New Blog Announcement!

This blog has been inactive for a while, and my attention has become focused on my new site.  To stay tuned-in and in-touch with me and my upcoming trip to Guatemala and Honduras, visit the new blog.

Thanks for reading!

Blog Tune Up

Hey there,

I know... this blog has been dormant since I left Guatemala a few months back. In light of another trip to Central America that is currently in the works, I thought I would expand the blog with some new content in anticipation of the departure. Nothing too exciting yet, more posts are coming.

Thanks for reading,

M

Leaving already...

Puchica vos!

I have always felt that my eventual return to Antigua would serve as the death knell for the trip. It came earlier than expected.

I found out today that the bus that goes to Guate is a night bus, its leaving in 9 hours. If all goes well, I'll wake up safe and sound with all my belongings in the Guate terminal...then hop on a microbus straight to Antigua. From that point on, I'll dig in back at El Hostal, and brood about the impending end of the trip, and probably pick up some knick-nacks for the fam jam.

I had lunch with Raul for the last time. I started with an order of grilled meat, but he had a different idea. He suggested the only thing on the menu which I had never heard of. I had avoided it because I had no idea what it was. He said "Its like a food, it a meat, from a local animal. Its meat is very unique." Not the most appetizing of ways to describe something, but I thought, "why the hell not?" It was delicious. Its really too bad that I couldn't remember what it was called. Forever to be shrouded in mystery.

Maria should be here in about 15min. We're going to go to the photo-lab and get some photos developed. These photos are going to be a parting gift to the family of Maria Margarita. Aside from the personal belongings that she left behind, her husband and children have nothing by which to remember her. Its not much, but its the least I can do.

I'm going to spend the rest of the day around El Estor, roaming around, soaking it in a bit more before my time is up. I'll leave the article writing and photo organization for tomorrow. tic-toc-tic-toc

p.s. I've figued out what food i'm looking forwards too most. Oatmeal with the works.

Another story from Polochic

I got a call from Raul around 7:30pm. He told me that he finally had heard from the leaders from Los Recuerdos. The meeting was on for the next morning. It was about an hour later than we expected by the time everybody had arrived. And there were more people than we originally expected. Mirralvalle and Recuerdos were both represented. To my surprise, the women that had come were the family of Antonio Beb Ac, a young man who was killed during a violent eviction in March of this year. His wife Marta and her mother had both come to tell their stories. They had another meeting planned in El Estor that day, but agreed to come by the hotel we could have a chat.

We were going around the circle, presenting ourselves to the group. I spoke first, and then Benancio from Miralvalle went next. When it was Martha’s turn, she took a deep breath and began to speak in Q’eqchi. Within a few words, she was sobbing, choking back tears, and wiping her eyes with her guipil. The tone of her voice was pained, but that can only begin to describe it. I didn’t know what she was saying, but I already new the story. The woman before me had a huge part of her life taken away four months ago - her home, her crops, her clothes and her husband. All that she has from her life before the evictions are her three children. The translation confirmed all of this:

“No one wants to loose their family. My children ask for food, but I have nothing to give. I try to grow food but I have no land. If there is anybody out there, if there is anyone that can support me, I would gladly accept, as I have received almost nothing from anyone.” Her mother added “If there are any organizations that can support us through this time, we need their help. We live with almost nothing.”

She wants the company to take responsibility for the loss of her livelihood, as well as the death her husband. There is a criminal investigation into killing, and an arrest warrant has been issued, but the suspect is still at large. Only time will tell what justice the case will produce. In the mean time, she is struggling to feed here children. She has three children to support, with a home and with food. She is struggling to do either. She is looking for support from who ever and where ever she can find it, be it an organization or an individual.

Where does the company stand in all of this. For the companies representatives, they feel they are doing the state a favor, meeting at the First Lady's behest. For the companies lawyers in regards to the land struggle, there isn't anything to talk about and nothing to compensate. In this type of 'invasion', the company holds themselves as the plaintiffs, fighting to uphold the state-protected institution of private property. Dealing with death of Marta's husband, and the loss of the rest of the community is the last thing on their agenda. In the words of Mr. Widmann [owner of Chabil Utzaj SA] during an interview, “Who, after all, would care about simple Antonio Beb Ac?”

