God Guides the Buses, I Guide the Gringoes

I've been saying I would find a volunteer job here , but have found myself short on time and suitable jobs. The better positions all require long-term commitments, which I cannot make. However, I finally found a job with an amazing non-profit guide company called Quetzaltrekkers.

Last weekend, when I climbed Volcan Tajulmulco, one of the guides and I got to talking about how they are very short-staffed and under a lot of stress. I offered to help out in the office and guiding on the treks and they accepted!

During the week we prep for treks, finding clients, cleaning and repairing gear, shopping and preparing food. On the weekends we lead six different treks around the highlands. I'm leading the Tajulmulco trek again. It's pretty much the perfect job for me. I get to play outside, but I also get to bridge the gap between our socially concious clients and indigenous people, translating and teaching about cultural, political, economic and environmental issues.

I'm excited because I get to work with the same people for an extended period of time. One of the hardest things for me here is that most people come and go on a weekly basis. Right now the staff consists of a Brit, a Kiwi, a Spaniard, a German, an Israeli and three Gringoes. I'm one of only two women. All the different cultures, attiudues and expectations can create a little friction, but is generally super fun. Most of the staff lives in the same house, or at the hostel we work out of and most nights we end up having dinner together, hanging out in the courtyard, playing guitar or games.

Best of all, we support some amazing social services. Since we're all volunteers, paying our room and board out of pocket, tips or dumpsters and the organization runs on an shoestring budget, we generate a ton of revenue for a school, a clinic and an orphanage. Next week I'll be spending some time in the organizations, so I'll have more to share about them later.

Una Salida del Sol, Una Sonrisa

This weekend I climbed Volcan Tajumulco. At about 14,000 feet, it's the highest point in Central America. I went with Quetzaltrekkers, a non-profit guide company which supports local social services. My group left Xela at 4am, to catch camioneta to San Marcos, and then to the trailhead.

Apparently the department of San Marcos is known for its drug trade. Farmers here have had a hard time growing enough to eat and sell, with the harsh climate, small plots and effects of the civil war. San Marcos is only an hour off of the Mexican border, so it's understandable that many people have switched to marijuana and opiate production. As such, it's illegal to grow poppies, even for ornamental purposes.

At the trailhead we were greeted by a platoon of soldiers and a low-circling helicopter. The same soldiers who ravaged the area during the civil war sill use the San Marcos countryside as a training ground. Their official purpose is to discourage the drug trade. In reality they just intimidate the local population, as well as gringo hikers. As we climbed, our guides were careful to keep us in line, because there are still hundreds landmines left in the hills.

We hiked through the countryside for about an hour. As we climbed higher, the farms began to thin out, as the land became more and more marginal. Beans gave way to corn, which gave way to potatoes, until eventually there were only cattle and sheep. Only the most desperate families are left high on the hillsides to eke out an existence. The children would come running out, barefoot and with distended bellies, to beg for food or money, trying to steal things off of our packs.

Despite the poverty, the mountains are beautiful. They are meadows of turf and wildflowers, strewn with boulders and small stands of pine. The subalpine environment here is surprisingly similar to that of Seattle. It was even more beautiful because we could hear strains of marimba and singing in Mam on the hike up. The music was from a festival in the pueblo at the foot of the mountain, but I felt like it was accompanying and encouraging us up the hill.

The Tajulmulco trail was more gradual than Laguna Chicabal, but it was still substantial. About halfway up the hike an older couple from Los Angeles decided to turn back with one of our guides. We hiked for about six hours, reaching base camp around 4pm, just as the clouds rolled in and began to rain. We quickly made camp, had some supper, and went to bed.

We got up again at 3am for our final approach. The temperature supposedly hovered around 0 degrees celsius, and the wind chill was something ferocious. While we were still in camp, one of our group members fell ill with altitude sickness, so she, I, and one of the guides stayed behind. The rest of the group donned headlamps and stumbled and scrambled the last 800 vertical feet to the summit.

Even from base camp it was well worth it to see the sun rise over all of Guatemala and into Mexico and Volcan Santiaguito erupting in the distance. I have no words to express the sense of awe at the natural world that it left me with. Absolutely amazing.

Sin Slang, Porfa

I've been attending Spanish school for four weeks now, and I'm getting pretty proficient. I know my ser from estar, preterit from imperfect, por from para and indicative from subjunctive. I can carry on awesome conversations about politics and culture. However, in the cantina, or on a camioneta with a campesino, I'm often lost. The Spanish here is filled with all sorts of proverbs, local phrases and strange slang.

The two most prevalent words are "fijate" and "vaya". These are actual Spanish commands. Fijate is used at the beginning of an explanation. It's kinda like saying, "Look here" or "Take note". Vaya is used at the end of a sentence at the end of a conversation. It's sort of like saying, "Go on, get out of here". I adore these sayings because literally translated, they're rather rude. Regardless, everyone uses them, in a friendly way, and they're an important part of conversations.

The Spanish here gets even stranger. So, for your enjoyment, and convenience, should you meet a drunken Chivo or Altiplano campesino, I've painstakingly compiled some of my favorite phrases:

Tener los pantalones bien puestos.
Literally: To have the pants well located.
Actually: To be in control.

¡Que higados!

Literally: What a liver!

Actually: That’s very brave!

Ponerse las pilas.
Literally: To put in the batteries.
Actually: To get motivated.

Eres pura lata.
Literally: You’re pure tin.
Actually: You’re a pain in the ass.

Es solo hacerlo y escupir en la calle.
Literally: You just do it and spit in the street.
Actually: Once it’s done, it's done.

Hacerse un queso.
Literally: To make a cheese of one's self.
Actually: To dance wildly.

Pagar el pato.
Literally: To pay the duck.
Actually: To pay for someone else's mistake.

Movin' On Up

Today I moved houses, to live in my friend Leslie´s house. This is awesome on a number of counts. First, we live all of a block from school, so while my walk won´t be as interesting, it will be easier to get to school on time. Second, I have a huge, nicely appointed room, with my own half-bath and an actual bed. Third, the food is amazing. One of the daughters is studying to be a chef, so it´s three multi-course meals a day. Fourth, the family is really sweet and funny. It´s the abuelos, Paco and Ana Maria, their daughter, Maria, her son David, and the dog, Peluche. I´ve essentially moved from hovel to luxury hotel, in the space of sixteen blocks.

