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When the trip began, I remember
thinking I was going to really make a difference in
the village of Santa Marta. Indeed, in the first
two weeks I assisted in the local kindergarten,
helped create a database at Santa Marta's health
clinic, and walked from village to village
performing community outreach.
Then, one evening our group leaders
handed us the article 'To
Hell with Good
Intentions'
by Ivan Illich. Suddenly, I felt like
a complete failure. Illich's thesis was that foreign
countries do not need American volunteers to "fix"
impoverished villages. The article concluded, "I am
here to entreat you to use your money, your status
and your education to travel in Latin America. Come
to look, come to climb our mountains, to enjoy our
flowers. Come to study. But do not come to help." I
was speechless.
For the first time, I realized that
our three-week stay would not bring about any real
change for the community. Why had I thought that
Santa Marta needed to change? We all recalled our
first night in the village. After only eight hours
"on the ground," many of us had noticed copious
amounts of garbage lying around, and decided to work
on what we deemed to be their trash "problem".
After reading the article, we
realized that the people of Santa Marta would not
benefit from a group of Americans walking around
their community with trash bags, cleaning up after
them. In fact, it could be detrimental to the way
they viewed their community and the way they viewed
us. We didn't have the right to create a hierarchy
where they were the" slobs" and we were there to
pick up after them. We began to realize that our
initial idea was an arrogant, condescending view, a
tourist's view. The purpose of the trip was to
experience the view of a global traveler, someone
interested in gaining perspective and making
connections. As the
conversation continued, we ultimately
concluded that we were not about to create tangible
change in the community.
That night, as I lay under my
mosquito net, I continued to struggle to understand
my purpose in the village. "Why was I there?" The
answer finally came to me on our very last night
when I asked Elmer, a 17-year-old from the village,
why he wasn't smiling. He responded, "estoy
triste" (I'm
sad). He told me that he was afraid we were going to
return to the US and forget about him. Suddenly, I
got it; I understood why I had come to El Salvador.
My purpose was to build meaningful connections with
the community and learn about myself while learning
about the people, and their way of life.
Santa Marta doesn't have a new school
or a new home that 1 had a hand in creating.
However, there are enduring friendships and
understandings that will remain with me far into the
future. I did not create a change Santa Marta, but
Santa Marta definitely created a change in me. I've
learned to acknowledge the fact that when I look at
a situation, I am looking at it with privileged
eyes, eyes that have no right to judge or impose. In
my future travels, I refuse to be just a tourist; I
want to strive to be a global traveler.
At 7 AM, El
Silencio, Guadalajara, Costa Rica, is anything but
silent. Everything about the village and its people
is alive. The neighbor’s goat is exploring
our tin roof, the birds are singing. I get out from
under my mosquito net, and make my way to our front
step. The hills that envelop the small village seem
so gorged with lushness that it hurts my sleepy
eyes.
An hour later, we are in the
trench. (World War One reenactment aside, the ditch
we are digging to change the course of the river
that erodes the fields resembles a trench). Herman
is already there to greet us; he is, for all
practical purposes, the village elder. He points
to the shovels and wheelbarrows with an open tooth
grin. The worst thing is, I
cannot wait to get to work at this ungodly hour. In
the past weeks, our trench has gotten longer and
deeper, and as my body grew accustomed to the work,
I learned to love the steady motions of digging. One
of the village children, Melvin, beckons me to where
he is working, and together we empty the trench of
the mud formed by rainfall. Typical, I choose the dirtiest task and thoroughly
enjoy it. Three quarters of an hour later, I am
covered head to foot in mud, our portion of the
trench is dry, and my sides are splitting from the
Tico folk stories Melvin has been telling me.
Before lunch, Herman takes us to his fields and into
a niche of trees. Sunlight is
seeping through the leaves onto our backs as Herman,
beaming, points out different fruit trees.
I recognize piña (pineapple) and coco
(coconut), and soon discover pipito (shaped
like a pear, but tart and tangy) and manzana-bananas
(a natural cross between apples and bananas, my
ideal of perfection thereafter). In a manner that
reminded me fondly of my Greek grandfather, Herman
gathers pipitos, puts them in our pockets,
then leads us back to the worksite. After lunch, I
am on wheelbarrow duty. The
run is an arduous one, requiring navigation
around roots, piles of rocks and equipment.
Daunted at first, I squint,
furrow my brow, breathe deeply, muster all my force
(and then some) and
venture to
the edge of the trench with a cartful of rocks.
Over and over again, I haul rocks, ignoring my
aching back, embracing the beauty of hard work and
sweat, adrenaline pumping through my veins. The
village men seem amused that I put so much energy
into it, but Herman knows what
I am made of. At the end of the day, he pats me on
the back, his eyes twinkling, and says “Sophia,
maquinita, eres valiente” I have never been
so proud in my life.
Brimming
with happiness, I head to my cold shower back in our
house. The hills of Guadalajara stretch as far as
the eye can see. Part of a place so beautiful and
pure, I have never felt so alive.
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