Merritt´s Articles

The World Without Rose Shaded Lenses

The warm sun shining down reflected off the water pooled in potholes along the dusty road. Emily, my enthusiastic Spanish teacher, and I walked, our voices rising and falling with the cacophony of daily sounds emerging from the surrounding community. Roosters crowing, dogs barking, and little kids shrieking comprise the daily sounds of El Hato, Guatemala.
I take it all in, this brightly colored, multifaceted culture so new to me. El Hato, meaning “The Herd”, is a quaint village tucked beneath three breathtaking volcanoes; its simplicity and charm, immediately eliminated the preconceived notions I packed with me on this trip. I found myself particularly struck by local patterns of daily life and the unique family dynamics I observed.
Family life in El Hato, Guatemala greatly contrasts with what I experience back home in North Carolina. Walking along the maze of red dirt that connects the cluttered tin- roofed community, I peek through little windows of village life.
A tiny boy of about seven, with soiled clothes and a dusty face, grinned up at me as he swung a massive machete to chop wood with his dad in their small dirt yard. A group of girls between the ages of four and eight clad in colorful, long, traditional Mayan skirts, galloped over to me giggling and begging to have their picture taken.
“¡Un foto!¡Un foto!” They yelled excitedly as they scrambled to get in front of the magic lens. In the thick of the commotion, I failed to notice a monstrous, bulky knife one of the girls clutched in her hand by the blade. They were so comfortable casually handling a tool I find petrifying, which startled me. I would never come across these situations strolling along the streets of Fairview.
Little girls worked alongside their mothers, elbow deep in soap suds, scrubbing clothes at the pila while other kids their age get to spend the day at school. Passing us barefoot on the well-traveled road, girls as young as six carried the burden of their baby brothers and sisters on their backs with brightly patterned slings. These mature young girls exhibited as much attention and compassion to the infants and toddlers in their care as any mother would. Witnessing such genuine tenderness causes my heart to swell with admiration. This kind of youth responsibility is something I have seen very little of in my lifetime.
The difference between the grown-up children of El Hato and I is that they work for survival, while my parents have me do a few household chores after school to help me develop a sense of responsibility. I never gave much thought to chores I grumbled through back home, deeming them mundane, whereas these boys and girls chop wood, cook, and wash clothes to keep their families alive. These inspiring youth are years ahead of me in terms of having a heightened sense of community, family, and survival.
The chance to permanently ingrain this mental snapshot of one sharp black and white contrast in cultures opened my eyes and changed my world view. The children of El Hato face challenging hardships and seem forced to grow up too quickly. Despite the grownup weight of duty resting upon their tiny shoulders, I see a fighting spirit within each of them and believe they will continue to strive for a better life. These children I have encountered on my journey this far, have eyes that shine with Guatemalan fire.


Little Handed Love

“¡Uno! ¡Dos! ¡Tres!” I yell, accompanied by a chorus of five little voices surrounding me. Standing on the shores of the beach town Chiquistepeque, Guatemala, a group of little girls cling to me. Flor, gripping my right hand, Angelica and Anna fighting over my left hand, Marysol under my right arm clinging to my waist, and little Amelia in front of me clutching my shorts and bracing herself against my legs. We were a pretty ridiculous sight, especially as we attempted to jump at the same time, not very successfully, over the wave that was crashing and rumbling toward us. The girls let their legs be taken out from under them, getting caught by the force of the break, and tried to take me down with them. Their shrieks and laughter escalated as they brought me closer to the water. With a squeal, I pulled them all out of the water just before another monstrous wave could take us all down.
The blazing sun reflected off of the clear, green-blue water and mixed with afternoon heat waves in a spotless blue sky. As the black sand oozed between my toes, I giggled and squealed along with my new best friends; at my happiest. Nothing could bring me down from the emotional high and adrenaline rush caused by the love and kindness radiating from these girls. They guided me along with their little hands and showed me warmth that, as an outsider, I have been craving. For one day, they gave me a home away from home.


The Death of the Alfombra

Awakening to the sound of voices outside our window, Queso, my oddly nicknamed friend, and I flailed around in the dark as we tripped over piles of books, clothes, and bags that were strewn all over the floor. Throwing on decent clothes, we stumbled out into the common room and met with our teacher, Cara. Together, the three of us silently crept out the hostal’s front and onto the cobblestone street.
Though it was only 3 a.m., the streets were crowded. Little kids, teenagers, and adults milled about the dimly lit intersection. Most of the boys were clad in black, floor length robes with white trim and a matching sash. The outfit was topped off with a white veil that stood out in the darkness and bobbed up and down as they spoke in hushed tones. The haziness of sleep wore off as we sat on the corner in front of our bright orange hostal, Anahuac. Feeling slightly out of my comfort zone, I took a look around me, people gazed at the alfombra my classmates and I created earlier that day as well as the new one bordering it. An alfombra is a carpet of materials such as beans, salt, and wood chips that are traditionally made on roads for the week of Semana Santa through out Central America. We had inspired neighboring children to make an alfombra of their own which connected to ours. A colorful design of wood ships, corn, beans, and dyed salt, the alfombra, our pride and glory, was about to be trampled by the procession.
The procession had left Juayua at seven o’ clock at night and was just now coming back from its trek around several other pueblos. It crawled up the street toward us, led by three little boys swinging lanterns of copan (insense). The clearly lit up glass casket of Jesus was hoisted on the shoulders of about twenty four men. A smaller platform followed, perched on the shoulders of women. The whole ordeal was decked out in the same robes and moved as one, swaying the lighted platform from side to side in time with the music. The band followed closely behind, towing a generator to keep the display ablaze.
This dedicated congregation of men, women, and children marched through the night for hours on end, cheered on by die hard crowds lining the streets, all in the name of their faith.