Best of all, I´m living with Leslie, who has amazing Spanish, and forces me to speak Spanish all the time. This is her, drinking soda, local style. When you buy a soda from a street vendor you don´t get to keep the soda bottle. Instead, they pour it into a baggie, give you a straw, and send you on your way. You can also get papusas, platanitas, tortas, tacos, tamales, choco-fruits, fruti-licuados and more. For all of a $1.50, you can have an entire dinner, plus a fun game of foodborne illness Russian roulette.

The Boys Don´t Go Steady Cause It Wouldn´t Be Right To Leave the Best Girls Home on a Saturday Night

The beach itself was a blast. Going alone has its own benefits. I was the only white person for fifty miles, which gave me plenty of opportunities to practice my Spanish. Sadly, many of the people in those parts don´t speak Spanish as a first language, and their accents and my accents combine to create chaos.

Unfortunately, being the only white person around also exacerbated the catcall situation, so I didn´t want to ask any of the strangers to put sunscreen on my back. I did my best to apply it, octopus style, but I ended up with a circle of sunburn on my back. I´m not sure whether to find this funny, or sad.

I couldn´t help sticking out like a sore thumb on Saturday night when I went out looking for a nightlife. My search was to absolutely no avail. The best I could find was a little local cantina, a Guatemalan dive bar. I was the only white person, the only woman, the only one under forty, and the only one not slobbering drunk. I bought a beer and brought it, and my book, to read and drink in the park.

While I was sitting in the park, a group of teenage and twentysomthing boys stopped to talk to me. To my surprise, they invited me to their surfing competition on Sunday morning, sans catcalls or rude comments. While it required getting up at 6am, when the waves were biggest, going to the competition was well worth it. I got to help decide the winners and give the prizes! Judging such a surfing competion is particularly difficult when you consider that I don´t surf, and that they were surfing on a breaks that hit the beach and often on on wakeboards, without the benefit of fins for steering and balance.

Surfing in Monterrico in a few weeks is going to be superdivertido, as the kids here say.

I ♥ Tuk-Tuks Too!

This weekend I was going to go to Panajactel, or, as my maestra put it, Gringotenango. A bunch of my friends and my maestro from my dance school were going on Friday night, and my friend Kayla and I going to go on Saturday morning after a benefit party for Entremundos, a local nonprofit. However, on Saturday morning Kayla wasn´t feeling so hot, and she didn´t want to go. I´ve been fighting a cold too, and I didn´t want to go to Pana alone, so I opted for the much shorter trip to Champerio.

In reality, the ride was not much shorter because the camioneta between Xela and Reu stalled every fifteen minutes or so. When I finally got to Reu, I was a little exhausted and annoyed. However, Reu has tuk-tuks, charming little tricycle taxis native to South East Asia. I convinced a tuk-tuk driver to take me the remaining hour to Champerio for 50Q, or about $8. He was so excited about this deal that he spent the next-half hour driving around town to tell all of his friends about it. Then we spent another exhilarating hour driving down the coastal slope at nearly 90km an hour, yelling in Spanish over the reggaeton.

Chivo Cavalcades

In general, walking home from school is on of my favorite things in Xela. I get out of school at the same time as the local kids, so I walk home through a sea of Catholic school uniforms. Most of the kids hang out in the street, chatting and buying snacks. Some boys start street scoccer games. The sweethearts pair off, and walk home holding hands. The kids in bands have impromptu concerts.

Today, when I walked outside I was greeted by this procession. These sorts of parades are pretty common. Saints are very popular with assimiated Mayan people, as I explained in this entry. Every saint has their own day, and their own group of followers. On the saint's day the followers carry the idol through the streets, from and to the church, or from one house to another, since the saint confers blessings on the house where it resides. There´s usually people in traditional costume, incense, and chanting or a marching band.

I absolutely adore the marching bands here. Sometimes the bands will have a competition. Two marching bands will march through the city, starting on opposite ends and meeting in the middle of the city for a showdown. The bands here rival the best high school bands in the States. They all have a drill team, a color guard and a full band. They usually have immaculate suits, with smart little hats and matching knee-high boots. The band for the procession, which was dressed in purple, really reminded me of Garfield. Where's a big furry mascot when you need one?

Bonanza!

Today a group of us at school decided to make chocolate the old-fashioned way. We began with dried caoco beans. First we roasted them over an open flame in earthenware pots, periodically stirring them with gigantic wooden paddles. After the beans are hot, they can be peeled. It was wonderful to sit for hours with my compeñeras and our maestras, shooting the breeze in Spanish, cracking and shelling the beans into big bowls in our laps. The shells are dry and crackly and they flake off to reveal a rich, oily bean. The smell is superb, and it permeates everything.

After all the beans were shelled, they were ready to be ground. So we took all of the beans to a house with a mill that the maestras knew of. The mill was like something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It was a handmade contraption, situated in someone’s living room, which consisted of all sorts used of belts, gears and grinders. When it whirred into motion, with much clacking and clanking, it ground all of our beans into sand sized granules. We mixed one part beans with another part sugar, and sent it through the machine twice more.

When we were finished, we had a fine brown powder, almost akin to chocolate flour. We wrapped it in plastic carried it back to school in plastic tubs. In the kitchen, we packed the chocolate powder into bar shapes. Then, we pounded the bars with our hands, trying to break down all of the crystallized sugar. The idea is to pummel the chocolate until all the oil rises to the surface and it has a shiny sheen. After nearly three hours of work, we finally had chocolate! Needless to say, the results are all the sweeter when you’ve made them yourself.

