Saturday, May 02, 2009
In Belize City
I'm usually the adventurous type and would have had a fantastic time cave tubing or visiting the Mayan ruins of Belize. But a different side of me (probably the better half) said that I wanted to do some good while in Belize.
To be absolutely honest, it was an ego inside me that was hell-bent on getting to know more about Belize -- I was wary of being a tourist for the past few overseas trips and needed an excuse to get to hang out with the people of Belize.
Sister Cecelia Home for the Elderly is a government-sponsored nursing home for the needy older Belizian citizens (it is within the HelpAge complex in Belize). Approximately 40 senior citizens of various cultural backgrounds were at the home, and I was there for a day to deliver some donations from the group and to help out (in any way possible).
When I asked the home supervirsor if we could donate something, she asked for artificial sweeteners and toiletries because such imports are expensive in Belize (photo above). It was quite amazing how much we were able to donate by having each of the guests contribute. I think we had nearly 5,000 packets of Sweet & Low and 15 lbs worth of soaps and shampoos. Well done, team!
I really wasn't that useful, being a volunteer for only a day. Ultimately, I felt that I gained more than contributed to the home. I would chat with the ladies, all sitting in a row on the benches as they stared out at the courtyard.
Me: "It's a good day, isn't it?"
Lady 1: "It's a good day."
Lady 2: "Whaaaat? I can't hear you..."
Me: "(slightly louder and more articulate) It's a good day."
Lady 2: "Whaaaaat? Gial, I can't hear very well...."
Lady 1: "It's okay. She can't hear well."
This went on for about 10 minutes, and then everyone would stare out at the garden.
Me: "So, why don't you go talk to the men over there?" (the men congregate in the front of the home in a breezeway).
Lady 3: "Oh, those men are okay. My husband was a good man."
Lady 1: "Oh yes, ma'am. My husband was nice. But dey no good anymore, because dey are gone."
Lady 3: "It's nice to have a man."
Me: "Oh, then you can find me a good man. Where can I find a good man in Belize?"
Lady 1: "Oh, I don't know where you can find a good man. Good ones are hard to find. Men are no good when dey go away."
Lady 2: "Whaaaaat? I can't hear you..."
I wasn't quite sure what to make of the conversation (it's hard to keep a straight face when listening to the sing-song, whimsical chats of these women). I hold the hand of the lady who has a hard time hearing, and she holds my hand tightly. We communicate through touch - her cool, wrinkly hand gripping tigther when she gets excited and speaks about her husband. All of the women have pretty braids in their hair. I later see one of the helpers braid their hair, and a line of women wait happily for their turn. Perhaps they find comfort in the touch.
There is a varying degree of dimentia and disabilities among the residents -- some are absorbed in their own world and others are barely mobile. On the other hand, there are others who are quite self-sufficient mentally and physically. I have a conversation with one of the ladies with a beautiful smile.
Me: "How are you today?"
Lady: "Oh, ma'am. I am doing very well."
Me: "That's fantastic. Tell me about yourself."
Lady: "Ma'am, I used to be a teacher. Yes, ma'am. I was a teacher since 16 and started getting paid for teaching when I was 18. I used to love teaching since I was very little. So much that I used to teach my dolls - 'You, recite the alphabet. That's right, 'A', 'B', 'C'!"
She giggles shyly like a schoolgirl that had just done mischeif.
Me: "Wow. That's a very admirable profession. You should be proud of yourself."
Lady: "Oh, yes ma'am. I used to teach young children, and I was teaching at a preschool just before I came here. The other lady can take care of the shool now though."
About 10 minutes later, something quite exciting happens. A van pulls up, and a couple dozen 5-6 year olds pile out. I see the same lady surrounded by the children in the front courtyard. The young preschool teachers tell the kids that she was a teacher at their school. They all greet her:
"Hello, Mrs. Puca!!!"
The children sing several songs (like "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands"), awaking even the sleepiest of the residents. All eyes are on this lady and the children. She is beaming.
The rain came and went that day, and we would move the male residents away from the courtyard when the torrential monsoon came (that's what it felt and sounded like). And they would wander back to the same spot once it receded.
I befriended one of the men, Ozzie, who was one of the more chatty guys. He would flash his two-teeth, jack-o-lantern grin and tell me about his life in Belize City. He used to own a hardware store. He worked in import/export. He used to have a wife, but she was gone. And his two sons lived in Belize City, but didn't take care of him (or possibly it was difficult economically - who knows, everyone has a story). He liked my name. It was one of his favorite drinks (I wasn't about to tell him that the drink was actually pronounced sak-eh). Throughout the day, he would cheerfully say my name when I walked by.
People like Mrs. Puca and Ozzie have agile minds, and they are very aware of their surroundings. Others were mostly staring quietly outside or turning inwards into their own world. It made me slightly sad. It's not that the these people need pity - far from it, they just need to live and to be treated with dignity.
I remember their faces vividly. The only thing I can do is to keep them in memories, since I cannot go back. Everyone I shook hands with would say, "When are you coming back?" I felt sheepish, telling them that it won't be for a long time or ever at all.
What I do remember are the domino games. The blind man who said, "Ah, a lady hand. I can tell!" Mrs. Puca's perfect teeth and smile. Chats with Ozzie. Even if they forget, I won't.
