San Agustín Lanquín – Day 1: A Ride From Hell
SAN AGUSTÍN LANQUÍN
Day 1: A Ride From Hell
October 09, 2022
Having to say goodbye to the lodge – my safe haven and creative space – and to Angela – my fairy godmother – was quite the tough blow, to say the least. In the middle of yet another storm, I took a canoe to the town centre where I’d be picked up by a driver who’d take me all the way to Lanquín, some four hours away.
And this… this is the story of my worst car ride ever. Okay, it wasn’t that bad. But it was bad enough. Twenty minutes into the ride, the car broke down – or at least that’s what Mario, the driver, told me. The engine temperature had risen and the coolant light was on.
Mario: “It’s that I normally use water.”
Me: “Well, do you have coolant?”
Mario: “Of course.”
Me: “So why don’t you use it?”
Mario: “It’s expensive!”
Me: “So is a new engine…”
I just couldn’t quite believe that I, the furthest thing from a car-savvy guy, was giving car advice to someone whose full-time job involves driving a car, day in, day out. After filling the container, the car was magically brought back to life and we continued on our merry way. It was all plain sailing for a while, save for the fifteen-minutely bathroom breaks he needed. I swear, that guy either has the tiniest bladder, the biggest prostate, or, most probably, both.
White Privilege
I didn’t mind that part much. Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings kept me company and had me in tears. I couldn’t help but reflect on how absurdly different our worlds are. As a privileged white male, I’d never have to live through half the horrors she did, yet there I was, momentarily caught in her pain and anguish. I will never know what it’s like to be silenced, sexualised, or made invisible from birth.
And that comes with a certain sense of shame and guilt. I might not have been the perpetrator of such overt racial injustice myself, but I do feel responsible enough to shoulder the blame of the white idiots who think they are better than others. Even if I’m not one of them, I still reap so many benefits from all the grief and misery they sowed in the past. It would never cross anyone’s mind to pay me any less than my other white colleagues. No one has ever bullied me because of my skin colour. No one has ever assumed I’m uneducated or poor or whatever. And, most of all, no one has ever tried to arrest me for just walking around.
But while reading the book, I could put myself in their shoes – even if just for a short while. I think the last time I had felt such rage at my own race was during Annalise Keating’s speech in the finale of How To Get Away With Murder.
Thinking about it, I found myself retracing my steps and taking a look at my behaviour – realising that I couldn’t quite absolve myself of such crimes either, having committed a few myself inadvertently. Like when I’d automatically switch to English when talking to a Black person in Malta, assuming they’re not Maltese. Or when I attempt to make it seem like we’re the same and that I completely understand what they’ve been through, in an effort to be inclusive. Or when I ask where they’re originally from.
And the worst part? The fact that I only think about these things when they’re brought up in a book or on TV. That I’m completely blind to it. That it’s so deeply ingrained within our society that we don’t even think about it. But whether they’re conscious or unconscious acts, and whether they’re overt acts of racism or what is referred to as subtle racism, one thing’s for sure: I have to start owning the discomfort, accept that there is indeed a difference, recognise the privilege that comes with being white, and, most importantly, be aware not to use it to my advantage.
Racism and Xenophobia
I don’t know if I even get to have an opinion about this – but speaking for myself, I am hopeful. I grew up in a very racist and xenophobic country – and I can already see it’s kinda changing.
Over the past few years, in a poorly executed attempt to flesh out Malta’s labour force, our government has (practically) imported thousands of workers from foreign countries – mostly developing ones. Malta has seen a dramatic influx of people of colour, especially from Africa and Southeast Asia. The problem is, there was never any form of integration. They were catapulted into our society without knowing anything about our culture – and likewise, we knew nothing about theirs.
Expectably, there was a lot of resistance on both ends. For most people, it became a matter of us versus them. To begin with, many of the people of colour who lived in Malta before this wave of migration were undocumented immigrants from North Africa – so the Maltese were already conditioned to be wary of them. Then, once the large-scale workforce migration began, all kinds of issues arose: “they’re taking our jobs,” “they have unhygienic practices,” “they don’t have our work ethic,” “they don’t know how to communicate.” All of it invariably boiled down to one common expression that practically became a national catchphrase: “Go back to your country!”.
Since I’d met, conversed with, eaten with, and even shared homes with people from all over the world while travelling, I considered myself more open-minded than my fellow Maltese brethren. As superior as I had made myself out to be, I still felt some of that prejudice myself – though buried deep, deep down. I was too ashamed to admit any of it, but it was there. Especially as a doctor working in a hospital, where it’s crucial that everything runs smoothly. Before all this, quite hypocritically, we’d often turn a blind eye to the (many and considerable) shortcomings of Maltese employees – whether due to negligence, laziness, or ignorance. But when a newly appointed foreigner messed up? Oh, hell no.
I suppose the reason was simple: we started seeing a lot of mistakes happening all at once. Wrong meds being dispensed, areas not cleaned properly, patients wheeled off to the wrong departments… These were mistakes that had always happened – just not in such large numbers, and not in such a short time. Why’s that? Well, their training had been so rushed to bolster our workforce in record time that many provided substandard service. They didn’t know Maltese (a huge issue when dealing with our elderly population), they were unfamiliar with the inner workings of our hospitals (another massive problem given all the technicalities), and — worst of all — no one had their back. They were completely expendable. And that wasn’t their fault. That’s on us.
That’s when I realised how stupid I’d been every time I passed judgement. How prejudiced I’d been. These people… to the government, they were just fillers. They would do the jobs no one else wanted to do. They’d do it at a measly rate, unquestioningly. But when I finally opened my eyes, I saw that these people were – well – people. People with stories. With loved ones. With impressive skills and wonderful experiences to share. They came to Malta for a brighter future – maybe a disillusioned idea, but no less real. They weren’t just fillers.
I guess that’s how I got over it – it was an active process, and it took me some time. But I got there. And now, a few years down the line, I see everyone else slowly getting there too. I look at my town square – usually frequented by elderly locals – and see those same old Maltese people mingling with people from all over the world. Wasn’t that the vision all along? Isn’t that the point?
Never-ending Nightmare
I soon had to put my Kindle down and my thoughts aside once we got to the two-hour, overly bumpy part of the ride that took us through the mountains separating Rio Dulce from Lanquín.
I had reassured Mario that I’d be A-okay and that I’d been through ‘overly bumpy’ rides before, but this was on a whole new level. Before this, I had no idea that my neck was as flexible as a bobblehead’s. Also, this was the first time I got carsick. I’d repeatedly check my phone to see how long we had left, only to realise I had no signal throughout. Then, every single time, I’d ask him, “Are we there yet?” like a friggin’ kid, over and over.
Big Girls Don’t Cry by Fergie popped into my head at that point, as between the pangs of hunger, nausea, and desperation, all I felt like doing was collapsing into a mess of sobs. But somehow, we had made it. In the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm, we had made it. We had finally made it to San Agustín Lanquín!
I remember feeling like Joseph and Mary the second I got to the hotel and checked in. By then, even a shed or a barn would have sufficed – a bed of straw more welcome than that wretched car.