see what will happen. Sure enough, she takes it to one of the cabinets up front, opens the door and hangs it elegantly on a hanger, which goes back into the cabinet.

I am now watching my fellow business-class flyers. Good thing, my seat is in the last row of the three-row-beyond-the-curtain territory. To my right are two big men with huge bellies, their shirts about to burst. Their arms are almost touching each other across the wide armrest separating their seats. No wonder wide armrests are a necessity beyond the curtain. Just as my gaze wanders to the row in front of it, the stewardess appears at the doorway with a tray in her hand on which an amorphously shaped white substance is piled up. I am appalled with the scene and a panic is almost taking over me. It is clear that this is something she is bringing in for us, her guests. I not only not have a clue about what this white substance is, but also have no idea on what I am supposed to do when I am confronted with it, which is to occur soon, very soon. I try to hold onto the soothing thought that she is three rows away from me. I can sit still and wait to see how others will interact with the tray and its amorphous white substance and trust on my “quick study” talent.

It is at that moment that I notice the first customer she turns to is also a hyper-alimented businessman whose voluminous arm is occupying at least 10 cm of the width of the alley beyond his arm rest. He is wearing a white shirt. I can see, his tie is loosened, when he turns sideways toward the stewardess. His armpit and its vicinity are already wet with perspiration. I am all eyes and ears to not miss a second of the scene to unfold before my eyes. The stewardess comes up with a pair of tongs in her free hand, grabs some of the amorphous pile with it and drops it into the hand of the voluminous arm. I am still at a loss, what is that white stuff she is giving out to the customers? As she turns to the right side of the aisle, I lock my eyes to the first recipient of the amorphous white substance.

He flattens it in his palms and starts wiping his hands with it! Mystery is solved. I am barely able to hold the huge laugh rising in my chest. After wiping his hands thoroughly, he moves it to the nape of his neck, his face and back to his hands. What a relief, it was a simple ritual that I could never think of: Dirty hands need extra cleaning before touching food. I recall my mother telling me to wash my hands after handling money. She would say “There is nothing dirtier than money. It makes you filthy without you realizing it.” Did she know of the metaphorical context of what she was saying, I wonder now. Then, I was sure she meant this literally, but I accumulated much more evidence on how brilliant her comment was in the years to come, in both literal but more so metaphorical sense. When it is my turn, I accept the wash cloth elegantly as if I have been engaging in this ritual for years. I certainly won’t embarrass my 99% persona in this group of fat bellies. I am still chuckling to myself silently “Here is a difference for you between the two sides of the curtain, hands here, are implied to be dirtier.”

The washcloth distributed today is easier to recognize: they are rolled into individual rolls. I am appalled with wine being on the menu at 9 am in the morning. It is even more appalling that half the customers accept the wine offer. I hope it is only because of “Whatever you pay for, you need to use.” philosophy. I can’t help but wonder, though, what the rate of alcoholism may be in this cohort. I am happy enjoying my cold icy water and orange juice. Next to me is a young man, who turns out to be my daughter’s age. Jose Pablo, a musician, who plays the guitar and bass and free lances his talent by joining bands mostly from the USA. Here is something nice globalization and internet gave to mankind: connecting skills from all over the world that would have never come together before the internet era. I look at his hands. They don’t look any dirtier than mine. Hope fills my heart, perhaps not all hands in the business class are as dirty as some that handle “a lot of money” as my mother would say.  

ON THE WAY TO GUATEMALA

GAILS IN HOUSTON

Big, sturdy, rather overweight, but nimble. Big smile, bigger than life, engulfs everything around it and leaves warmth and ease behind. Every movement of the head shakes up the load of dreads she is carrying. This is my shuttle driver from the airport to the hotel, who will make my stay in Houston unforgettable with her non-stop story telling, with her intelligence, with her southern warmth.  

She will tell me she is originally from New Orleans. She will regret I won't see the true New Orleans when I get to go there some day. "It is all commercial nowadays." I hate it as much as she does. Commercialism washing away all the authenticity places and people have, how sad and how true. I already feel a connection with this woman. She studied psychology, pre-med and accounting. Don't know if all is true, but she must have studied something beyond high school, she is so different than other shuttle drivers I met in the last 14 years in America. Especially when she discovers I do child abuse prevention work, the questions she asks are evidence she is more than your steteotypical shuttle driver.  