Beware the Road: First Installment

I’ve taken to a habit recently. Whenever meeting with a group, or even with an individual, I try to sit with my back to the road. This saves them the trouble of twisting and shifting in their seat as they check every passing vehicle.

Fearing that I was being overly dramatic, or reading too much into their body language, I broached the topic one morning. Raul, Maria and I had just finished talking to some leaders from Recuerdo and Mirralvalle and the mood was somber. Although the leaders had since left, Raul and Maria remained, and our conversation was winding down. I felt that now was just a good a time to ask as any other. I turned to Maria, and asked, “How do you feel about roads?”

The meeting table

As the awkward Spanish left my mouth, I knew I had a lot to explain. I just started talking, “When I think about roads, I feel freedom and independence as I ride my bicycle. I feel familiarity when I pull up to the driveway of my home, I feel connected to places I want to go, and people I want to see. I can’t imaging roads make you feel the same...”

I had some stories that she had told me in mind, ultimately leading to this: The first time I arrived at her house, she greeted us from inside, and told us to pass inside. She graciously opened her house up to us to host the visiting community members. After that meeting wound down, she showed me around her chunk of land on the corner piece by a dirt road. She surprised me with the first story. About a month ago or so, a truck showed up late at night. The driver took a long pause at the intersection before making his turn, headlights sweeping across Maria's house. As the strange truck started to pull in front of her house, it slowed right down. Her son Nestor noticed, and let his mom know. She peered out of the house as the truck crawled past.

The intersection outside her door

A few minutes later, the headlights were back, slowing as they passed the house. The truck started to turn, but this time towards the house. It was right at her front door, waiting, idling. She came outside, but the truck didn’t lower its window, nothing from inside. She started to get nervous, as it seemed that whoever was in the truck wasn’t looking for directions. She said “What are you doing here, what do you want?! This is my house!” Still, there was no response from inside the truck, only the rumble of the engine. As she came closer to the window, the driver shifted gears and started to roll backwards, picking up speed as the truck flicked back onto the dirt road. Hard brake, a change in gears, then another long pause. Maria stood firm, standing in the glare of the high beams. The driver stomped on the accelerator, kicking up dirt and pebbles, and the truck careened off down the road into the night. Maria was shaken, she didn’t sleep at all that night.

Then, she told me her second story. Another time, as she was doing some afternoon chores, she heard a moto pull up, and the engine shut off. She came around the corner of her house to get a better view. There were two strange men, dressed in dark clothes waiting beside their bike. They were outside her house, although not directly in front. It seemed like they were waiting for someone. She kept an eye on them as she ushered her kids into the house. She went right out side, asking them if they needed directions. The shook their heads, silence. She said “Are you going to just sit here with your arms crossed, or, are you going to tell me what you want?” After more silence, one of the men spoke up. He said that they were looking for someone and that they were not going to leave before they founder her. They asked Maria if she knew where she was. All she had to say to them was that they were talking to the wrong person. She said it was best that they move on. They exchange a few more words, and they decide to leave. They have not been back since, but she still keeps watch because there is no way to be sure they won't.

So there we sat, hanging on the previous words. As I diverted my eyes to the rings of condensation on the table, I finally resolved to spit the question as directly as possible. "I cant imagine roads make you feel the same...So, what I'm trying to ask is: when we meet, do you prefer being able to see the road?" Almost before I was done asking the question, Maria was nodding vigorously, palms grinding into the table top. "Yes, yes, yes, every time. I always prefer it." Although I had an inkling, it surprised me how strongly she expressed it.

La Osita Negra de La Union

I followed up with a question to Raul. "When you check the road, how many of the vehicles that you see do you recognize?" he said, without hesitation "Nearly every single one."

"En Serio?!" I asked. He started to break it down for me. Little did I know...

Looking towards the Fall

The more I think about my grad program, the more unsure I get. I'm getting some hardcore cold-feet.

When people find out I'm going to grad school, they usually ask "OHHhhh, and what are you studying?!" I reply "It's the 'Complex Emergencies' stream of the International Studies MA at SFU."

