A Long labour, a Dead Milk Cow, Futbol, and Notebook Paintings/Drawings

On Saturday we spent nearly 16-hours in the house of Delia. She labored for hours and hours, while progressing very little. Her mood changing so that she seemed like a different woman from hour to hour; strong, scared, fierce, weak, adamant, self-loathing. But it was apparent to us all that her heart was heavy and she was deeply hurt and sad. The father of her baby had left with another woman; who is also due to have a baby any day now, they are living together in house on the same street. Delia's family said they were grateful that Delia was having her baby first, apparently in the minds of the people this establishes her as the "first" and the "better" woman. They were hoping the baby would be a boy, because a boy would demand more support, interest and money from the father. The truth is, the families here always hope for a boy.

When her labor became difficult her family prayed over her in that weeping, moaning way that is customary. This usually frightens me, on occasion to the point of tears, because it feels like I am witnessing something scary like an exorcisim. But, in this instance their praying seemed to charge the air with something good and strong and Delia was comforted and reinvigorated. This family was among the kindest we have been with. Delia's brothers and her father asked permission to enter the room and spoke to her with such respect; they sang her praises, lauded her for her strength and told her that only she knew and could decide where to have her baby. Son muy buenos hombres. 

As it grew darker, colder and late into the night Delia was filled with a new spirit and took to the courtyard. Sweeping at the dirt furiously. She seemed strong and committed to having this baby at home. But, more hours passed. A cousin, who she has problems with occupied the kitchen, the radio blared and her cousin's brood of four screamed and bounced a ball back and forth on the sheet metal walls of Delia's bedroom. 

Nothing changed. Delia was exhausted and the contractions grew weaker. She chose to leave for the hospital in Antigua. A truck was called and at nearly midnight we arrived at the hospital. We waited outside the hospital gates under the huge angry looking sign that states that, 'each patient is allowed only one companion.' We waited only briefly and then the eight of us piled into the back of the truck, huddled together under a perfectly clear starry sky, me bundled and dressed by Delia's mother in three thick blankets, drifting to sleep, waking only once to my feet being covered with a blanket and Delia's mother sweetly referring to me as "mi hija". Through the dust and bumps I slept like a baby the entire drive home.

On Sunday we slept late and waited for news of Delia. In the early afternoon there was knocking on the door and commotion in the field outside the house. One of the milk cows of a neighbor (two sisters whose births we attended) was lying sick on the grass, the cow's stomach huge and bloated from the poison of some small animal or insect she had eaten. The neighborhood boys had found her there and ran knocking on doors and calling on neighbors. A crowd of women and children gathered and the men pried open the cow's mouth, lodged a tree branch between her teeth and began pouring huge plastic liters of salt water down her throat. I rubbed at her throat to coax the liquid down (something I've seen my mom do when she wants the dog to swallow a pill), while another man filled her nostrils with his fingers. She swallowed it down and began vomiting. She kicked her legs about aimlessly, and then tried to get on her feet and I mistook this as jolt of life. But frothy foam poured from her mouth and nose and It seemed as though I blinked only once before the cow lied still and dead.

Clidia who cared for this cow and who sells us our cheese began to cry, as did the other women from her house. The men discussed briefly and then decided they could still eat the meat. Six men carried the cow to the house, atop two wooden ladders. It's neck, lolled and swung as they went and the crowd began to dissipate. 

Clidia's husband has been drunk ever since the cow died nearly two days ago, and plays his stereo at full volume all-day and all-night. I am told this is what a drunk, sad man from Calderas does under such circumstances.

We spent the rest of the afternoon watching soccer. A procession for a baby who died passed by the field, and the game stopped for a moment. Jelver's team lost, but it was good game and they proudly wore their brand new uniforms and asked that that the "gringita" (a slightly more endearing word for gringa) take their picture.

Carolina prepared tamales, wrapped in plantain leaves, stacked to the brim of an enormous bucket, enough to eat all week long. Tamales are a festive and special food and we've been eating them day in and day out, as if we have something to celebrate.

There is still no word from Delia or her family.

Waiting to take the dead cow away.

My friend Jubel. We both speak english and this keeps me sane.

Carlita

The First Cry and Vocan de Fuego

Marta Lidia

Collage (but not my photos.)

A day dreaming diversion.