Salcaja and the Strange Moonshine

Today was amazing. First, I had met my new maestra. I wasn’t completely and totally satisfied with my teachers the past two weeks. My first maestra was a bit too easy, and my next maestra a bit to hard, and not too friendly. I asked around for recommendations, my friend Leslie recommended Cory, and I requested her. We both agreed that my reading and writing are fine and that my speaking and aural comprehension need help. So we spend almost the entire day talking about all of my favorite subjects; politics, economics and women’s lib, Guatemalteco and Estadounidenese. She’s super warm and friendly, but a hardliner on grammar. It’s going to be a great week.

In the afternoon, a group of us ventured to Salcaja, a little town outside of Xela known because it has the oldest church in Central America. The Iglesia de San Jacinto was built in 1524 by the Spanish. Unfortunately, the church is state property, and as such, it’s only open on certain days. Determining which these days are requires some sort of Mayan divination ritual. Needless to say, a rainy Monday afternoon was not a good prospect and the exterior isn’t very exciting. It looks exactly what you’d expect something built in 1524 with the Latin American preservation ethic to look like. It’s falling apart.

Fortunately, Salcaja is known for two local liquors. The first, Caldo de Frutas, is literally a fruit soup. It’s made from fermented oranges, apples, cherries, peaches and all manner of local fruits and spices that we don’t have in the states. It’s a strong sweet alcohol, a cross between a sangria and a port. We got to see it being brewed in a bathtub in someone’s kitchen, and when they strained it into bottles for us (used, Johnnie Walker and Bacardi), they gave us the leftover fruit to eat. The second, Rompopo, is basically eggnog made with more sugar, spices, and condensed milk. It’s even stickier and sweeter than you would expect and a deep yellow appropriate for a magic potion. It’s good to know that it is possible to by eggnog outside of Christmastime, you just have to travel thousands of miles via plane, camioneta and foot, knock on some stranger’s door and barter for bootlegged liquor. Granted, the Rompopo actually seemed slightly safer than the Caldo de Frutas, since it came in pretty new bottles with labels.

Lions in Kenya, Koalas in Australia, Ally in Xela

This weekend I went to go see the new Harry Potter movie at the HiperPais. I didn´t understand everything going on in the movie, and as such, I´m not in much of a position to comment on the content. However, I can say that going to movies here is interesting because approximately halfway through the movie the lights go up, and everyone takes an intermission.

I´m getting more video media here than I ever would at home. My host family´s black and white TV is constantly tuned to telenovelas. Telenovelas are these amazingly overacted Hispanic soap operas. They go on for years, paring off various characters, finding long lost twins and children, killing off other characters, putting people into comas, and so on and forth. I´ve been using them to learn Spanish. The local kids use them to learn gender relations, judging by the drama I´ve witnessed.

My family follows the telenovelas Zorro and Dame Chocolate. They also follow the talkshow Laura in America, a Jerry Springer spin off with a host ironically named Dr. Laura. But by far my favorite show is Los Hermanos Koala, a children´s TV show. It appears suspiciously Kenya, except with koalas and set in in the outback. Same sort of snappy themesong, same sort of dancing animals. The koalas fly around in a plane, helping various other outback animals. I´m late to school almost every day because I want to finish watching it.

Laguna Chicabal, Center of the Mam Cosmovison

Today a group of us decided to hike up to Laguna Chicabal. Our adventure began when a camioneta dropped us off at an isolated turnoff. Initially, the road was paved, and it wound through the houses and farms of the local Mam people (who spoke no Spanish). As the houses became sparser the track quickly turned to dirt, grew steeper and began to serpentine through the forest. The idea of switchbacks didn’t occur to the road’s creators, as it curved only gently, climbing almost directly up the side of the mountain. It should also be noted that Xela is at 8,000 feet, an altitude roughly equivalent to the top of Jackson Hole, where altitude sickness begins to affect some people. Moreover, Ira Spring and the Mountaineers were not here to tell us how far or how many vertical feet we would be hiking. I can only say that we climbed for the better part of two backbreaking, sweat-pouring hours.

Unfortunately, as we stopped for a break at a vista near the top, a tour bus full of tourists pulled up alongside us for the remaining half hour descent. The descent is 590 steps, twice as steep as any other steps you’ve seen and certainly not ADA approved. The steps drop you into the volcano’s crater, which has filled with water to form a lake. Because it’s so high, clouds quickly roll in and out of the crater, shrouding the lake in an air of mystery. (As well as making it freezing cold and wet.) It’s understandable that the Mam people made the lake the spiritual center of their cosmovision. Situated around the lake are eight equally spaced altars, either flowers laid in a pattern on a stone, or tied to a cross staked in the water, or a charred ring with the remains of an animal sacrifice. It’s breathtaking, both figuratively and literally.

Sadly, Our tour bus friends were also down at the lake. They had paid a local man, who looked suspiciously Ladino in his Dickies pants and polo shirt, complemented by a supposedly ceremonial knife and hat, to bless them with the lake’s water. They stood by the shore, snapping photos, as each one had a bit of water poured on their head and a prayer. Although I’m sure they and the Ladino blessing them were getting what they needed and wanted out of the ordeal, it made me sad to see modern-day Mam culture misappropriated and misunderstood, to fit with a bunch of tourists’ ideas about ancient Mayan spirituality. It’s particularly sad since the hike to the lake and seeing in unveiled by the clouds is a spiritual experience in it of itself.

Guatemalan History, Human Rights Abuses and US Aid

It’s impossible to understand life in Guatemala without understanding its history and horrific human rights record. Guatemala only recently emerged from a 36 year civil war, which left over 180,000 dead and over 600 villages destroyed. Almost every adult I meet lost a loved one in the war. Please know that some of the stories recounted in this post were really hard for people to share, really hard for me to hear and may be really hard for you to read. Still, I think it’s important for us to understand and acknowledge the horrors and the active hand that our government had in them.

Like many Latin American countries, Guatemala Economic Inequality. Colonialism enshrined economic inequality along ladino/indigenous lines. Even after Guatemala gained independence in 1823, the whiter, wealthier people remained in power. As an independent state, Guatemala was governed by a series of caudillos, or military strongmen. At the same time, the United Fruit Company was gaining influence in Guatemala, buying up huge tracks of land, building a proprietary railroad and press-ganging peasants into work on their banana plantations.

