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.
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 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
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.
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