A day dreaming diversion #2

Birthday Parties, Fear, Boredom and a Broken Down Chicken Bus

There have been few births and I have been struggling to fill the empty space. Reading, drawing, drinking Brahva's on the roof at night, and in the mornings mugs of the strongest coffee; which more than wakes me up, and also motivates me to do something, but I am not always sure as to what. So, the reading and the drawing have both been good things.

We have had at least three mom's transfer to the hospital in the last month, and in each of these instances I have felt certain that this wasn't necessary. Every one of our moms, without exception, who transfers to the hospital comes home having had either a cesarean or an episiotomy. And I know that these women just needed time. To be given more patience, more kind, slow, soft words, deep breathes and hands to hold--all of these things that bring strength and life and peaceful births.

The women that live here don't have any information about birth, besides that their sisters and mothers and in-laws have to offer, which seems most often to be fear inducing and shaming, rather than passed down wise-women wisdom. So they know nothing of potential risks or lack thereof, nor about their options, and this is in part because they don't really have any. They will leave for the hospital when they are told to, and this is most often when the midwife looks at her watch and begins to feel fearful.

I've seen fear creep into the room and I see it again and again on Carolina's face; in moments when I don't see a place for it, and don't understand why it is paralyzing her. These lessons on fear, are the ones that seem to be changing, and expanding who I am more than anything else. But, I am only just dipping my feet in. 

Fear, this huge and powerful, contagious shadow that is the greatest threat and possibly the most dangerous thing to enter into the place of a birth. I am going to need to learn how to see risk and danger, but not to let the fear in to feed and grow and spread. 

While I came here hoping to learn all of these practical skills, which I have learned and am continuing to learn, I now see that those things come easily. What I want and need to develop, beginning now and continuing on, perhaps over the course of my lifetime is patience, listening, intuition, and controlling my fear. No small feat.

Life in my little aldea is feeling more and more familiar, but I am watching my understanding and perspectives of this place shift. Doing my best to stave off the recent boredom has brought forth emotions of all sorts and strengths; loneliness, achy-heart, homesickness, and a twinge of pain and a bit of sadness as I begin to feel like more of a part of this place, while simultaneously recognizing I am more of an outsider than I can even begin to understand. 

There has been drama in the family and this I am finding to be the norm. Maybe it is the lack of diversion, or that everyone is somebodies cousin and has slept with or "gotten on top of"some one's"muchacha," their words not mine. Have you seen a spanish novella? If you have, you have witnessed a small taste of this. Waterworks, slapping, making-up, tension and no one EVER saying what is really the root of the problem. Treading water and running in circles, these familial feuds can and often do last a lifetime.

This dry spell, with the lack of births this month, has left me and Carolina bored and antsy. We sit around the kitchen table missing our work and waiting for the births to come. But this has made our visits with our expecting moms longer and all the sweeter. At present, all of our expecting moms are primips (first-timers) and we rub their bellies, give them our ears and a lot of extra love.

While remaining relatively useless around the house, I have become a voracious reader, napper, and rabid consumer of the white bread pastries I vilified, and worked so hard to avoid for the first 3-months I was here. But, I am not a complete gluttonous sloth and do like helping out with collecting the wood and doing any chore that involves being outside and getting dirty. Carolina seems content to stay in the house all day, and I do mean all day. She has plenty to do, but I can't help but feel a bit of cabin fever for her. Having the extra time, she has been cooking the most elaborate and delicious meals; spicy steaks,with chiles, salsas, and avocado, cucumber salad. And of course I never lose the taste for papaya in the morning, and eat a belly full, with eager anticipation every morning.

I have a ticket to Seattle on May 19th, which feels both too soon and too far. I've been dreaming of Seattle; of bridges, islands, sparkling water, bike lanes, hot showers, bars and shows, french toast and washing machines. But I'm scared to come home, and of not knowing what's next. 

Dancing parade passing in front of the house. Fiesta week.

I rode a motorcycle to this birth, caught this huge baby girl and gave her a bath that made her so peaceful and sleepy that she fell asleep in my hands.

The bus that we waited for, but would never have managed to squeeze onto. It broke down half-a-mile up the road. SO, yes you can overload a bus with people and produce and have it break-down in the middle of nowhere. 

Birthday girl and trouble-making boys, looking dapper in their button-up shirts. 

Moonlight. 

Waiting for cake.

Stringing-up the piñata.

The cemetery in our aldea.

Mother of one of our expecting moms. She is kind and I think breathtakingly beautiful.

Green eyed boy, with a peach in each hand.

The tienda that I frequent most often for cellphone minutes and marshmallow cookies.