Santiago, Guatamala and the Ugly American

Dr. Dean convinced a few of us to take a boatride across the water to Santiago, a small village on the shores of Lake Atitlan. 3,000 people were killed here during Hurricaine Katrina in a mudslide. Dr. Dean had set up a small dental clinic 3 years earlier, that was covered by mud, and he wanted to see what had happened to it.

We arrived at Santiago and made our way to the other side of the village standing up in the back of a truck and holding on for dear life to a rod that was running down the middle. Of course it was drizzling rain.

We walked up the dirt road to the old medical/dental clinic with the usual entourage of children running along side, asking for money. There was one little irritating boy I overheard speaking to Dr. Dean.

"Mi Maaaahdre, Mi Paaaaahdre, blah blah blah," he droned. I had heard it all before. I turned to one of my fellow travellers and told him that I had heard that same chant on every trip that I had been on from Mexico to Peru. "They train their youngest kids to beg as soon as they can, because the younger ones can get more money from the tourists.The parents then take the money from the kids," I said. I found the whole process so irritating.

Dr. Dean came over to where we were and asked us if we had heard the little boy. "Did I ever," I said.

"He was telling me about what it was like to be in the mudslide. He lost his mother, his father, his brothers and sisters. He has irreparable damage to his leg......"

I felt like a jerk.