I, Indiana Jones

Today, I continued my archaeological adventuring on my own. I traveled some two hours east, paralleling the coast, to the town of Santa Lucia Cotzumalguapa. Santa Lucia is known for two archaeological sites and two museums, El Baul, Museo El Baul, El Bilbao and Museo Cultural Cotzumalguapa.

Unfortunately, most all of the archaeological sites are on privately owned plantations, and preserving the area's archaeological heritage is not a major priority for the government or the finca owners. Many of the monuments have been moved from their in situ locations to company museums. This limits access to the monuments, which modern day Maya worshippers would otherwise visit. At the sites where the monuments were left in situ alcohol, wax and seeds are ritually offered on a regular basis, staining the tops of the statues, as pictured here. Most of the ancient city has yet to be unearthed, still under sugarcane fields. It was incredibly frustrating to walk over giant mounds of earth, knowing that the knolls were actually buildings. I was tempted to start excavating them myself on the spot.

Because so little has been unearthed there is little information available about the sites. My information was gleaned from my illiterate cab driver, a little kid, Wikipedia and a Lonely Planet guidebook. Talk about academic excellence. My advance apologies to any professors who may be reading this.

As I understand it the area was first occupied as a trading hub by the Pipil peoples. The Pipil currently live in coastal El Salvador. They are related to modern day Mayans and claim Mexican ancestry. The height of their society here, when all the building was done, was the Late-Classic period, from 500CE to 700CE. The Pipil primarily grew cacao, the currency of the day. Their city spanned 10 square kilometers, including dwellings, administrative buildings, obsidian and jade workshops, saunas and a ball court. The Pipil had a far more detailed, ornate and flowery style than the Mayans. For instance they used vines, unfurling out of mouths, to indicate speech. Their figures are slightly more pot-bellied, reminiscent of the Olmec style. However, Mayan influence is apparent in the inclusion of long-count calendar dates. The same animal motifs appear in all the monuments in the area. Jaguars and frogs were most prominent in the Pipil art.

El Baul, pictured here, and El Bilbao are quite a way off the beaten track. I adored this, because it means I was the only tourist in town. However, it also meant that I had to convince local children to guide me to the sites (for Q1, or 15 cents). However, their guide services did not include security, and they insisted that I bring my machete to widen the path and dissuade would-be thieves. You can see how I felt very Raiders of the Lost Ark, no?

Ally the Archaeologist

After my crazy backpacking adventures, I arrived home to find that my friend John, who was supposed to be joining me this week, would be unable to come. Instead I convinced my friend Leslie that she should come on some of my costal adventures with me. First on our list, the archeological site Tak’alik Ab’aj, or Standing Stone.

Leslie and I set out from Xela this morning. We took an hour and a half long bus ride to the city of Retalhultu. The bus ride usually takes an hour, but we were delayed by a political protest, complete with burning tires blockading the streets. Then we took a taxi to the nearby town of El Asintal. Finally, we paid a fellow with a pickup truck Q4, about 50 cents, to take us the remaining distance to the site.

The site was amazing. It covers some 6.5 square kilometers, with 83 buildings and 270 stone monuments. Unfortunately, like almost everything else in Guatemala, much of the land has been sold to private enterprises, and the site is spread over a number of fincas, as well as the national park, so we weren’t able to see all of it. More sites are still being excavated. We got to see an archeological dig, where they were excavating with pick-axes, brushes, sieves and the like. They had built a structure over the dig to protect it, cordoned off quadrants with string and were numbering individual stones. Tromping through the jungle and watching the excavations, I was sad that I didn’t have a pith hat to wear.

The site is strategically located in a mountain pass, and would have been part of an important trading route between Pre-Colombian Mexico, El Salvador and other parts of Guatemala. Cacao, salt, quetzal feathers, pyrite, obsidian, and jade were all traded through Tak’alik Ab’aj. There are also large amounts of igneous rock at the site, which was evidently quarried near Tajumulco, more than a hundred miles away.

