Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Week Three: Feliz Cumpleanos

On account of Semana Santa (Holy Week) Friday was our last day at the clinic. Dra. Urrutia’s birthday was the day before and the clinic staff planned for a Friday night dinner. We found out that there is a workers' bus back at 10pm, so we would be able to go instead of staying in Leon for the night or attempting another taxi disaster.  

After three weeks, I finally feel like less of an outsider and more or less a part of this close-knit group.  Despite hectic days and common issues (such as no water or no electricity on some days) there is little tension, always smiles and laughter to light up the days. It’s the way of the community, the souvenir I would most like to bring home.

Dr. Urrutia's birthday dinner


Growing up, I remember how close-knit my own community was, but as people became more mobile and filled their lives with other distractions, that life was lost.  Today, I can barely name the neighbors on my parents’ street or in my apartment building, and they know where each family in this wide-spread village live. As I sit here writing, the guys are playing cards and laughing as they do most days, watching me work away on my computer, business as usual.

Our night at the restaurant in Leon was nothing more than laughter for hours.  There was salsa dancing to the local, live Mariachi Band.  The food was fresh and amazing.  I had a whole flamed-grilled fresh fish, the best ever! The seriousness of running the Health Post in Tololar disappeared for a few hours.  Many bottles of the local beer, Tona, were had before we even got there at 6pm.  We had no idea the party started at 2pm!  I am going to miss these friends, my family away from home.

Laughter at the clinic!

The “workers' bus” home was yet another “Nica” experience.  We had no idea it would be an open truck where we were crammed in like sardines again.  We covered all of El Tololar since our stop was one of the last ones.  As we were walking home under the moonlight, I felt connection to my family’s roots, my past.  I thought of all the stories my father, who is now at the ripe age of 89, told me about when he was growing up in rural Hungary: tales of riding horses like a cowboy in the country, probably walking home under the same stars and moonlight as I was that night.

I hope that as this community improves its access to medicines, a cleaner, consistent water supply, and better nutrition, that it does not lose its other riches. 

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