Her parents moved to California, which was the dream destination for every Louisianan at the time, perhaps still is. She was 16 when they moved back. A senior in high school, othered by "all the clans" that had long carved in stone in school, not only because she was the new kid on the block but also and more so because SHE was from California. "We were different, we spoke fast, we dressed different.", she hated it, in a year she was out. To where, she didn't say, I didn't ask, the flow of the monologue was so unique, so smooth, so uninterruptible... I just listened, took in everything she gave me, savored this, perhaps to be a once-in-a-life-time, for a migrant like me, experience till the last drop. I didn't ask much, she didn't need questions.  

Her sister stayed, in the house where seven generations of her family lived and raised families. "Not big, a one bedroom house. My sister had the bed, my niece slept on the couch in the living room, and my nephew had the mattress on the floor. When my sister died, my niece moved to the bed and nephew to the couch. He will marry, will bring her bride to the couch and whatever they have will have the floor." I can't help but wonder if there still are any brides to accept the couch. Who knows perhaps there is. Perhaps violent capitalism still hasn't touched the remaining crumbs of African American folk culture in the depths of the south, yet. I hope the bride to come to that couch may find happiness without any resentment. It may be a bit difficult.  

We are at the terminal, too bad, I did ask her whether her grandparents told her any stories when she was growing up and she did respond with an enthusiastic "Of course!" Alas we don't have any time, at least she doesn't. I give her my card, tell her my name, she reads my  name with a perfect pronunciation. "French?" "No, name is probably Arabic in origin, but I am from Turkey." She tells me her name. "Gails", how pretty. She tells me she will write to me. We exchange smiles, I take her big smile and big heart with me, I wonder what she took with her from me.

AMSTERDAM -12- CLOSING

MORE NEIGHBORHOODS

6/1/2012

I will visit the street markets of Amsterdam today. I heard a lot about them, especially the one in the heart of the Pijp, one of the famous boroughs in central Amsterdam, as my Lonely Planet book states. Albert Cuyp market, the largest of its kind in Amsterdam, perhaps in Netherlands, rich with variety from fruits to vegetables, fish to cheese, rugs to furniture, bike accessories to cosmetics, spices to plants, shoes to clothes and antiques and any kind of nick nack you may imagine. I get off the metro so that I can walk to the market. The main street in Pijp is ornate with colorful ethnic stores, restaurants, grocery stores, and others; Turkish, Arabic, Indian, Greek names, plenty. It is relatively early, they are just opening; fun to observe the locals in their daily routine at this early hour.

Albert Cuyp Market

I approach a Turkish fast food place to ask about where exactly Albert Cuyp is. Asking is just a tool to connect, to strike up a conversation, to get to know a person, a life. A young man in his thirties with a mustache responds, sure enough he is Turkish. I ask him if he has Turkish tea to serve. Unfortunately no, he is serving to the Dutch palate, they don’t like the traditional Turkish tea. I settle down for the instant tea the Dutch seems to like. He pulls two chairs to the side walk in front of his store. He moved to Netherlands in his adolescence. He is now married with three kids. He complains that immigrant minorities, Turks and Moroccans mostly, the two major minorities in Amsterdam are being pushed out of the Pijp into peripheral neighborhoods, specifically developed for minorities. Pijp has become a favorite place for new age type of Dutch being in walking distance to the heart of the city, if you have the time. Thus, it is rapidly being gentrified and although the main floor of the new and modern apartment buildings is occupied still by the ethnic stores, up above is a different set of tenants, now. What was home to immigrants in the past is more Dutch now, rather more Arian; my fellow citizen tells me.

                 A Turkish restaurant in Bijp

I look around, it looks pretty Manhattan-y: Like midtown Lexington Avenue with lots of small shops, hustle bustle of people running in and out to get a cup of coffee or a quick lunch, or gathering what they need for dinner, with buses and taxis rushing through the rush hour. That is exactly what I am observing as we talk and watch the passers-by. I like being there as a tourist by choice, yet it doesn’t look like this young man is there by choice anymore. There is resentment in the air, I can feel. One of the things that saddens me the most is meeting an immigrant full of disappointments after my now 14-year saga of immigration, luckily brought me to almost full content. Uprooting yourself from the lands you grew up in, severing or semi-severing your ties with the culture that made you, you, are difficult enough tasks to resolve even when you've materialized all your goals and have actually made the new land almost your own. Leaving Turkey for me was not that difficult at the outset. I had aspirations for myself and my daughter that I couldn’t see would materialize in Turkey. I had to challenge myself before it was too late. I owed it to myself and to my daughter, I felt.