The site was first occupied by the Olmecs in the Middle Pre-Classic period, between 800 and 400BCE. The Olmecs terraced the land with giant stone staircases, erected large stone steale above altars which were used for offerings and sacrifices and carved squat, pot-bellied sculptures featuring were-jaguars, crocodiles, frogs and owls. The Olmec culture was gradually subsumed to by the Mayan culture in the Late Pre-Classic period, from about 400BCE to 250CE. You can see the change in architectural style, as the sculptures become more detailed and lifelike, the incorporation of writing and a change in astronomical orientation. The Olmec oriented their observatories towards the Big Dipper, whose trapezoidal shape reminded them of the sacred jaguar's mouth towards. The Maya oriented their observatories two degrees east, towards the star Eta Draconious, which is extremely bright shows up in the same place every year, making it an ideal calendar star.

Around 250CE, in the Early Classic period, the society appears to have undergone some sort of collapse. There was no new construction and the population quickly contracted. Some statutes were defaced, indicating armed conflict. This collapse predates that of many other Mayan city states. It appears that a reorientation of trading routes, to favor Eastern sites like Quiriga and Coban led to Taka’lik Ab’aj’s decline. However, the city was not completely destroyed and in the Late Classic period, between 600 and 900CE, Tak’alik Ab’aj experienced a revival, where many of the mutilated monuments were reerected.

The park also included a little zoo. The zoo had jungle owls, monkeys, pizotes, turtles, mountain warthogs, an ocelot, and, best of all, a raccoon. Since raccoons are uncommon here, they're often kept in zoos or as pets. Makes me feel good about that rabies shot I got!

Todosantoseno Triage

On Monday morning I woke up at Don Alberto's house with something in my eye. Chile? Salt? Volcanic rock? Small animal? I have no idea what it was, but I have never known so much pain! I took out my contact lens, to no comfort. My guide offered to poke his finger into my eye in an attempt to extract the particle, but I declined.

There are no roads from where we were staying to San Todos Santos Cuchumatanes, the nearest town with a hospital. As such, my guide and I literally ran the last eight miles out to Todos Santos, me whimpering pathetically practically the entire way. I'm sure the countryside was amazingly beautiful, but I was in so much pain that I paid it absolutely no mind.

However, going to a Guatemalan hospital was an important and informative cultural experience. Upon seeing the line, filled with babies screaming, bleeding people and all manner of broken elderly folk, stretching around the block, for I opted for the private clinic. There, they chard me Q250 ($35) up front and found me a doctor in under five minutes. While I was pleased with the service, it was a painful reminder of the stratification of society and access to medical care here, and in the States for that matter.

The hospital was exactly as I would imagine hospitals were in the States in the 1940s. The exam room was sparsely furnished, with gray metal and green vinyl fixtures. There was a strong scent of alcohol and anesthetic. My nurse was dressed in a white dress and cap, with a little red cross on the cap and sleeve. Since I couldn't see very well, I closed my eyes and imagined the scene in black and white. I half expected to walk into the hallway and see Ricky Ricardo, pacing, waiting for Lucy's baby to be born.

As for medical care, they decided to anesthetize my eye and flush it out with water with a six gauge syringe. Needless to say, it's a little unnerving to open your eye and see a syringe just millimeters away. My eye felt much better afterwards, although I still couldn't see.

I stumbled around Todos Santos half-blind, blending in suspiciously well with the stumbling half-drunks. As in the States, the indigenous people here are incredibly prone to alcoholism. By the end of market day, its hard to make your way around the unconscious campesinos, machetes in hand, lying in the street.

In addition to being impressed with the Todosantosenos' drunkenness, I was was very taken by their dress. Here the men's costumes are more eye-catching than their female counterparts. They wear these thick red and orange striped trousers, with an heavy black sash tucked through the belt that hangs between the legs. Purple shirts, with red details, were most popular. However, due to my temporary blindness, I didn't get to see too much and I was unable to take any photos, so this photo comes to you courtesy of Corbis.

