Remembering New Orleans

The room was a jumbled chaos. Black stains were splattered across every wall, floor, and ceiling. The bed was disheveled and water-stained. Dried mud covered everything. The carpet bulged with rot. The furniture laid atop one another in mass confusion. Static water dripped from the light fixture above.

After a deep breath behind our protective masks, we delved into the room. First, we removed the jumbled mess of furniture to the lawn, along with the rest of damaged goods we found lying on the floor. The lawn itself was covered with a mountain of garbage nearly reaching the rooftop in height. It was a mountain of loss reflected across every single lawn on the block.

Within a couple of hours, the room was cleared of the largest furnishings. It was only then did we notice a closet across the room. Its door had not opened. It seemed undamaged. An eerie feeling came upon us: We heard others talk of finding bodies from the storm. We were afraid that this unknown room held such a being.

Finally, we mustered the courage to open the door. No body laid in it- only dirtied memories. Over a dozen baseball caps lay neatly in a stack on the floor. The caps were from different athletic teams throughout the country. One could imagine the memories these caps held. Perhaps, the owner traveled to various cities and states to watch the teams. Perhaps, he was an avid fan who watched the games on a television with family and friends cheering, laughing, and enjoying everyone's company.

Underneath the caps, laid boxes and books of family photos. At first, it seemed wrong looking at intimate moments in the lives of strangers, yet we were too invested in the lives of the homeowner to feel unrelated. Pictures of young children smiling for class pictures, elderly grandparents holding their grandchildren, and joyful friends filled these damaged books. Visions of birthday parties, weddings, and graduations attended were evident. Portions of photographs seemed to have disappeared as water erased traces of these memories.

It was at that moment, I felt truly connected to those who suffered. After two days of demolishing a house, I finally realized what was lost in the flood. Lives were taken, homes were destroyed, memories were damaged forever. With every inch that pile on the lawn grew, the more these moments in time were erased.

Remembering DC

We darted swiftly past the concrete jungle toward that fabled destination: the symbol of American freedom encased behind iron gates, expansive green lawn, stone pillars, and white walls. We must have seemed childlike running past distinguished men in dark suits and women in elegant dresses as they sat under the romantic white lights of the Willard Hotel. Yet, we did not care. Our goal was within sight, and no sense of embarrassment was going to stop us.

Out of breath and with very little sunlight left, we arrived. It was a vision of elite beauty- the center of attraction of all: black, white, brown, man, woman, and child. The flashing lights of digital cameras seemed to create a sense of strobed time: Smiles, poses, hugs, and every little human reaction were frozen in a single moment...

...My eyes focused upward toward the wonderful architecture present in the area. It was an amazing sight to behold in the waking hours of the morning. Our group awakened to find a new day filled with new adventures. We were walking toward the bus station in hopes of helping out at Covenant House located within the DC area. Our pace was light and free, a reflection of the joy we felt at being in a new place with so many of our friends there to share the moment.

As my gaze lowered toward the foundation of the structure, something new caught my eyes. A gray tarp lay upon the bus stop bench. It was concealing something. The tarp was ratted, with patches of plastic sewed in portions where holes would have been. Old, water soaked newspapers lay underneath the bench, forgotten. As we walked closer, a familiar smell sparked my memory: the slums and squatters of the Philippines. Visions of extreme poverty, begging children, sewage-strewn streets, ad cinder block homes came to me.

I looked once again toward the bench, only to find that a dirty, callused hand was exposed underneath the tarp. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed, but no one said a word regarding the being underneath the tarp. Was this person still breathing, still living a life unbearable?

We walked on seemingly not caring toward our destination. We must have seemed childish, not acting upon the suffering of another human being; but we did care. A strange sense of fear of the unknown grips the human being, causing inaction...

Remembering Guatemala

Each morning in Guatemala, I awoke to a different view outside my window. In Panajachel, it was of the deep green shadow of a volcano set against a clear, blue sky. I remember breathing in the cool mountain air as a rooster crowed some distance away. It was peaceful. Past the wrought iron grille covering my hostel window in Antigua, I awoke to a picturesque sight of a golden cathedral surrounded by distant mountains. Sitting on my window sill that morning, I remember watching red motorcycle taxis passing below on the cobble stone streets as locals walked past a brightly colored building. It was painted yellow, if I remember correctly.

