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National Geographic : 1982 Nov
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"It's hard to create new habits in these people, but we are trying," I was told by En rique Parera, the shelter's administrator. "We are discovering the sicknesses they had before. We are getting a clearer picture of Indian health than we have ever had." Parera said that Chiapas state was seek ing new homes for the refugees; in fact, De metrio Mondrag6n Barajas, who was in charge of all the state's efforts to deal with the impact of the volcano, was flying over the area that day, looking for land. "Within ten kilometers of the volcano, no one will be able to use the land for several years," explained a weary Mondrag6n in his office that evening. "Within five kilometers it could take ten years. "At first we thought half the state would be a disaster area. Now it seems only the im mediate area is affected. Outside it the grass is standing up again." There were other signs of resurgent life. At a shelter in Ixtacomitan I saw families run to climb on a cattle truck bound for a new communal farm. The land was far from their ruined village, but they had been in four shelters in two months, and they want ed permanent homes. The economic effects were serious. Farm ers eventually filed claims for 240 million pesos (about 2.5 million dollars) in lost live stock. I watched some of those destitute farmers in an insurance office in Pichucalco; they looked lost themselves, as if they felt useless without their few cows. Waiting for Land, Work, Answers And there was the frustration of people like Vasilio Jimenez Juarez of Nicapa: homeless, landless, jobless. "I'm waiting to find a job, waiting for land, waiting for the government to do something," he said. "At least a piece of land to put a house on. I worked my whole life to get a piece of land, some animals, a house. Now I have to start over. I would like to work, but there is no work." But Leandro Rovirosa Wade, the gover nor of Tabasco, told me that the damage in his state, which, admittedly, was not as hard hit as Chiapas, was less than the earli est estimates suggested. Damnificados, damaged ones, they are called.Most are Indians of the Zoque tribe,many of whom pasturedtheir cattle on El Chichdn's once benign slopes.At one time 40,000 displaced personscrowded emergency shelters in the states of Chiapasand Tabasco-nearlyall suffering eye irritationand respiratoryailments caused by inhalingash. A few days after the final eruptions,refugees line up for army food at a shelter in Pichucalco (right).Women and children (left) constituted the majority of those who still remained in shelters by late June; many of the men were able to find temporaryjobs as laborers in nearby towns. By mid-August the thousands of homeless had been resettled,and the shelterswere closed. BOTH BYGUILLERMOALDANAE. National Geographic,November 1982 678
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