Most times, they just say "Ahhhhh" and move on. Other times, I've also heard "WTF does that even mean, complex emergencies?" One one or two occasions, I've heard "Thats pretty specific!"

Wide range of responses, with good insights all round. It proves that while some are perplexed, few really care. Of those that do, it seems to strike them as being unclear and obscure, much in the same way as I think about toxipharamcology. To be perfectly honest, I'm still trying to figure out what it means, and if it is TOO specific. So I decided to email the Dean of Graduate Studies in my department. This should be interesting...

Hi Professor Xxxxx,

I am planning on attending SFU in the fall for the MA-IS program. I sent Xxxx some questions about the program and she subsequently referred me to you. I have a big question that is both difficult and challenging to answer concisely, so any pertinent readings would be helpful and greatly appreciated. I'm going to pose the question up front because it lies at the heart of my qualms and it is therefore important to keep in mind. From a practical standpoint, I am more interested in the answer to the second question?

According to the School for International Studies, what constitutes a complex emergency?

After reading many different perspectives on the matter, I became concerned with how the department evaluates whether-or-not potential cases qualify as a complex emergency. Two more questions stem from this first broad question and my concerns therewith. What is the lowest acceptable scale for a case to be considered a humanitarian disaster? What makes one humanitarian disaster more of an emergency than another considering that some of the worst situations have been building over decades? To try and frame my concerns in a more concrete way, consider a painfully limited comparison between Colombia vs Mexico:

Colombia has suffered 50 years of internal conflict. As a result, 3,5 to 5 million live as IDPs, with hundreds of thousands of dead, and tens of thousands disappeared. A harrowing conflict, still unresolved in many ways. It is easy to see why Colombia qualifies uncontroversially as a complex emergency.

In Mexico, around 40,000 people have been killed in harsh and brutal violence since 2006. As a result of this violence [in addition to the 1994 Chiapas Conflict], 120,000 people live as IDPs and about 6400 with refugee status [noting that Mexico's population is twice that of Colombia's]. Depending how the illegal migration issues are interpreted, the total number of people displaced could be much higher. Furthermore, it is unclear if Mexico can resolve its internal security issues without more hands-on involvement from the international community, and many international organizations are currently at work dealing with issues of development, poverty, displacement and abuses of human rights.

So, to refocus the question:

According to the School for International Studies, could parts of Mexico's troubles be considered complex emergencies? If Mexico does not meet the criteria at the moment, then when would it qualify?

That is my main question, the answer to which is quite important to me. I've taken the liberty to continue on writing about why that is. I've been working with a human rights organization in El Estor, Guatemala. The two community leaders that I work with were deeply impacted by an assassination in Parana. Although this was the death of one person, in a community that most people will never hear of [or care to know about] the circumstances of this one death are just as informative as hearing about hundred. Many conventional complex emergencies, like in Colombia, are made up of countless other stories just like her's. So how many deaths does it take to create an emergency? I'm no fan of Stalin, but he summed it up well.

Although I digress, my concerns remain. A place like Central America may not be plagued by full blown humanitarian crises, but to pass them by would be a crisis in humanitarianism (quip-credit). If there is NO room for this level of analysis in the discourse of the MA-IS: Complex Emergencies program, I might need to think long and hard about pursuing this masters come September.

P.S. To maximize both our efforts, perhaps a conversation would be best. I’m back in Canada on the 23^rd of June. Perhaps we could discuss the answers at a later date on the phone or via Skype.

Thank you for taking the time and best regards,

Mark Romeril

If you read all that...I'm impressed. The worst part is, I cut a two other paragraphs out...I started rambling. So I decided to make my point about Stalins quote, and then move on. I'm sorry the links don't work, but I couldn't be bothered to reconnect them all. Because you've made it, I'm going to share some more pics

This is the view from my office.

This is my office.

This is the full moon last night. Simply beautiful.

Please, Do Not Touch The Router. Thanks.

I almost forgot that I owe a funny story.

Before I get into it, the moral of this story is that if you treat people like idiots, they will do idiotic things. With this in mind, I’m going launch into it.

When arriving at a hostel or a hotel after along day on the road, or even a short one for that matter, it seems that most people reach for a computer or smart phone right after they drop their bags. Check the mail, check FB, check the news and check the scores. Compulsive use of technology seems to be pervasive, and I am one of the many technology addicts. Few things can draw out the dependency like deprivation.