I didn't even have a window to welcome the morning in Tikal. Instead, I had an open view of the sunrise slowly flooding the jungle with life from atop the tallest Mayan ruin in the area. High above the canopy of the jungle, we listened to the growing symphony of bird calls and howler monkey roars.

Another day came and passed bringing a new vision as I awakened in the Finca Tatin, an eco-lodge situated on Rio Tatin and within the the jungle. I remember climbing under the mosquito net covering my bed and looking at our home for the next night. The roof was made completely of local wood and palms I noticed. I also noticed that there were no walls: We were completely integrated into the jungle. Looking below, I watched my friends roll sleepily out of the hammocks they slept in the night before.

In El-Estor, I regained a window from which I could witness the morning. There was growing life on the dirt road near our hostel. Young children walked past as the sun light shone through on the lake behind them.


As you can imagine, each new day not only brought a new sight to awaken to, but also a new set of experiences such as riding halfway off my seat in a jam-packed redecorated school bus (known locally as chicken buses) or being jostled forward by Mayans on a mission in a crowded local market. My experiences ranged from picking up a food-borne parasite that affected my body in ways I did not believe it could naturally do to riding an uncovered boat on Rio Tatin in the dark and under the shadow of surrounding cliffs in the pouring rain with only a small probe flashlight guiding our way.

The most memorable experiences, however, were the moments I spent with the local people. I was exposed to the beauty and excitement of traveling the world by speaking with a Venezuelan grandmother, a true world traveler with graying hair who happened to sit next to me on the chicken bus. Hope in the youth was instilled in me by a student in Ak-Tinamit (a school for local Q'uiche Mayans that focuses on teaching kids specific trades). He spoke of learning English and becoming a tour guide which would help expose his culture and the current problems his people face to visitors in his country.

I heard, first-hand, the testimony of Don Santiago, a grandfather of Mayan Q'uiche descent, as he retold the story of his sons' deaths. Some fifteen years earlier during the civil war, one of his sons were killed for nothing more than asking for land titles defining his property which has been historically owned by his people. Another son was "disappeared": taken away one day by military men and never heard of again.

I also heard the testimony of Wendy, one of our guides during the trip. Her father, a university professor, had been "disappeared" when she was a child. Her mother had been killed as well. She was adopted as a child and moved to Canada, but she decided to go back to her homeland and fight for the memory of her parents. By becoming a founding member of HIJOS, an organization that fights for resolution and peace for those affected by the disappeared in Guatemala, she has fulfilled her duty.

As you can imagine, the experiences I had in Guatemala were vastly different from anything I had ever experienced in my hometown of Pomeroy, Washington. Yet strangely, one special meeting with community leaders at Rio Hondo reminded me of home. You see, this community had been negatively affected by a dam built in the area in 2001. This dam (which was funded by a stateside company) had contaminated water resources and depleted the natural resources available to the community members. Agricultural lands and livelihoods of community members were destroyed. This and other hydroelectric dams built and currently being constructed in the area are part of Plan Puebla Panama: a plan to connect electric sources to a grid that would run within the lands of Central America.

Listening to the current mayor's account of the problems he continues to face with Hydrowest, an unusual picture popped in my head: a "Save the Dams" sign I drove by multiple times at home. I started wondering what members of my community would do if their opinions about the removal of several dams on the Snake and Columbia Rivers were completely dismissed or ignored. What if a major component of their means of irrigation were taken away without their say? What if their tract of land was flooded under the river without getting a fair price for their destroyed property? How would we react if someone in our community were threatened of physical harm and even death for stating their opinions to people in power? What would we do if our rights were overstepped and abused by people we do not even know?

In ten days, we were exposed to hope, pain, kindness, power, life, death, pride, and innocence- all part of the essense which create the human soul. In remembering Guatemala, a sense of the people's struggle and the vision of the natural beauty that abounds in every corner of the country comes to mind. Even after three years, the memory remains.