In 1944 a group of young professionals, students and military officers overthrew the tyrannical and inept President Jorge Ubico. A new constitution, which granted indigenous people suffrage for the first time, was instituted. Juan José Arévalo, a teacher, was elected president. His so-called “spiritual socialism” increased spending on healthcare and education, abolished vagrancy laws and implemented labor laws. This was a radical shift, giving indigenous Guatemalans real rights and economic opportunities for the first time.

In 1950 Arévalo was succeeded by Jácobo Arbenz, a member of the military junta that replaced Jorge Ubico. Arbenz continued Arévalo’s reforms, as well as making more radical changes. He envisioned an economically independent Guatemala and sought to shrink the influence of the United Fruit Company by breaking up their monopoly and demanding past due taxes. He also sought agrarian reform, redistributing idle and state-owned land to landless peasants. Unfortunately, most of that land was owned by the United Fruit Company, which was very upset. The United States government was glad to intervene in their interests and in 1953 President Dwight D. Eisenhower gave the CIA the go ahead to overthrow the Guatemalan government. The CIA assembled a mercenary army in neighboring Honduras. When they marched on the capital the outmatched Arbenz resigned and Guatemala’s brief foray into freedom was brought to an abrupt end.

For the next thirty years the armed forces ran the government, ruling with equal parts iron fist and fiscal ineptitude. All the reforms and advances of the Arévalo and Arbenz regimes were quickly reversed. During this period there was one military president after another, with power shifting in coups, assassinations and sham elections. In 1963 open elections were called and Arévalo planned to return and run for president. Facing the specter of another socialist government, President John F. Kennedy gave the go ahead for a second coup.

During this period four major guerilla groups, with various communist ideologies and approaches to armed conflict, gained ground, demanding the return of civilian rule and the redistribution of wealth. In turn, the Guatemalan government, backed by massive amounts of US aid and arms, launched a counter insurgency against the supposed communists. During this period the US was deeply involved in Central American affairs, backing right-wing regimes in Honduras and El Salvador, arming the Contras to destabilize the Sandinista regime in Nicaragua and blockading Cuba, among other things.

In the early seventies political violence was concentrated in Guatemala City. Students and professors, community and labor organizers, professionals, activists and anyone else educated who could be construed as opposition were at risk. People were kidnapped, with a knock on the door in the dead of night, or snatched from a public place in broad daylight. They were taken to detention centers, where they were held without food or water, tortured, raped if they were women. Many of them were then disappeared, killed and buried in unmarked mass graves, or drugged and dropped in the ocean from helicopters. From 1970 to 1973, under President Colonel Arana Osorio, an estimated 15,000 people were killed.

In the late seventies and early eighties political violence intensified and shifted to the rural areas. The army adopted a scorched earth policy, seeking to erode the guerillas’ support by attacking those they sought to help and eliminating their hiding places in the countryside. The military would march into villages and round up all of the residents. They would gather the villagers in the town square and force them to prove their allegiance to the army. They would want to know who was helping the guerillas, and would force communities to scapegoat some of their members. They would take all the military-age men and boys. They would take the villagers’ crops, livestock and other possessions. If they were dissatisfied, they would assert their dominance with wanton violence. They would kill children, cut open pregnant women’s bellies and killing their unborn babies, burn people alive, force family members to kill one another in front of the entire village and gang-rape women, often with their weapons. In many cases they razed entire villages, setting fire to the homes and fields, sometime even contaminating nearby creeks by dumping dead bodies in them. In some cases they massacred entire villages, burying hundreds of bodies in unmarked mass graves.

From 1978 to 1982, under President Brigadier General Fernando Lucas García an estimated 35,000 people were killed. In 1983, under President General Efraín Ríos Montt, it’s estimated that more than 10,000 people were killed. Millions more were displaced, moved to model villages or forced to flee to Mexico as refugees. The United Nations has recognized the government’s actions as genocide, a concerted attempt to exterminate the indigenous population. In 1985 Guatemala held its first free elections in thirty years. While a civilian was elected and levels of violence fell, it did not end the armed conflict, as factions of the armed forces, right-wing death squads and guerilla groups continued fighting. In 1996, after thirty six-years of civil war, which left over 180,000 dead and over 600 villages destroyed, peace accords were finally signed.

While the country has returned to civilian rule, reminders of the civil war are everywhere. There are the relics you can see, the burnt-out villages, the unmarked burials, the bodies missing arms and legs. Even worse are the scars you can’t see, the families still mourning murdered loved ones, the fear of the omnipresent military, the indigenous culture lost forever. While there was a truth commission, which implicated the military in 80% of all murders during the war, virtually no one responsible has been prosecuted. While economic growth has returned, inequality remains. While state sponsored violence has ceased, law and order is sorely lacking, and violence is still a part of everyday life in Guatemala. In the upcoming elections liberal candidates are facing off against former military officers, including Efraín Ríos Montt. While the liberal candidates promise social programs as the path to prosperity and lasting peace, the more conservative candidates promise law and order as the path to prosperity and peace, with strong overtones of past policies.

This photo was taken at a recent protest. Each person pictured was killed during the civil war. Many of their bodies were never found, buried in unmarked graves. Their families are still protesting, seeking answers about the thousands of desaparecidos and demanding justice for the tens of thousands more who were murdered, tortured, raped and displaced.

Eat Guacamole, Dance Salsa

I got invited out salsa dancing today, so I decided it was time to take a lesson. I found this amazing studio that offers private lessons for all of $7 an hour. I absolutely adore my teacher, Fernando. He’s older and well wizened, all of 5'4, and extremely good natured.

Apparently I swing dance enough to absolutely obliterate my salsa form, so we spend a lot of time working on the basic steps. Fernando is hilarious because he gets impatient, and is prone to yanking my body back into the correct position, or hitting my hips or knees back to where he wants them. While this may sound harsh, it’s exactly what I need to form the appropriate muscle memory.

