Sarah Langford Volunteers in Venezuela

From the art museum, children's hospital, shopping mall, and basically everywhere else in Caracas one can see the ranchos, makeshift houses that have been built into the mountains. Similar to the way the ranchos penetrate the horizon, the political environment is fraught with inescapable conversations about rice prices, road conditions, job security, or operation waiting lists.

Thus, it is impossible to reflect upon my time in Caracas without aknowledging the breadth and ramifications of the profound poverty that exists in a nation rich in resources. Additionally, it is this economic disparity that provided the impetus for the current government of Hugo Chavez Frias whose focus is the eradication of hunger and the universal rights of health and education.

My project began last spring by coordinating a pen-pal friendship between a local grade school and an orphanage in Caracas. This correspondence built a bridge between cultures that expanded the perspectives of the children. For me, the correspondence was my first insight to differences soon to be encountered in Venezuela. For instance, the two distinct classes that living proximally in Caracas. For instance, while one could find joggers, convience stores, and SUV in wealthy zones a few blocks away lived malnourished children, people selling oranges between traffic lanes of the highway, and vintage school buses without a schedule transporting commuters for eighteen cents to the tune of salsa.

My commute began at 7:30 am, I quickly crossed the highway, walked through the barrio, to arrive at San Juan de Dios, a nonprofit children's hospital, by 8:00 am. While my actual work was simple, tasks ranging from taking vital signs to reading with children, my hours were filled with new ideas and unexpected experiences. Upon arrival, I was accepted into the hospital's family-like infrastructure, in which I shared lunch with everyone from the Medical Director to the people who organized fundraising. During the day, I listened to the doctors and nurses laments over their low wages and grueling and intellectually dangerous twelve hour workdays. Teen-age patients frequently volunteered to give me Castellano lessons. During the afternoon break I would tutor the janitor with her Algebra. By 4:30 p.m., I was exhausted and content, as I walked back through the barrio, stopping to buy yucca, appreciating the friendships made.

Each day many joys and challenges arose out of my growth into the Spanish language. The first week at the hospital, I was overwhelmed by the speed, slang, and Caraqueno accent. A simple command such as, "Traeme el algodon" "Bring the cotton" was enough to leave me with a scrunched eyebrows, begging for an explanation. Similarly, during the subsequent weeks, similar commands and the seemingly simple completion of these tasks was a source of triumph.

Last modified on November 21, 2008