DukeEngage | Duke Center for Civic Engagement

As interns for the Social Entrepreneurship Corps, we seek to create access to beneficial products in rural communities. Rather than venturing into villages acting as privileged students benevolently doling out free goodies, we work by empowering local women (asesoras) to educate their communities by selling these products, thus create self-sustaining businesses. They earn income to support their families while simultaneously helping their fellow citizens. Asesoras host “campaigns” every weekend in new communities where the asesora brings in our products and seeks to educate the local population about the benefits of clean water, energy efficient lighting, vegetables in their diet, or vision protection by means of selling products in their respective fields: water purifiers, lightbulbs, seed packets, and eye glasses. One of our primary responsibilities as interns is to support the asesoras during campaigns by helping sell products, giving eye exams, and publicizing the event.

Photo By Dan Kornblau

My first campaign was in Xexuxcup, a tiny village in the Ixhil highlands with dirt roads, an abundance of wooden huts, and no running electricity. Mirroring the ubiquitous presence of hills and valleys in the area, performing free eye exams that day jerked me along the highs and lows of emotional satisfaction followed by  frustrating helplessness. One of the elderly women I examined softly spoke to me in broken Spanish of her blurry vision at close distances. Her hands were graceful but rough and deeply indented from weaving. She explained how her farsightedness greatly inhibited the dexterity of her weaving, an essential part of her personal identity and Mayan heritage.

Due to village's lack of access to eyecare her condition, which is normally remedied easily, unnecessarily rendered her unable to provide for herself. After examining her, I knew that a simple pair of reading glasses would ameliorate her otherwise disabling condition.  As I placed the correct prescription on her head, I immediately saw a mixture of joy and relief wash across her face when she realized that she was not in fact going blind. I felt elated and empowered knowing the happiness on her face was a direct consequence of my diagnosis. I informed her that the cost was 40 Q (6.25 US), a nominal amount, I thought, for most people in America.

Satisfaction ebbed from my face as soon as I saw her smile turn into resigned disheartenment. In that instant, I realized she did not have enough money to buy them. What good was my diagnosis or the lenses if she could not afford them?  It was like a tease of opening the door of access only to tormentingly shut it in her face. My hands were tied because handing out free glasses is not in the interest of cultivating sustainable entrepreneurship, and thus not an option. I felt ethically conflicted and awash with guilt for holding the solution literally in my hands while watching her slowly disappear along the dusty road. Wasn't her improved vision worth more than the mere $6.25 cost of the glasses? On the other hand, if I gave them to her for free, wouldn't I be sacrificing long term sustainability?  In a matter of twenty minutes, I realized that development work is not all roses.

            Greetings from Guatemala! Our group has been engulfed in a whirlwind of activities from Spanish lessons and consulting projects to climbing active volcanoes on our days off. Coming to terms with the surprising disparity between the heartening level of general happiness and the poor quality of life here was initially difficult. Though the average Guatemalan does not have access to luxuries we constantly take for granted such as computers, gas stoves, or even running water, the people of this land are “rich” in terms of what cannot be quantified. The richness of their way of life pulsates through the vibrant colors of a Mayan woman’s traje, the half-toothy grins of children playing soccer on the streets, and even the cacophonous, ill- timed symphony of raucous roosters crowing at all hours of the night. Though the scope of activity is too overwhelming to adequately describe in a few paragraphs, I will offer a glimpse into an experience my group agrees is quintessentially Guatemalan: riding the(in)famous chicken bus.

           We stand on a dusty street at an unmarked but widely known defacto bus stop. As we hear the ayudante’s resonant shouts of “Guate,Guate,Guate,” a violently painted, formerly yellow, cast off US school bus rumbles into sight. All semblances to an ordinary bus ride end here and the fiesta begins. Reggaeton or the top 40 dubbed in Spanish blare out from the loudspeakers. Drivers personalize their buses with everything from religious memorabilia to flashing disco lights. If you think the C1 is crowded after tailgate or during orientation week, think again. In a test of the human body’s flexibility, one must find a place to stand on a bus packed three to a seat on either side with an additional two people “sitting” midair in the aisle. That white line painted after the steps decreeing no one may stand beyond this area? Completely ignored. That sign declaring the maximum quota for the number of passengers? Laughable. After pushing my way inside, I stand with a flower vendor’s bouquet in my face and bodies pressed against me in all directions. All notions of personal space are thrown out the window as the bus lurches forward. Just when you think the bus cannot possibly hold more people, five more climb on, some hanging out the door.

           The ayudante (helper) has the daunting task of moving through the nonexistent aisle collecting everyone’s fare while the bus is still in motion. He employs cirque de soleil worthy moves of uncomfortably squeezing through masses of people and climbing out
the window to run across the roof of the bus to get to the back. All this occurs while the bus is still in motion teetering through hairpin turns of the mountains at 50 kph. An intuitive knowledge of when one’s stop is coming up is paramount as the windows are blocked from sight and shouts of “alto, alto” will only be drowned out by the blaring music. We manage to find our stop and jump off the bus just as the wheels stop rolling, only to know we will have to survive the chicken bus again in the evening. In Guatemala, even a bus ride is an experience.