The lesson proved essential, because the salsa scene here is hardcore. The weekend starts on Wednesday. All the locals and extrajaneros end up at the same three or four clubs. At the club we went to there was a group lesson, but they didn't actually teach any of the steps, since almost everyone knew them already. They just turned salsa steps into a crazy combination line dance and electric slide. The guys here are equally hardcore. Absolute gringa hunters. Fortunately, when they get too aggressive, Fernando will usually step in.

To Market, To Market, To Buy Somthing Strange

Today I set out to find a few necessities that got left behind, namely hand sanitizer and an umbrella. Rather than go the the modern, WalMart owned mall, I´ve been trying to do all my shopping local-style. Shopping here in Guatemala, as with the rest of Central America, is always an adventure.

Like banking and the bureaucracy, shopping is meant to maximize human contact. There are all of two supermarkets in the city, and they are sorely lacking. But there are literally hundreds of corner bodegas. Almost all of these stores and stalls sell exactly the same assortment of odds and ends. You would think phone cards, gum and Fanta were the equivalent oxygen and water. Prices are never marked and most stuff is behind the counter, so you have to ask. Of course, many products have regional names and there are tons of false cognates, so confusion reigns supreme. My favorite: ¨¿Este pan tiene preservativas?¨ Which translates to, ¨Does this bread have condoms?¨

Even better than the bodegas are the markets, where the sheer number and variety of stalls boggles the mind. So far, I´ve only been to everyday markets in Xela. On Mondays and Fridays the city swells with crowds of people from surrounding pueblos going to market, but I have yet to join them. The everyday market is already overwhelming, a little frightening and a little fun.

The fun are the fruits and vegetables. Outside the market there are always indigenous women selling their wares. Their brightly colored traje, rainbow umbrellas, and fruits and vegetables make up a motley melee of color. The produce is piled into precipitous mountains and and spills out of baskets on the street. The women sit and shoo the flies away, chatting and offering advice. There´s an amazing variety of stuff, including some alien produce which can´t be procured in the States. Pictured here are rambuesas, one of my new favorite foods.

There is also an immense assortment of dried goods. All sorts of beans, rices, chilies, and herbs sit in rows of big, upright bags, to be sold in itty-bitty increments. I love sinking my hand down into the bags, and feeling the beans surround my fingers, a la Amelie.

The frightening is the meat section, where huge hocks of cows, pigs and goats, as well as whole chickens, ducks and geese, hang exposed on big metal hooks. The meat is chopped with cleavers and machetes, which often appear to be rusting. Flies buzz about these stalls, and rat poison is always present on the floors. Needless to say, we make sure everything is well cooked.

To buy bread products here is more of a challenge. Guatemalans don´t bake. Stoves are gas, and the infrastructure is lacking, so gas has to be bought by the tank, and is very expensive. Instead of using their oven, my family keeps all of their cutlery and table linens in their oven. I met a woman who was trying to teach herself to bake. She sold me a chocolate chip cookies, it didn´t have any chocolate chips in it. When I enquired about their absence, she added the chocolate chips after the fact, pressing them into the top of the cookies. To get bread I usually go to the one major bakery chain here, called Xelapan. It´s pretty unremarkable, except for their pastries shaped like dragons. But by far the best bakery in town is run by a group of Mennonite missionaries. While I don´t usually approve of evangelism, these people are bringing cookies to the fine people Xela, and I can agree with that.

The more specialized stores and higher quality restaurants are a different matter. Businesses here tend to keep odd hours and open and close on a whim. Combined with the confusing calles, it´s hard to find the same store twice. I think of finding what you want in Xela as a bit like finding Narnia in a wardrobe: If you wish hard enough, what you want will eventually appear.

Dreaded Sunny Days, I'll Meet You at the Cemetery Gates...

On Monday afternoon, one of the maestras took a group of us to the local cemetery. I absolutely adore seeing cemeteries abroad and how other cultures deal with death. The cemetery in Xela dates from the 1600s, and is huge. It takes up a good 5% of the old city.

Inside there are tombs bigger than some of the smaller houses in Xela, housing ex-presidents, politicos, and other important Chivos. These tend to be ornate marble affairs with carved cherubs and angels. Unfortunately the cemetery is home to a lot of gangsters and grave robbers, so I did not see a single statue with a head. The smallest graves are little niches in a wall that you can rent for about a dollar a month. If you default on your debt, they take your bones and bury them somewhere else. There are thousands of them on the walls surrounding the cemetery, each one forming a single square in bizarre macabre checkerboard.

My favorite part is always the pauper’s cemetery, where the headstones are creatively constructed out of whatever was around at the time. Iron gates and furniture, random found rocks, or someone else’s headstone reused. It’s by far the brightest, which is saying something, since the popular colors for eternity here are bubblegum pink, sea foam green and canary yellow.

The cemetery very old and Xela's history is very colorful, so it lends itself to all sorts of ghost stories about the cholera and war victims. My favorite was the story of a gypsy girl, Vanuscha, who died in 1927. Supposedly she fell in love with a Spaniard, but his mother didn’t approve, and so she sent him back to Spain. Vanuscha supposedly died of a broken heart of a broken heart at seventeen. As a result, the local jovenes often write their requests for love on her tomb. These are particularly sweet, since their spelling and grammar are generally atrocious. But by far and away my favorite was ¨Vanuscha, please make Juan stop spitting on me.¨

I ♥ Camionetas!

On our venture to the beach we took a camioneta from Xela to Reu, and then from Reu to Champerico. At first I thought that camionetas in Guatemala were way better than those in other Central American countries, since I hadn’t seen a single animal on the bus, but not so. First, almost all bus stations are cheek to jowl with the city market, adding to the ambiance of absolute chaos, mixing the smells of diesel exhaust, decomposing veggies and animals. The terminal is filled with dozens of garishly painted school buses, often with images of Jesus or Mary, and religious slogans painted on the front, belching black fumes. As soon as you (a white person) step off the bus, someone will ask you where you want to go, and lead you, at a run, to the appropriate bus. Then you wait, on the bus, in the terminal, until the bus fills.