I arrived at Iguana Azul alone (Copan, Honduras). It was very clean, quiet, and had a nice living room with complementary wi-fi. After 10h on the bus, I wanted to go for a stroll, get some fresh air and stretch the legs a bit - after I check my mail. I flipped open my computer and I had a connection for about 5 seconds before it went to the no service page. There was only one network, which has full bars and was unlocked, yet impossible to browse. Mysterious.

I should have taken a picture of the chair with the router on it. There were three signs: one taped to the router, and two taped to the backrest of the chair:

PLEASE, DO NOT TOUCH OR ADJUST THE ROUTER. THANKS

My first thoughts were: Wow, they really don’t want anybody to touch this router. I guess it must happen a lot if they need three signs. I wonder why you can’t touch it? I gave up trying to connect for the time being. I actually went on that walk I wanted to take in the first place. After the walk, I tried again, no success. After dinner, I had to move away from the living room with the router because it was frustrating me. My book offered little distraction. I started getting pangs, “I wonder if I have any notifications? New mail?”

When I went back to the computer, there had been a development. A page had loaded in the browser, it was asking for a username and password. HOPE, Hells Yeah! I sleuthed down the list in a few seconds, and I had plugged in the first combo that I found. It worked! Unfortunately, I only had about 3 minutes of good surfing until it was back to indefinite white pages. Chrome started suggesting things to me: reloading, talking to my net admin, checking DNS settings among other things and…

Reboot any routers, modems, or other network devices you may be using.

That was the seed [open in new window for ambiance]. The temptation was biblical. At that moment, I started having flashbacks, a long history of amateur wireless network troubleshooting. From the blur of memories came the tried and true “reset then retry”. Unfortunately, resetting involves touching. Little did I know…

Despite having ultimately disregarded the chair-signs - I got our Internet to work. It was fast too! I became the mini-hero of the hostel.

The next morning, the Internet was not working again. The network had changed to ‘dead’. This was odd, as well as inconvenient. Luckily I had a day of roaming planned, so I figured I could swing by an internet café and get my fix that way. During my roaming, I stopped at two restaurants and three internet cafes. None of them had Internet. They said the network was down over the whole valley, and that they hope to get it operational by evening. Later that day, I met a kiwi girl from the hostel, she said that she had just come from a place with working internet. It made it my next stop, and it was indeed working fine. So I wonder what the deal was with the Internet in the other places?

When I got home, I was going to check the Internet at the hostel. 5min after I sat down, a truck pulled up. A stout, husky American guy hopped out with a laptop in hand. He took a seat on the couch.

“What networks can your computer detect?” he asked.

“I see two, the first is called ‘dead’” I replied.

“HA! Are you connected to that one, or the other one?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah I’m connected to ‘dead’” I said.

“Son-of-a-BIITCH!” he said, almost shouting.

He was the I.T. guy. He launched into a rant about IP, DHCP and TCP. Long story short, our hostel had the only D-link router in town. I learned that, through computer wizardry, over 50 other routers sharing our connection. To set this up, he has to give each other router a number that’s assigned to our D-link. If the D-link resets, the number the OTHER routers need to be included in the network changes, but they never get the memo. The result, resetting the hostel router cuts off 50 other routers.

I wiped out Internet in Copan for almost 24h. He had just spent his entire day going around trying to figure out WTF happened to his network. He asked me if I reset the router. I said yes [IDIOT! Plead Section 11(c) of the charter!]. He was understandably furious. I felt like an ass, ashamed and embarrassed.

After he fixed the Internet, it no longer worked.

Constructive suggestions: 1. Move the router. Out of sight, out of reach, out of mind. If the whole town’s Internet is feeding off this one router, it should be stored more securely, especially considering its implicit track-record of meddlesome gringos. Three-signs worth! 2. IFF its impossible to move the router, then at the very least, explain why to not touch it. The signs offer no justification - only categorical prohibition. If I had known what I know now, there is no way I would have touched the router. Instead of adding a fourth sign saying NO, perhaps they should post a brief explanation of WHY. Treating people like children encourages them to act like children.