Off the Beaten Trail by Jake Heilbrunn

Author:Jake Heilbrunn [Heilbrunn, Jake]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-09-13T22:00:00+00:00

chapter 24

One Action Can Change Someone’s World

May 7, 2015

“How lovely to think that no one need wait a moment, we can start now, start slowly changing the world! How lovely that everyone, great and small, can make their contribution toward introducing justice straightaway....And you can always, always give something, even if it is only kindness!”

—Anne Frank

I met Arnulfo in front of Los Abrazos at 9:00 a.m. I had a small backpack containing stickers and a water bottle. Arnulfo pulled up in his sleek, black motorbike wearing a matching helmet that made him look like a secret agent. He was the only person I had seen during my travels to wear a helmet while riding a motorcycle. He took off his helmet, climbed off his bike and greeted me with a warm smile.

“Thanks for coming with me today. The village we are going to, Tsununá, is very poor. Many of the children don’t have parents, and food is scarce. They don’t receive any care for their health. They have no doctors. I want you to see how these people live.”

He directed me to sit on the back of his motorbike and to hold on tight to his shoulders. I hopped onto the seat behind him, and he revved the engine. We took off, riding through the paved roads in town. It wasn’t long before buildings and huts became scarce as we wound our way around the untouched, green mountain. The paved roads became rocky trails, and my grip on Arnulfo’s shoulders tightened as I bobbed up and down on the backseat, praying that I wouldn’t fly off.

As we continued to travel, the most remarkable view of Lake Atitlan appeared. An opening in the green trees to my right showcased the two vast volcanoes that rested majestically above the cerulean, shimmering lake. White, fluffy clouds drifted slowly behind the enormous peaks. To my left, extensive arrays of trees filled the mountain, a wash of jade and grassy greens. The raw beauty of the landscape contrasted starkly with the environment we were about to enter.

We pulled up to an opening on the rocky road. Huts were scattered throughout. Arnulfo decelerated his bike to the side of the dirt road, and we hopped off. This was Tsununá. Silence permeated the dry, toasty air. No birds were chirping, no motorbikes were whizzing by, no travelers were wandering about. The stillness in the air wasn’t eerie or peaceful—it was loud. It spoke to me of the magnitude of the situation I was entering. It weighed heavily on my shoulders. The only sound I heard was my own footsteps on the dirt.

“These people speak almost no Spanish,” Arnulfo informed me as we walked across the gravel toward the huts. “They speak Kakchiquel, a native Mayan language. I’m from el Quiché where we speak K’iche’, but when I came here, I had to learn to speak Kakchiquel. I am going to pass out some money to the families here so they can buy food. Usually, I bring them standard food parcels, but today I’d like them to buy whatever food they need.

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