During this time, all sorts of people parade onto the bus, selling their wares. Often, beggars come onto the bus and tell their hard luck tales, hoping for a few quetzals. You also get Evangelical preachers on the bus. As a group, Guatemaltecos enjoy pomp and circumstance, and be very long winded and repetitive in speech. We had a minister on the bus from Reu to Champerico who went on for the better part of an hour, saying “Thanks to El Señor for guiding this bus, Thanks to El Señor for guiding these people, Thanks to El Señor for guiding this driver,” and “Open your eyes to El Señor, open your arms to El Señor, open your doors to El Señor,” and so on and so forth. Overlaid over all of this is music, be it ranchero, banda, reggaeton, or old US pop hits, blaring from the speakers strapped to the ceiling of the bus, and the sounds of the mass of people, packed three to a seat, babes in arms.

There’s no such thing as too many people on a camioneta. Each driver has an assistant, who hangs his head out the door to call the stops and spot passengers, packing the people in, collecting the fares, and climbing up on the roof of the bus for the luggage, usually while it is moving at breakneck speeds. As it turns out, in Guatemala people just wrap their chickens up, so that they fall asleep, for bus trips. Pigs and dogs are obliged to ride on the roof, along with all manner of vegetables, luggage and bikes.

The system is incredibly efficient and fills an important economic niche. It reuses old school buses (and pop hits) from the US and the 1980s, which would otherwise be on their last legs. It transports tons astounding numbers of people and their possessions, to the absolute ends of the earth, for about 70¢ an hour. You never have to wait long for a bus, because the empty buses race ahead to pick up passengers. The system also supports thousands of vendors and beggars. All of this is made possible by a lack of environmental and worker protections. It always amuses me that proponents of neoliberalism and deregulation are basically arguing for a camioneta system. Did Milton Friedman know what he was advocating?

Vamos a La Playa!

On Saturday, my friends Leslie, Lauren and I set off for Champerio, on the Pacific Coast and slightly south of Xela. The trip to the coast took about three hours. It is amazing how quickly the climate changes from the cold, mountainous environs of the Altiplano, where Xela is located, to the warm humidity of the gentle coastal slope. The coastal region is covered in large fincas. These used to be primarily banana, cotton and coffee fincas. Now they are primarily coffee fincas, as well as industrial shrimp farming stations.

Champerio is the coast reduced to its most basic elements: A strip of black sand, the strong rolling surf and a seemingly endless bleached white sky. At one end there is a rusting pier, which looks it’s about to be subsumed by the sea as well. The pier was once supposed to support major vessels, but now it barely supports the few local fishermen. Aldous Huxley once called this the most tedious beach on earth. Despite Huxley´s biting remarks, the beach does have sun and surf, which many of the wealthier people from the Altiplano are desperate for. The beach is lined with ranchos, the palm thatched shelters that most of us know as palapas, selling amazing seafood, ceviche, and liters of Gallo, the ubiquitous national beer, plus a couple of dark, dank hotels.

This is not the sort of place that many white people visit. The beach is populated with Ladinos, in all sorts of strange swimwear, from speedoes to tee-shirts and aquasox. There were also some Maya folk. The indigenous women tend to be very modest, so they will venture into the water fully dressed in their heavy huiples and long skirts. Many people here don’t swim very well, the surf is unbelievably strong because the beaches drop off sharply, and there was a single overweight lifeguard napping in the sand, so most people only wade into the water. The exception being some local kids who had taught themselves to surf. The lack of white people made Leslie, Laura and I and our bikinis quite the spectacle. Many Ladino men wanted to have their pictures taken with us in our bikinis. This made me feel quite a bit better about taking pictures Guatemaltecos. We also considered asking for a quetzal a photo.

Mi Famila Gonzales

I live on a side street on the outskirts of the old city, about ten minutes from the park and school. Like all the houses here, it´s constructed of concrete block, covered in stucco. It´s painted that sea foam green that we so often mock in the states. The house is centered around an open air courtyard, where laundry is usually hung to dry. To one side there’s a tiny kitchen. It is without running water, which is for the best, since tap water isn’t potable anyway. It just has a stove, an oven (where the family keeps their dishes), an odd assortment of tables and chairs and walls are plastered with decorations. Family effects, religious paraphernalia, and old advertisements make up an overwhelming assortment of color.

To the other side of the courtyard are the family’s quarters. Because my family is very private, I’ve never actually seen inside, but there appears to be three little bedrooms. On the third side is a bathroom. Houses here have water tanks, which must hold all the water for the day. While ours is sufficiently sized, the hot water heater cannot keep up. It’s a little forty-watt affair, taped to the shower head, with all sorts of exposed wires. This reduces my shower to a warm trickle or a freezing downpour, as well as an adventure in avoiding electrocution.

On the final side of the courtyard is a wall with a door in it. Behind the door is another dirt courtyard, where all the washing is done. The courtyard is also home to my very own menagerie; two bunnies, a duck, a parrot, and four cats. I struggle with these pets for two reasons: First, the word for bunny and a the word for bastard are very close together in the Spanish language. I often make this slip, so I´ve taken to explaining my pets to people in pantomime. Second, the cats spend most of their time on my corrugated tin roof. You think of cats as light footed, but they´re not. These cats are like elephants on my roof. Very frisky elephants that make some of the most unpleasant sounds on earth when they have sex at night.

Off of the courtyard are two bedrooms that they rent out to students, although I’m alone right now. My bedroom is bright pink, with Christmas themed decor. I have a desk, a chair, a bed and a dresser recycled from stateside in the 1950s. My mattress is a slab of soft foam, covered in home-sewn sheets and two blankets which appear to be made of brightly colored burlap.

I find this really difficult to wrap my head around. While I consider my current living situation an exciting experience, it’s my host family’s everyday reality. My adventure is their poverty. While they seem destitute to me, in central Xela terms, my family is lower-class, in terms of they’re state, they’re middle class, in Guatemalan terms, they’re well-off, and in global terms, they’re downright rich. Neither the mother, the father, nor the two grandparents have to work. I believe they live entirely off of the income from room rentals, and the father is working on finishing the second courtyard. They don’t seem as focused on material possessions and status symbols as many other families here and the daughter attends public school, which is uncommon for a single-child family in the city.