To be absolutely honest, it was an ego inside me that was hell-bent on getting to know more about Belize -- I was wary of being a tourist for the past few overseas trips and needed an excuse to get to hang out with the people of Belize.
Sister Cecelia Home for the Elderly is a government-sponsored nursing home for the needy older Belizian citizens (it is within the HelpAge complex in Belize). Approximately 40 senior citizens of various cultural backgrounds were at the home, and I was there for a day to deliver some donations from the group and to help out (in any way possible).
When I asked the home supervirsor if we could donate something, she asked for artificial sweeteners and toiletries because such imports are expensive in Belize (photo above). It was quite amazing how much we were able to donate by having each of the guests contribute. I think we had nearly 5,000 packets of Sweet & Low and 15 lbs worth of soaps and shampoos. Well done, team!
I really wasn't that useful, being a volunteer for only a day. Ultimately, I felt that I gained more than contributed to the home. I would chat with the ladies, all sitting in a row on the benches as they stared out at the courtyard.
Me: "It's a good day, isn't it?"
Lady 1: "It's a good day."
Lady 2: "Whaaaat? I can't hear you..."
Me: "(slightly louder and more articulate) It's a good day."
Lady 2: "Whaaaaat? Gial, I can't hear very well...."
Lady 1: "It's okay. She can't hear well."
This went on for about 10 minutes, and then everyone would stare out at the garden.
Me: "So, why don't you go talk to the men over there?" (the men congregate in the front of the home in a breezeway).
Lady 3: "Oh, those men are okay. My husband was a good man."
Lady 1: "Oh yes, ma'am. My husband was nice. But dey no good anymore, because dey are gone."
Lady 3: "It's nice to have a man."
Me: "Oh, then you can find me a good man. Where can I find a good man in Belize?"
Lady 1: "Oh, I don't know where you can find a good man. Good ones are hard to find. Men are no good when dey go away."
Lady 2: "Whaaaaat? I can't hear you..."
I wasn't quite sure what to make of the conversation (it's hard to keep a straight face when listening to the sing-song, whimsical chats of these women). I hold the hand of the lady who has a hard time hearing, and she holds my hand tightly. We communicate through touch - her cool, wrinkly hand gripping tigther when she gets excited and speaks about her husband. All of the women have pretty braids in their hair. I later see one of the helpers braid their hair, and a line of women wait happily for their turn. Perhaps they find comfort in the touch.
There is a varying degree of dimentia and disabilities among the residents -- some are absorbed in their own world and others are barely mobile. On the other hand, there are others who are quite self-sufficient mentally and physically. I have a conversation with one of the ladies with a beautiful smile.
Me: "How are you today?"
Lady: "Oh, ma'am. I am doing very well."
Me: "That's fantastic. Tell me about yourself."
Lady: "Ma'am, I used to be a teacher. Yes, ma'am. I was a teacher since 16 and started getting paid for teaching when I was 18. I used to love teaching since I was very little. So much that I used to teach my dolls - 'You, recite the alphabet. That's right, 'A', 'B', 'C'!"
She giggles shyly like a schoolgirl that had just done mischeif.
Me: "Wow. That's a very admirable profession. You should be proud of yourself."
Lady: "Oh, yes ma'am. I used to teach young children, and I was teaching at a preschool just before I came here. The other lady can take care of the shool now though."
About 10 minutes later, something quite exciting happens. A van pulls up, and a couple dozen 5-6 year olds pile out. I see the same lady surrounded by the children in the front courtyard. The young preschool teachers tell the kids that she was a teacher at their school. They all greet her:
"Hello, Mrs. Puca!!!"
The children sing several songs (like "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands"), awaking even the sleepiest of the residents. All eyes are on this lady and the children. She is beaming.
The rain came and went that day, and we would move the male residents away from the courtyard when the torrential monsoon came (that's what it felt and sounded like). And they would wander back to the same spot once it receded.
I befriended one of the men, Ozzie, who was one of the more chatty guys. He would flash his two-teeth, jack-o-lantern grin and tell me about his life in Belize City. He used to own a hardware store. He worked in import/export. He used to have a wife, but she was gone. And his two sons lived in Belize City, but didn't take care of him (or possibly it was difficult economically - who knows, everyone has a story). He liked my name. It was one of his favorite drinks (I wasn't about to tell him that the drink was actually pronounced sak-eh). Throughout the day, he would cheerfully say my name when I walked by.
People like Mrs. Puca and Ozzie have agile minds, and they are very aware of their surroundings. Others were mostly staring quietly outside or turning inwards into their own world. It made me slightly sad. It's not that the these people need pity - far from it, they just need to live and to be treated with dignity.
I remember their faces vividly. The only thing I can do is to keep them in memories, since I cannot go back. Everyone I shook hands with would say, "When are you coming back?" I felt sheepish, telling them that it won't be for a long time or ever at all.
What I do remember are the domino games. The blind man who said, "Ah, a lady hand. I can tell!" Mrs. Puca's perfect teeth and smile. Chats with Ozzie. Even if they forget, I won't.
// posted by Saki @ 4:57 PM 
