Today I rescued water

The town of Pastores had been overrun by the flooding rivers, and much like everything around here, people’s houses drowned. After yesterday’s town digging, many of us were eager to continuar a luta (as André would say), however the school could not loan us the van to take us up to San Miguel. Ashley had been in touch with a man named Forrest who ran a clean water purification mission who was in need of help to clean out his workshop and put together the filtration systems to be installation ready. We had no idea what that entailed, but four of us decided to see of what use we might be.

Ashley had hurt her foot during the San Miguel dig, so we narrowed our group down to the bone. From 18 to 4, Lance from Nashville, Eddie from Yorkshire, Lexi from Switzerland via Indiana and Ohio, and Miriam from Nashville, all piled into Forrest’s pickup and drove up the hill.

Pastores was nowhere near as bad as San Miguel. While San Miguel was under 8 feet of mud, waste and water, Pastores looked as though it had merely received all of the plastic trash from the upriver towns. Forrest’s workshop was right on the edge of town, so we did not venture up the 45 degree hill, thankfully. We merely parked on the road, got out of the pickup and began cleaning out a workshop. Unglamourous, very little personal satisfaction like the kind that comes from digging out a house or a bus, but it needed to be done and Forrest was glad for the extra help. If not us, then he and his welder and a lot of time.



We moved bags of sand, volcanic ash, tarps, wood, metal cans of nails and huge oil drilling bits, iron pipes and soggy gloves, something called a bicivibrador, two school bus seats, a number of cinder blocks, bricks, hose pipes and tools of all shapes and stages of decay. In Guatemala, nothing is trash. After cleaning the things out of the shop, we cleaned the floor. Lance had a shovel and I had a push broom. After about ten minutes of me pushing water and mud into his shovel, I remarked that what we really needed was a WetVac. My pronunciation was misunderstood, even by my fellow Nashvillian, who thought I had said wetback. Forrest remarked that illegal labor notwithstanding, a WetVac is only as good as the electricity that powers it. I agreed and continued to broom water into Lance’s shovel.

Finally the shop was deemed “clean enough” and we moved everything back into the room. Then we helped Forrest and his other guy, Jeremy, fix up their water systems. They needed to be checked for leaks, patched, sanded, filled and painted. Now, I know next to nothing about water purification, but I have been learning a lot down here. I ask questions all the time, and now I know how rocks and stones, good bacteria eating bad bacteria, parasites stuck in sand, and a perfectly balanced water level can produce clean water for a house or small community. The purifiers were about three feet tall and made of cement. We painted them smurf blue.



Forrest took us home around dusk, and the road back was lovely. Not at all like last night. I had bought some dried plantains for lunch, and Eddie pulled out a package of fake oreos. A little feast in the back of the pickup, complemented by the Salvavidas. My body and hands are not nearly as sore as yesterday, and Eddie commented that he “didn’t feel as useful here.” I agreed, although I try not the think of things that way. A disaster occurred here, and everyone is suffering. I am glad that Forrest’s workshop is now clean of nasty water and mud and they can start building again. And I hope that some of the waters I helped repair can finally be installed and another family can start to have clean water. It is my primary concern these days.

It is a funny line I think, this idea of volunteer work. Tito laughed the other day when I came home from working, I guess wondering why I was helping “our country,” meaning not mine. I see what he means. Everyone here comments on the Americans who are always out helping - although in truth it is not just Americans. There are British and Europeans and Australians and people from other parts of Latin America. - Regardless, I get sad when people forget that we all live in the same world. A few thousand miles should not make a difference for empathy, and if I can give just a bit of time out of my day, why shouldn’t I?

When I got home, I started cleaning my clothes upstairs on the terrace in the pila. I suppose I could’ve taken them to the laundry down the street, but I have a weirdness about someone else washing my undies, and plus, it was after six. I spent about fifteen minutes washing clothes and shooing Claudio away from poking around my stuff on the ground. He kept cooing and inching closer and closer. I would let him get up about two feet away, then I would throw water on him. He tried a different avenue, coming up from under some sheets, but I saw him coming and was quick on the draw. I went to hang up some shirts though, and when I returned, I noticed he had slipped in when my back was turned. Poor thing, turns out I had been standing in his path to his roost under the pila. He skirted in under the cement and promptly curled up his head under his wing and went to sleep.

All little Claudio wanted was a path back to his house. I was too focused on my own job, and the nuisance he was causing me, to see where he was headed. Maybe next time I’ll be smarter. And nicer.