STORIES FROM THE FIELD
Pat with children in San Francisco La Union, Guatemala, c.1970
These are personal stories of my journey with Guatemalan and Central American people over the past 50 years. I am writing a book about resilience and resistance among social movements in the United States and Central America. The story begins in 1969 in Guatemala as a community development volunteer with my husband Carlo.
Pat's Publications: Recent Stories
We are Standing our Ground for Justice at the Border
Story of American Friends Service Committee border action on December 10, 2018 in San Diego, California.
Story of American Friends Service Committee border action on December 10, 2018 in San Diego, California.
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Where is the Justice?
Guatemalan indigenous women leaders organize on human rights, gender violence and protection of their lands. Common Lot, a bi-annual women’s magazine, United Church of Christ, Cleveland, Ohio. Spring 2014 (pp.13-16). This article describes the courage of Guatemalan women working for environmental justice and respect for human rights. |
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El Dia de la Madre, Remembering Those Behind Bars
Street Roots, Portland, Oregon, June 6, 2014. Every year the Interfaith Movement for Immigrant Justice holds a Mother’s Day Vigil outside the Tacoma, Washington ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) Detention Center. This is the story of the 2014 vigil. Photos from the Tacoma Detention Center |
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JOURNEY ON A CAMPO BUS, GUATEMALA, 1969
It was pitch black when we left our simple pensión to catch the local campo bus at 5 am from Huehuetenango to Barillas. Campo buses are old yellow school buses shipped from the U.S. to countries in the developing world by U.S. AID, the Agency for International Development. When we arrived at the bus, it was already crammed with people with no room for us. We hiked down the street to the only gas station to wait for a ride on a truck. Thirty minutes later, the same bus pulled up, stopped, and the helper asked us if we wanted a ride to Barillas. Moments later on the bus, we discovered that the bus driver had evicted some people from the front seat, squashing them into the back, in order to make room for us in the front seat.
Oh, no! I felt awkward and uncomfortable, as we were the only gringos and were given the best seats that someone had probably boarded at 2 am to get a seat. Everyone had heavy ponchos to protect them from the early morning frost. As the bus slowly climbed to 10,000 feet to reach the highlands of the Cuchamantanes Mountains, the bus leaned close to the edge of the unpaved, bumpy road with a steep precipice just a few feet away. I clutched Carlo’s arm as if to say, Protect me! I was glad that I had not eaten breakfast. The views from the bus at dawn were both beautiful and terrifying as I thought of all the news reports of buses falling into crevices – if the brakes failed, we’d all go together!
When we reached the top of the altiplano, the bus stopped and people silently exited. In my best three months’ Spanish, I asked the driver, “¿Qué pasa?” His reply was short –“Everyone out as there is too much mud.” I didn’t understand what was happening. The bus could not drive through the muddy road with passengers aboard, so it took off cross-country to wait for us a mile or so away. We walked in deep mud alongside the silent peasants, the women carrying babies on their backs and the men with their head straps carrying bags of seed or feed.
Half way there, I began to cry, What was I doing here in Guatemala? The mud covered my shoes and socks and was half way up my legs. As I walked, there was the sucking sound of mud, which smelled terrible. I was tired, cold and totally unprepared for roughing it in the campo. “I can’t do this,” I wailed to my husband, who walked without complaint. We were the last persons to board the bus – the indigenous Guatemalans just looked at me, a sobbing gringa with her nice skirt, sweater and her mud-caked legs and ruined shoes. I was ashamed but also angry with myself. Why did I think that I could help people in this developing country when I couldn’t handle a walk in the mud without falling apart?
My humiliation only worsened when the bus stopped later for a bathroom break. The men went to one side of the bus and the women to the other. Suddenly, I understood the practicality of the women’s long skirts. The women gracefully squatted on the ground, urinated and rose again with no loss of dignity. I had to scramble to find a bush to squat behind. I lifted my short skirt, lowered my panties and heard a giggle of several children as they peered around a tree looking at my white bottom. I quickly stood up and pulled down my skirt and fled to the bus. How I wished I were wearing one of those faldas – me with a weak bladder and the need to find a bathroom soon.