Once the decision to stay in the USA was made, though, the stark realities of immigration hit me like a violent slap on the face. New York City, as big a melting pot as it is claimed to be, actually merely allows different ethnicities to stand side by side not intermingled together. The "othering" if not in the form of discrimination, definitely in the form of ignoring, pretending you are not there is always there to feel at every turn. Eighty-hour work weeks in a very harsh inner city hospital didn’t help, either. The very small Turkish community I was able to build was the only support system my daughter and I had for two years we lived in the big apple.  I had to keep my vision for our future I was determined to create for myself and my offspring right before my eyes as distant as it appeared to be during the years 1999-2001 to be able to keep going with full trust in where I was going when all my loved ones wanted me back badly. Now, well established in America and totally fulfilled with majority of aspects of my life in Iowa City, calling Iowa City home after eleven years there, there are times I still have difficulty with cultural, intellectual, and historical gaps due to not having lived there all my life.  I can’t imagine what it would be like to be an immigrant only in a country, forever, being discriminated against however subtle it may be, not be fully happy where you live, but not be able to go back, either.

My heart goes to the young man and people like him. He asks me about my visit. At the end of our conversation, I want to pay for the tea. He refuses, “You are our guest in Amsterdam, abla (older sister in Turkish), of course not.” What a sweet Turkish tradition this is. He carries Turkish hospitality as his second identity, still, after so many years of being away from home. What I had vowed to do upon my arrival in NYC when we decided to stay in the USA. I will keep everything good from the culture that made me and add onto it whatever good I come across in this new land and in the lands I will travel to. Holding onto the language was one of the most important variables to preserve to accomplish this, for sure. Hence, we designated Turkish to be the household language to keep both of us but more so Zeynep bilingual. We are very happy to have made that decision, which now allows us to be fully immersed in both cultures in a matter of minutes when needed. I know he will probably never come to America or Iowa City, but I give him my card as a token of appreciation. He puts it in his wallet carefully with clear appreciation. After sincere good-byes, I head toward the direction he leads me to, to Albert Cuyp.

Albert Cuyp almost century old, is soon before my eyes. Colors, colors, colors; one most striking feature of the market is its colors. Clothes of all colors, fruits and vegetables of all colors, awnings of all colors, and people of all colors. Joy is in the air. My spirit is elated again; I buy porcelain jewelry boxes, antique paper cutters, pendant watches, and jewelry for friends, family, and myself, as gifts. I come across a Turkish pide (equivalent of pizza) place for lunch. What a lovely encounter. The pide I order is as good as it would be in Turkey. I am seeking an opportunity to talk to the owners. Unfortunately, they are extremely busy with not only serving the in-house customers, but also trying to keep up with the take-out orders. They don’t have any time for my anthropological curiosity. That is fine. I just watch them, with empathy. They are indeed trying to create a full life for themselves. Kudos for them, I hope ten years down the road they are still happy.

I then head to Noordermarkt, which is a flea market that used to be a traditional pigeon and canary market. Later on, when it wasn’t as popular as it used to be, the famous café Winkel set up nine biological food stalls here serving healthy food and food ingredients. It certainly expanded to include lots of other items being sold there over the decades. The spirit is exactly the same as in Albert Cuyp. I buy a few more pieces from Eastern European vendors. It is about time to get back. I would like this to be an early day back to my hostel. I want to think and reflect.

Plant in a pot on the porch of a houseboat

I am by one of the waterways along Lucky Lake, looking at the lake from in between two house boats. There is a pot on one of the porches with an interesting plant in it. It looks like it is reaching out to something, or some place. It strikes me quite profoundly for some reason. It looks like it is either going to fall down any minute or fly up to whatever it is reaching out to. Stirs quite a bit of metaphorical scenarios in my mind, feelings in my heart. I see a bit of Kim, a bit of Bill, a bit of my father in variations in this metaphor.

