Villa Faro

I promised weeks ago to include a description of the nearby neighborhood where we're conducting our health census. Soooo, without further ado, here it is, in brief:

Named for a non-functional lighthouse on the shore, Villa Faro ("Lighthouse Village") is a neighborhood that stretches north from the Caribbean Sea toward the center of the city of San Pedro - only a sixty-second drive on a paved street from my house. There's a huge jolt when the Jeep we drive leaves pavement to drive on Villa Faro's muddy/dusty streets, bouncing on top of the reefs of dead coral that make up the ground beneath this neighborhood. There are no sidewalks, gutters, or drains; no running water, and only improvised electric lines strung from tree to tree. Homes mostly made of salvaged boards and corrugated tin line tributary paths that branch off the road. There can be 2-5 houses stacked unseen behind the house facing the street.

Yesterday, while working on a presentation about water access in Villa Faro, we stopped to get a picture of a water system belonging to a woman named Maria. Dr. Dohn's profession became apparent, and, suddenly, we were ushered into the house to check Maria's father, Melvin, who had undergone abdominal surgery for a hernia in April. We entered through a typical homemade fence of rusted tin and barbed wire, strung with drying clothes. Maria's family, like most, has a "well" - a hole dug through the coral to the (salt) water table below. Inside the house, there are holes in the tin roof and the concrete floors. Maria and her seven-year-old daughter and three-year-old son live in two rooms at the front of the "lot." Melvin lives in a third room off the back. He is lucky to have his own mattress and mosquito netting; most people in this neighborhood have to share. Fortunately, even though his surgical wound has opened up and not yet healed itself, Melvin is doing fine, with no signs of infection and plenty of antibiotics and dressings. He is in pain, though; we brought some Tylenol today to help.

After dropping off the Tylenol, we continued our health census, walking from house to house in Villa Faro and asking questions about water access/uses, family size, and incidence of child/infant diarrhea, cough, and respiratory infection. On afternoons like this, I work with Ana, a woman about my age and height, which makes us an approachable pair to kids running around the neighborhood. We often have a small entourage of kids in tow, curious about what we're doing. Today, we rounded a corner and were met by a group of about six 8- to 12-year-old boys playing baseball in the street. With no families in sight, one of the older boys volunteered to answer our questions for his household. We must've made quite the spectacle, because soon we were surrounded by jostling and laughing boys. And then came the questions about diarrhea. Already fairly giggly, that just sent the boys over the edge. And what can you do when you're up to your eyeballs in 10-year-old boys in hysterics about diarrhea? Nothing but join in! Needless to say, the suvey was over. But we all had a great time!

Afternoons spent in Villa Faro are simultaneously enjoyable and heart-breaking. I struggle to describe the complex relationships among love, poverty, laughter, illness, beauty, struggle, and hope. (I sat in front of a blank computer screen for days thinking through different descriptions and stories before I could write anything.) Despite - or maybe because of - this complexity, census afternoons have become a favorite part of my week. I know that when we're finished with the census (we're nearing the end now), I'll miss it, but the lessons I've learned and the experiences I've had will be with me forever. And, with our newfound information, we will begin a local preventative healthcare program! Vive Villa Faro! - and may better times soon come your way!