“Carlo,” I whispered, “I will wait until we reach the next town and a real bathroom or at least a latrine.” Upon arrival in Santa Eulalia, we found that we were to be housed by a Maryknoll priest who offered a hot shower, good bed and an indoor toilet. Heaven on earth!
Carlo and I continued our journey to Barillas on the next early morning campo bus. Barillas is a small town, located far to the northeast of Huehuetenango, where we planned to interview for a job. Father Bill Woods, a Maryknoll priest, was buying up land there in the area called the Ixcan, on which he planned to resettle landless farmers from the highlands of Guatemala. We hoped to work with him in the resettlement effort.
After arriving in Barillas, Carlo became quite ill and ran a high temperature for days, during which he lost ten pounds. The nearest doctor was a grueling ten- to twelve-hour bus ride back to Huehuetenango. As we thought about the right place to work, the isolation and grueling travel back and forth to Barillas, to the capital of Guatemala City, worried me. That led us to search for a placement in the highlands, closer to health services and major bus lines.
Oh, no! I felt awkward and uncomfortable, as we were the only gringos and were given the best seats that someone had probably boarded at 2 am to get a seat. Everyone had heavy ponchos to protect them from the early morning frost. As the bus slowly climbed to 10,000 feet to reach the highlands of the Cuchamantanes Mountains, the bus leaned close to the edge of the unpaved, bumpy road with a steep precipice just a few feet away. I clutched Carlo’s arm as if to say, Protect me! I was glad that I had not eaten breakfast. The views from the bus at dawn were both beautiful and terrifying as I thought of all the news reports of buses falling into crevices – if the brakes failed, we’d all go together!
When we reached the top of the altiplano, the bus stopped and people silently exited. In my best three months’ Spanish, I asked the driver, “¿Qué pasa?” His reply was short –“Everyone out as there is too much mud.” I didn’t understand what was happening. The bus could not drive through the muddy road with passengers aboard, so it took off cross-country to wait for us a mile or so away. We walked in deep mud alongside the silent peasants, the women carrying babies on their backs and the men with their head straps carrying bags of seed or feed.
Half way there, I began to cry, What was I doing here in Guatemala? The mud covered my shoes and socks and was half way up my legs. As I walked, there was the sucking sound of mud, which smelled terrible. I was tired, cold and totally unprepared for roughing it in the campo. “I can’t do this,” I wailed to my husband, who walked without complaint. We were the last persons to board the bus – the indigenous Guatemalans just looked at me, a sobbing gringa with her nice skirt, sweater and her mud-caked legs and ruined shoes. I was ashamed but also angry with myself. Why did I think that I could help people in this developing country when I couldn’t handle a walk in the mud without falling apart?
My humiliation only worsened when the bus stopped later for a bathroom break. The men went to one side of the bus and the women to the other. Suddenly, I understood the practicality of the women’s long skirts. The women gracefully squatted on the ground, urinated and rose again with no loss of dignity. I had to scramble to find a bush to squat behind. I lifted my short skirt, lowered my panties and heard a giggle of several children as they peered around a tree looking at my white bottom. I quickly stood up and pulled down my skirt and fled to the bus. How I wished I were wearing one of those faldas – me with a weak bladder and the need to find a bathroom soon.
“Carlo,” I whispered, “I will wait until we reach the next town and a real bathroom or at least a latrine.” Upon arrival in Santa Eulalia, we found that we were to be housed by a Maryknoll priest who offered a hot shower, good bed and an indoor toilet. Heaven on earth!
Carlo and I continued our journey to Barillas on the next early morning campo bus. Barillas is a small town, located far to the northeast of Huehuetenango, where we planned to interview for a job. Father Bill Woods, a Maryknoll priest, was buying up land there in the area called the Ixcan, on which he planned to resettle landless farmers from the highlands of Guatemala. We hoped to work with him in the resettlement effort.
After arriving in Barillas, Carlo became quite ill and ran a high temperature for days, during which he lost ten pounds. The nearest doctor was a grueling ten- to twelve-hour bus ride back to Huehuetenango. As we thought about the right place to work, the isolation and grueling travel back and forth to Barillas, to the capital of Guatemala City, worried me. That led us to search for a placement in the highlands, closer to health services and major bus lines.