What did Amsterdam mean to me throughout these last ten days? Amsterdam meant freedom from oppression, just like it must have meant to the Jewish of the fifteen, sixteen hundreds. Amsterdam meant joy, full of green and blue, crisp fresh air, sunshine, sunset, sunrise, drizzle, among others that fully refreshed my ever-present connection with the nature one more time. Lucky Lake, with its serene cold waters, its green foliage opened its bosom to me for reflection and rejuvenation. I thought of my friend Kim during my morning strolls and evening sunset feasts, who died two months prior after a 3 year-long brave and fierce fight with her cancer. Grieving for her death brought back memories of Bill and my father, two significant people I lost in my adult life to death. I understood Bill much better than I did right after his death, thanks to Kim. I understood my father with his entire life story much better than I understood when he was alive, thanks to both Kim but more so to Bill. Amsterdam gave me the time and energy to arrive at peace with two losses in one year and revisiting the loss of my father from 8 years prior. I know there is much more work to do to fully embrace what these three losses have meant and will continue meaning to me. Life will continue and so will processing.

Here I come, Lucky Lake Hostel, for one last dinner in your courtyard breathing in the scent of your roses, one last stroll to my rendezvous with the sun on your north shore, one last sleep under the lullaby of your trees. I will think of you very fondly in all the years to come.

                                          

                                         I came, I saw, I am leaving with fond memories

AMSTERDAM -11- SOUNDS OF NEAR SILENCE

NEIGHBORHOODS OF AMSTERDAM

5/31/2012

Today is another rainy day. Rain and cold; despite my hot shower after the morning swim and with all my available warm clothes layered on me, I am still not as warm as I would like to be. I decide to find a way to be outdoors while being indoors. First I take a basic canal cruise; I want to make sure I visually captured this canal world, now, a Unesco World Heritage, from every perspective, one. Second, the boats are covered with transparent domes, hence, I am indoors but also outdoors. Watching a distorted view of Amsterdam under the rain gives a different romantic flavor to it. My fellow travelers are a loud American family and a quiet Japanese couple. Rain must have pushed everybody into their hotels or cafes, or museums.

The tallest building in Amsterdam, West Church is somewhat distorted as we pass by it.

My plan for the next two days: I will take buses and trams to travel to the periphery of Amsterdam to see more of its neighborhoods; I have a strong sense life within the canal circles must be different than that in the periphery. When the sun starts shining, I will stroll around the small parks scattered through the neighborhoods. First I take a tram and go all the way to Ijburg, in the northeast. Looks like I am traveling through industrial neighborhoods, working class families living mostly in apartment buildings, probably project housing of 4-8 story high. Then I switch to a bus and head southeast. When I get on, 100% black population on the bus is halved. But as more people get on the bus, the rate goes up again from 2/3 black to all the way over 90% black. This is clearly a bus route for black working class people.

I switch to a bus heading to Biljmer. All but me on the bus is black, some Moroccan looking (the largest minority in Amsterdam followed by Turkish), some look like from the heart of Africa. We pass by a school, kids must be in recess, all black not one exception. They seem to be happy. We gradually move into a middle class neighborhood with zero lots. On the bus across from me are an African grandmother and her granddaughter. GM’s hand is on the GD’s legs: to keep her safe. GD is holding onto GM’s hand: to feel safe. They occasionally smile at each other. GM and I exchange glances and smiles. I smile at the little girl, too, but she lowers her gaze down to my lap on which is my city map, open. She gradually raises her eyes toward my face as if thinking “What kind of a woman is this? She is not like us.” I smile at her one more time as warmly as I can. She is cautious, barely 4, has she already learned not to trust whites like my black neighbor kids in Iowa City. My smile is left hanging in the air with no response from her. I wish I could stay longer to get her to smile at me. Alas, I have to get off. GM and I exchange "Have a good day"s and I am off, waving at the little girl from the sidewalk. Aha, I did steal a smile from her, after all.

I am on Princengracht again to catch another bus to travel west when I see a marvellous rose bush. Amsterdam is ornate with a flora consisting mainly of roses among other flowering plants. The roses will gradually become an unforgettable aspect of Amsterdam for me; their scent will remain in my olfactory memory forever. Roses of various colors, white, yellow, pink, red, orange, purple climb up along doors, windows, some cover an entire wall like a carpet. Whenever I see a rose bush I stop and fill my lungs with its deadly scent.