While my family is very sweet, I am relegated to another part of the house, and I only see the adults at mealtimes. Moreover, they are quite introverted. They don’t ask a lot of questions, they give single sentence answers to my questions and they’re completely apolitical. Only the daughter, Ana, is interested in talking to me, and she makes me insane. She is very interested in all of my stuff, and absolutely unable to take no for an answer. While I understand that the family is renting a room to me, and that it’s a business transaction, I find it very frustrating. For me, the whole point of a home stay is to encourage immersion, not just the discomfort and horrible food. As a result, I’m planning on changing families next week or the week after.

... To Remain Calm

¡Hubo un milagro! This morning one of the maestras came up and asked if I was Allison. She had found my passport in the street! She said that she found it halfway in between the bank and school, face down on a slate sidewalk of nearly the same color. Apparently it was hard to see, since she only found it when she stepped on it and slipped banana peel-style. The passport was only a little soggy, certainly good enough for government work. I could not believe my luck.

Tonight, just before dinner, there was an earthquake. At first I thought I was getting altitude sickness, but when I ran outside my duck was freaking out and it looked like there was going to be a tidal wave in his water dish. I ran into the courtyard, screaming "¡Hay un terremoto!" My host family thought it was hysterical. Apparently Guatemaltecos have two words for earthquake, tembla and terremoto. We had a tembla, a small shake and a common occurrence.

Update: It really was a terremoto, a 6.1, in Chiapas, Mexico, to the north.

Fuentes Georginas and the Fourth of July

This afternoon a group of us went to Fuentes Georginas, hot springs that are carved into the side of the mountains above the town of Zunil. To get there, we took a caminoneta through the town of Almolonga, known for its vegetable production. The town is astounding because every inch of arable land is under cultivation. The land is parcelled out into tiny, perfectly edged plots of every imaginable fruit and vegetable and many that didn’t exist even in my wildest dreams.

When the bus arrived in Zunil the downpour had started so we negotiated with a microbus driver to take us to the Fuentes instead of the usual pick up truck. This was slightly more expensive, but certainly for the best, since the road up to the Fuentes is steep and constantly switchbacking, driven at breakneck speeds. Our driver insisted on passing cars, trucks and even buses, making me feel like we were on a combination of a roller coaster, slip and slide and German autobahn.

The hot springs are unbelievable. They appear as if out of nowhere and run down and between rock faces covered with ferns, moss and climbing vines. They fall into a pool, which is finished on two sides, and whose bottom is paved with smooth stones. At the sources, the water is so hot it will burn you, but it quickly cools into steamy, sulfury goodness. The experience was even better because it was sprinkling while we swam. Next to the pools there’s a restaurant and bungalows for rent, but beyond that it’s only jungle, mountains and sky. The hot springs are as popular with Guatemaltecos for their medicinal qualities and the soothing setting as they are with the extrajaneros for soaking then chicken bus blues away.

We returned to Xela for our Fourth of July festivities, in the form of a pub crawl. As a gringa, someone bouth me a forty in almost every bar and by the end of the evening my head was swimming and we were all dancing to the Sublime, RHCP and other early ninetes pop that pervade all the bars' playlists.

On the walk home, the couple who lives up the block and I stumbled on a group little fourth of July fiesta. Fireworks are huge in Guatemala, for all occasions. The small ones, which only make big sounds, are called bombas, and are sold in every corner store for birthdays and such. But the gringos had fuegos, the fireworks more appropriate for the fourth, so most of the block was out to watch. These gigantic fireworks were being lit off in the center of a tiny street, with power lines, overhanging roofs and drying laundry all about. It was the absolute opposite of Estadoudinese firework safety. The grand finale was an entire case of bombas. Bombas come pinned together in a paper sleeve, so if you leave them attached each one lights the next. These bombas stretched all the way down the block, and when lit, the sounded like a 2,001 gun salute. After all the noise and smoke everyone stumbled home to sleep.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Teaches Us...

This afternoon I attempted to change money at the bank. The bank itself is an experience. Every bank, major store and piece of important infrastructure has armed guards. These fellows like to flirt with the gringas and they tend to treat the barrels of their machine guns as extensions of their arms, gesturing here and there with them. Needless to say, this does not put the ladies at ease.

The wait at the bank, as with other institutions, is always extensive. Everything takes forever. I've developed a theory about this. I think that the overabundance of bureaucracy in Guatemala is intentional. It’s the opposite of the States. Everything is inefficient in order to maximize human contact. A half-hour wait at the bank is an opportunity to meet the next person in line and hear their life story, which most people will gladly give.

The bureaucracy here also seems to stem from a sense of national self-importance. For instance, institutions here are also very gun-ho about stamping. They stamp every single document with great zeal. At Celas Maya, every other page of each textbook is stamped with the school seal. Not only does the bureaucracy create jobs within organizations, it creates jobs for bureaucracy experts outside the organizations. People hire these experts for simple tasks, like registering cars and marriages, because otherwise they can take weeks.

Just as I stepped outside, the three o'clock afternoon deluge began. The rain here is nothing like that of Seattle. It begins abruptly, forcing everyone to duck for cover. Is has such intensity that you think the sky is going to fall down with the weight of the water. But it ends just as abruptly as it begins, everyone returning to their business. The sidewalks here are generally around three feet tall, and after the rain you understand why. The streets become rivers. This is a blessing because it washes all the garbage and excreta away, leaving the city feeling fresh. It’s also a curse, because, just like Seattle, cars drive through the puddles that accumulate at corners, resulting in a fantastic arc of water and an extremely wet passerby.

Eventually, wet and wary, I made it home. As unloaded by bag, I realized that my passport, which I needed to change money, was nowhere to be found. I turned the bag inside out and my room upside down looking for it, but it was gone. When I left the bank, I stuck my passport in the top of my bag, and velcroed and clipped it shut. Then I took off running across the park. Somewhere along the way it must have fallen out. Needless to say, I was a little hysterical. I retraced my steps to no avail. After an hour or so of hyperventilating, I resigned that it was lost, and resolved to stay calm and call the embassy tomorrow. I became more upset about the pretty passport picture, the assortment of stamps and the need to spend a day in Guate than the ability to actually reenter the United States.

