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.

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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.