Roses and bikes are part of Amsterdam's identity 

This bush is full of red blossoms at various stages of blooming. I hold one fully open rose and breath it in as deeply as I can.  Almost dizzy with the scent, I move away and cross the street to satisfy my visual sense after touch and smell. I then notice a young man, probably Zeynep’s age, smiling at me as he is finishing his smoke. I feel obliged to explain to him “You have marvellous roses, you know.” Everybody speaks English in Amsterdam. He looks like he is not even aware of what so intrigues me. He walks to the bush and lifts a branch, which was apparently already half broken. He turns to me and asks me if I want it. I think of all the staff at my hostel. I am sure they will be happy to get a gift as simple as a rose bush. I nod and tell him what I will do with it. He smiles and hollers up, a first story window opens instantaneously, another young man. He drops down a pair of scissors, in a minute, I am being handed a branch, full of red rose buds, a few fully open ones, essentially a bouquet of a dozen roses. I tell him “Wait, I will take a picture of you with the rose bouquet then you will take mine." He agrees with a smile. As we are done with the job I look at him one more time: "Now I can tell my friends ‘A man in Amsterdam gave me red roses.’ We both crack up, so does his friend upstairs I had totally forgotten about. In the evening, when I give it to the female receptionist at the hostel, I get a big smile. Life is good.

 

I can't say anymore, nobody gave me a bouquet of red roses, thanks to this ananomyous gentleman from Amsterdam:)

Now, I am on a tram going west. Clientele is quite different, mixture of Asians, well-to-do blacks, and whites. As we go west, the flora gets more lush, big parks and a large lake are part of the panorama. Two old Indonesian looking women approach my seat. I get up and gently leave the seat to them. They call their third friend and offer her to squeeze in with them. How TurkishJ They seem anxious, I wonder why. We are now in a wealthy neighborhood with elegant 2-story canal houses. I get off to change onto a bus. The sun is out, the bus stop is awash with sun rays. I move toward the opposite side of the bus stop to use the shade just like (I assume) the woman around the corner is doing, whose purse I can see from the corner. Oops, she wasn’t using the shade alone apparently. Such passionate kissers… I move back to the sun to leave them alone and soon two teenagers, who speak Dutch but look very Turkish join me to share the sun. One looks like he is from the Black Sea coast, the other from central Anatolia. He is trying to hold her hand and to steal a kiss; she is half refusing, how sweet… The boy finally breaks into Turkish. I smile, they understand I understand. We start chatting. They are both finishing high school and getting ready for the university placement exam, they are hopeful. Good kids.

I stop at Rembrandt Park on the way to Central Station to call it a day. As I savor the lush green and the little pond into which I dip my feet, words flow through my mind:

I hear the sound of

my soft footsteps,

nothing else. Oh, and

birds chirping away.

Duck wings fluttering

and lilies blooming. 

Symphony of sounds

of near silence.

  

AMSTERDAM -10-

ANNE FRANK HOUSE

5.30.2012

Emmy Andreiss, her work, the squares her heart and mind saw and her camera captured shake me up quite a bit. I need fresh air. I leave the Jewish History Museum and head toward Amsteel River. I find an outdoor café right on the water and order a beer, a very cold one. Joy is in the air around me, everybody is chatty as they devour their beer or wine. Nobody seems to have seen Emmy Andreiss’ work, at least not today. I lock my eyes into the ripples of Amsteel; my thoughts, sadness, tension drift away along with the slowly moving water. Pure meditation, just what I need right now. Thank you Amsteel.

Amsteel with an allegro spirit at all times

I visit more museums today. Photography museum is one, at the main floor of which, believe it or not, I come across a temporary exhibition on “Mansions of Bosporus”. In an old mansion from Dutch Golden Age, where the photography museum is established, is an exhibition of the remains of mansions from another land, how sweet. I make a plan to visit some of the "yali"s in Istanbul when I go to the world child abuse conference we are organizing in Taksim, Istanbul in September. 

          A living room from a "yali" in Istanbul  
          furnished Ottoman style

I didn’t bother with Madame Tussaud, but I did visit three famous Dutch Golden Age Homes, Herren hausen, that is, just to learn about how they lived then. It is so interesting to learn about how extremely wealthy people think about living quarters. These masters built their huge mansions on Herrengracht, that is the front entrance of each home was on Herrengracht. They each extended the entire depth of the space between Herren-gracht and Keisergracth. On the latter canal were the rear ends of the mansions occupied by coach houses. Although the most elegant and show-off spaces of the homes were in the front, front rooms actually were not livable, because the canals stank like no other! What happened then, was, the lady of the home designated a big room in the back of the main house facing the beautiful inner gardens to her use to “receive” her guests. I crave for the beauty of simplicity when I hear of such complexity that gives me almost a headache…

The courtyards behind the main house of one of the mansions

 