Kindness, Encouragement, and a Warm Tortilla

Merritt Smail, from Fairview, North Carolina, is spending the spring semester of her junior year in Central America with The Traveling School, an all girls high school study abroad program based out of Bozeman, Montana. This is the second of two articles written for her Travel Journalism class and describes her experience visiting the pueblo of Las Pavas, El Salvador, with a Peace Corps volunteer.


My apprehension increases as Biz, Thea, Emily, and I trek up the dusty dirt road, dripping with sweat in the sweltering heat on our way to eat dinner at separate houses in the community. Emily, a Peace Corps volunteer from Wisconsin, is hosting a small group of us in her home for four days. It is a ten minute walk from Emily’s house to the house of Niña Ava, who will be my new mom during my stay in Las Pavaz.
¡Con permiso! Emily calls out as we approach the modest house. In answer, Glendy, Ava’s nineteen year old daughter comes around the corner of the porch to greet us with an awkward hug/kiss combination. Emily then explains in her smooth, practiced Spanish how my Spanish is very limited as I memorize the marks and holes on my converse shoes, slightly embarrassed. After a few more moments of rapid-fire Spanish, I am left to fend for myself with a basic Spanish vocabulary and unique ability to play charades.
Not quite sure what to do with the gringa, Glendy leads me to a plastic chair on the porch, the best seat at the table. I take in the view of her yard, littered with mango peels being pecked at by chickens. As soon as I sit down, Niña Ava bustles out of the kitchen to greet me wearing a flowing blouse and skirt layered with an apron. Her long black hair is pulled back with a clip and she smells of warm tortillas. Her wide, inciting smile crinkles the edges of her bright brown eyes. A soft, comforting hug immediately releases all of my nervous energy and replaces it with a welcoming warmth.
Feeling more at ease, I make myself more comfortable at the table with Glendy sitting across from me. Struggling to fill the growing silence, I am suddenly rescued by the solid beats of a reggaeton song drifting towards us from down the calle.
“¡Ahh, me gusta la musica!” I exclaim. Glendy’s face automatically brightens. Grabbing my hand, she pulls me out of my seat, drags me to her room, sits me down on one of the beds, and puts a pair of headphones in my ears. A reggaeton song I recognized from the pirated CD booths on the streets blasts through the white plastic earphones. Getting into the rythym, I start doing a little dance, bouncing around on the bed.
“¿Te gusta bailar?” Glendy asks me with a giggle.
“¡Si! Mucho. ¿Y usted?” I reply
“¡Si!” She answers excitedly and jumps up from her spot on the floor over to a boom box. “Gasolina,” by Daddy Yankee thumps out of the speakers and I bounce off the bed to join Glendy and together we swing our hips and shimmy to the rythym, both of us laughing and acting ridiculous. Attempting to copy the insanely complicated dance moves Glendy pulls off with a flourish, I trip all over the place, the typical gringa with two left feet. After making a complete fool of myself, I decide it is time for me to get into my element and teach Glendy how to salsa. Giggling our way through the “one and two, three and fours,” we gain an audience of her brother Orlando, her cousin Lupita, and Ava. After showing off our moves, we all settle onto the floor and I am introduced, through a photo album, to the rest of the family who reside in the U.S. Two of Glendy’s brothers live in New York.
For four days, I was a part of Ava’s family. They taught me how to pat tortillas (which is a lot harder than it looks) as well as make papusas and pasteles de platanos. Ava always encouraged me with a smile and a “¡Si se puede!” The whole family took part in teaching me Spanish. While I sat at the table visiting, Ava, Glendy, Orlando, Lupita, and Jose (Glendy’s father) would come up to me holding an object, identify it in Spanish and then quiz me on it at random times. They taught me everything from body parts and cook ware to dinosaurs and a picture of The Last Supper. As a nervous beginning Spanish speaker, I am petrified of practicing aloud. However, the enthusiasm and encouragement they provided me with inspired me to try harder. By the end of my stay, I went from meekly choking out a “¿Como estas?” To having conversations with Glendy about school, boys, our pasts, and what we want to do in the future.
The time I spend in Las Pavas taught me more than how to pat a tortilla. I became part of a family and was shown true kindness, encouragement, generosity, trust, and love. I will forever hold these people, these memories, close to my heart.



By: Merritt