Of Stoner Churches and Evil Saints

Today was my first day of school. My maestra, Karola, has insisted we do a review for the first week, which is sometimes helpful, sometimes painful. However, to my delight, she believes that I’m quite far ahead, and should be very fluent in seven weeks! I’m having no trouble making myself understood to anyone. I actually speak Spanish! So it’s the finer points of grammar, the obscure tenses, and vocabulary for me.

This afternoon a group of us went on an adventure to a small neighbouring pueblo, San Andres Xecul (Shay-cool). It’s known for its intensely painted church, with climbing vines, flowers, lions, tigers, monkeys and Saints all competing for space on the facade. It appears abruptly around a bend in the road, the veritable technicolor dreamcoat of churches. It´s hard to fathom that the it was built by serious Spanish priests, rather than acid stoners.

San Andres is a primarily Quiche town. (There are 23 indigenous groups in Guatemala, all descendants of the Mayans. The Quiche, Mam, Kakchiquel and Kekchi are the largest groups.) So we spent a bit of time asking around for a local idol, San Simon. Some of my traveling companions were primarily blue-eyed and blonde, which lead the Quiche children to believe they were witches with evil eyes. Their inability to speak Spanish and fake Mayan attire, peddled to that type of tourist, certainly didn’t help the situation. Eventually, we located San Simon in a home in the hills high above the city.

San Simon, or Maximon, and origianlly Alvarado, is part Mayan idol, part Catholic saint. In centuries past the Catholic Church tried to assimilate the Mayan population. The local people found the church highly compatable with thieran> own traditions, and decided it would be easier to accept it than to resist. Mayan religion was originally thought to be polytheistic, with practitioners worshipping the everything in the natural world. In reality, Mayan religion is montheistic, with practitioners worshipping the natural world with many names for one God. Catholic saints are simply seen as alternative manifestations.

As I understood the Quiche priest´s explaination, San Simon is the Mayan analouge of Judas. The creation story is unable to unfold without him. As a result, San Simon is often refered to as the evil saint. He´s supposedly very popular with prostitutes, and for black magic. People often offer him alchol or tobacco. The ashes of his cigar, which is kept constantly lit, are supposed to preform miracles. San Simon was situated in a small dark room, crowded with San Simon, pictures of Jesus and other Saints, people praying, and constantly burning candles. He was dressed in traditional traje, a cowboy hat and boots, as is in style here. As one other extrajanero explained it to me, San Simon is like the Van Morrison of saints; a little bad, but all for the best.

When we arrived, the Quiche priest was performing a ritual. He had built a fire, with all sorts of herbs and plants, in front of a cross and a small, carved idol. He said a prayer over the fire, and then gestured over it with fireworks called bombas, which are very common in Guatemala. According to Rigoberta Menchu´s book, fireworks have been a celebratory part of Quiche culture since gunpowder was introduced. Then he said a prayer, crossed a small Quiche girl and her mother with the fireworks, and lit them off in the courtyard. Each gesture and word seemed to have incredible weight, and it´s hard to describe it without trivializing it. Moreover, it´s generally inappropriate to take pictures of the people and their rituals. You´ll just have to believe me when I say that it´s incredibly beautiful and that I desperately want to share it with you.

It´s Pronounced Shay-La, Kinda Like Shangri-La

Today I paid for my room ($4) and set out to find some breakfast (coffee and pastry, $1) and wander the city. Downtown Xela is perfect for the purpose, with a number of big parks for strolling and lots of friendly people. Everyone says buenas, and if you look confused people ask if you need help.

The first person I spoke to here was an older indigenous woman who stopped me on the street. ¿Estas soltera? she asked. When I replied yes, she launched into a laundry list of people who could be accompanying me. ¨Where are your parents? Where are your grandparents? Where is your husband? Where are your children? Where is your teacher? Where is your boss? I tried to explain that being alone was part of my grand adventure, but she was having none of it. It was incredibly sweet. She left me with an equally long list of advice about street food, taxis and personal hygiene, and away I went.

The only unfriendly parts are the catcalls and cars. The catcalls are an incessant and unintelligible mix of Spanish and English. Every once in a while, someone will lean out of a car window, or over on their bicycle, and touch me. I aways wonder what the men expect from all this unpleasant attention. Me to reply ¨Ay, Papy¨? It´s another manifestation of machista culture, meant to annoy rather than to attract, but it´s already getting to me.

As for the cars, it´s a bizarre mix of new and old. Sputtering, rusted out models 80s and early 90s drive in droves here. However, the age of the cars dosen´t seem to stop the owners from pimping their rides with tinted windows and decals. and occasionally, chrome mufflers and rims. There are also all manner of microbuses, a misnomer for minivans modified to hold fifteen to twenty passengers. They speed down the streets, with a kid hanging out the front window, yelling the names of the destinations. All of the drivers here, even the ones with higher end cars (Hyundais and Toyotas), appear completely oblivious, and yet in a rush almost inconceivable for Latin America.

In the afternoon, I went to the school to meet my host family. The school itself is sublime. It’s in a canary yellow colonial building on a corner, with tall shuttered windows and brightly tiled floors. Inside is a courtyard full of bursting tropical flowers, a defunct fountain, and an abundance of baby doves. All the pairs of students and teachers, some twenty, sit around it.

Unfortunately, there had been an error, and my reservation had been lost. I had no family or teacher. Moreover, there were no administrators at the school, since it was Sunday. However, the secretary, Reynaldo, did an amazing job straightening things out. Within a few hours, the director of the school had been called and both a family and a teacher had been found for me. This was a veritable milagro in Guatemalan terms. So far my family is charming. It consists of a couple, Marisol and Lionel, two of their parents, Oscar and Ana, and their daughter, Ana, who is nine. I’m still getting a feel for my family, so I’ll certainly have more to report on the issue later.