Before I head to Anne Frank House, I want to send a postcard to a friend. I am told there is a mailbox in the lobby of a hotel in the next block. It must be where the elegant entrance is. Oops, it is not. This is the entrance to St. Nicholas Church, it turns out, closed to tourists and guess what, there is a mass. I will not take photos, I will not bother anybody. Is it a terrible thing to do to simply become part of the mass? I approach the lady handing out the reading material to be used for the mass as confidently as possible. For a moment she is hesitant, after all, my appearance screams out loud I am a tourist, a camera over one shoulder, backpack on my back, straw hat on my head. What if I am a Christian longing for a Sunday mass away from home, though? Can she kick me out of God's home? My confidence wins. She is convinced I am dying to hear the mass and have my heart cleansed. As I move to an empty seat quietly, I murmur to myself “In a way I am (for the former).” I would really like to observe how Christian Dutch worship now that I landed, without planning, on a Dutch mass.

In front of me are three interesting people. An African man with a shaved head, the left side of which has a 10 cm long indentation, an untreated depressed fracture? The doctor in me never misses differential diagnostic opportunities. My heart breaks. Did he flee to Amsterdam because of violence that fractured his skull, has he found the safe haven he was looking for? He is reaching out to the same God the two handsome, middle aged, middle class men sitting next to him do. “Are they Gay?” crosses my mind. “Is this a gay-friendly church?” I wonder. I am the anthropologist humming to the tunes they clearly all know by heart. I don’t even know what I am humming to, all the better, it feels so good and peaceful, probably because I don't know what the lyrcs are about. It is hard to believe this institution also created such atrocities from individual to global scale throughout its history. I focus on the music shooing away the negative intellectual discourse in my mind. The chorus is spectacular, I couldn’t differentiate the music from Heidelberg Chorus’s.

The can is being passed around now. I drop a E1 coin in and pass it down. In the mean time, a group of people are walking down the aisle toward the priests. They are clearly Asian: Indonesian, Malaysian? With my lack of Dutch, I do not know the context, but perhaps celebration of their joining the congregation? By now, my row is allowed to walk up to the priest that will feed us with Jesus’ flesh. I hear the priest utter “This is Jesus’ flesh.”, I can make that much Dutch from my limited German. The bland circle he drops in my mouth dissolves on my tongue. I can’t help but wonder with a brief eye contact with him “Have you ever sexually abused a boy trusted into your care?” I won’t return to my seat as my row mates will do. I walk out into sunshine, which surrounds me inside and out. “Freedom” is dancing in my mind, I hear my voice saying out not so loud “Freedom”. It is good to be free of any organized religion and historical burden that comes with them. Believing in “Good” has always worked better for me than believing in God, and I guess it will remain that way.

By the time I am out, it is raining. This may be good news, people may consider going back to their hotels early, instead of going to Anne Frank House, which is by the way the single most visited museum in Amsterdam, the line never gets exhausted, always couple blocks long, never mind the coil within the building, which is another couple blocks' worth. Or... Everybody may decide “Let’s find refuge in Anne Frank House, then I may be in trouble. It is around seven pm as I approach the House. Valla! The line is negligible, my first prediction turned out to be at work here. In a few minutes, I am within the building.

Luckily, when I visited Anne Frank House, line was not this long.

Yes, indeed, Anne Frank House is heart breaking. A whole family was stuck in the maze of a secret annex in their own huge mansion for over two years. Yes, it must have been devastating emotionally. And my heart goes to poor Anne’s writing of her daily difficulties, the darkness, the dampness, the feeling of suffocation, longing for fresh air on and on and on... Despite all the sadness and revolt all of this stirred in me, I leave with this: "Compared to what masses of poorer and poorest Jewish people went through, Anne Frank's life was a bit overrated. At least for me, what it stirred in me didn't reach the level of what Emmy Andreiss' documentation of the pain the masses experienced did. Anne could suffer from such emotional devastation because her father could afford buying their survival as long as he did. He was a wealthy businessman. He transferred ownership of his business to his trusted friend, an Arian Dutch when Amsterdam was occupied by Nazis. Thus, his business, which he was still running out of his own mansion provided the much needed funds to allow this hiding, two more years of celebrated life when all the poor Jewish people, who had no such huge mansions to hide within, who had no excess money to pay others to help them hide were picked like apples one by one in a matter of minutes to hours to be sent to concentration camps to their torture or quick deaths. As sad as I was with everything that happened to Anne and her family, I couldn’t help but think, “All these millions, visiting Anne Frank House every year should also see Emmy Andreiss’ work."