Ally, Otherwise Known as Osh

When I awoke, at 5am Xexocom had an awesome surprise for me. The entire town was standing around when I emerged from the school, still sleepy-eyed and shivering in the sub-zero cold. Apparently the mayor was so excited to meet me that he had invited everyone to gather in the town square. The children, and some of the adults absolutely stared at me, and some of the children timidly stepped out to touch me. Other pointed and cried "Osh!" which is apparent Ixil for "White Woman!" I've been called gringa more ways than I can count now. And I felt it, as the tallest person in the entire town of fifty people. I was already somewhat sleepy and stunned, standing there like a spectacle, when the school children, all dressed uniform, filed into a line and began to sing the Guatemalan national anthem. Once I recovered from the shock of the serenade, I thanked them profusely, and as a token of my appreciation, gave out pretty much everything in my pack that I didn’t need. Thank goodness I brought plenty of stickers, and band-aids were equally popular when I ran out, but I can’t think of any gift I think would have been appropriate after such an incredible experience.

The hiking was absolutely amazing as well. The scenery was breathtaking, both figuratively and literally. The Cuchumatantes are, after all, the Sierras of Guatemala. We continued to climb out of Xexocom, making our way up steep, stone pathways, through wizened stands of pine trees. We hiked hard for three hours before the trail sudden stopped climbing, flattening off into a high plateau. All of a sudden, it was as if we’d been transported to the rural Wales or the far reaches of Scotland. Intensely green grass and peat covered the ground, punctuated by granite boulders so big it seemed as if they must have grown out of the ground they sat on. Icy streams crisscrossed the plain, cutting deep gullies in the frozen ground.

We continued across the stunning, stark plateau through the most of the morning. Just as I was beginning to believe it was the most desolate, isolated spot on earth, we saw sheep, and then a soccer field, lovingly cleared, complete with a goal constructed of sticks, and finally, a tiny town! It was an honest to goodness hamlet, with all of three houses, pictured here and called Chuatuj. Only the children were at home, and they hid from me! As they explained to my guide, their mothers were out herding sheep and tending gardens, while their fathers were working in larger towns. We sat outside and ate lunch, beans and tortillas and eventually some of the older kids came outside to share our food and sell us a few potatoes, still hot from the fire, which were welcome warmth for my cold hands.

After lunch we continued on for another few hours, until we reached this sign, which struck me as hilarious. It’s in the absolute middle of nowhere, accessible only by a day and a half’s walk. It must have been both heavy and expensive. Moreover, most of the people who pass it can’t read and have lived in these towns their entire lives. If you are here and you don’t know where you are, you have a serious problem. A few hours later we crossed through Chortiz, an equally tiny town, and began descending a steep trail into a river drainage.

We spent the rest of the afternoon climbing in and out of various river drainages, scrambling along the hillsides, along various thoroughfares that were called roads, but in the rainy season could only be described as mud chutes. On a number of occasions I slipped and fell, sliding hundreds of feet down the hills, getting covered in dirt and dung. While I struggled along in my Chacos, the campesinos sped by me in their rubber boots, barely concealing their laughter at my falls, which I must admit, were pretty funny. A number of people with horses also passed us. I was rather disturbed to see the pack animals, the area’s only source of supplies from the outside world, laden with Coca-Cola, Fanta, Chicky, a chocolate cracker, and Guatemala’s generic Cheetos. Way to go cultural imperialism!

Eventually we made our way out of the mountains and into the town of San Nicolas, where we were to spend the night. San Nicolas is much less indigenous, more ladino community, so I wasn’t such a spectacle. Our hosts were Don Alberto and his family. They’re sheep farmers, but they also ran the general store, so I sat in the store and talked to just about everyone in town. before turning in early, utterly exhausted from my incredible day.

Acul and the Army Aldeas

When I woke in the morning, Nebaj seemed just as exhausted as I was. I found a hearty hiking hangover breakfast of fried bananas, black beans, eggs, queso fresco and tortillas at a comedor and set out to meet my guide.

He, however, was nowhere to be found. I had made a reservation, but the office was closed and none of the neighbors knew anything of it. I stood outside, frustrated and flustered, unsure of what to do next. The snafu set me back about four hours, but eventually I found another service, albiet a little more expensive.

My guide Paco and I set out from the parque central. As we walked towards the outskirts of town the street turned to dirt road, and then to a stony, muddy track, as we wound through the farms. The path was impossibly steep, straight up the side of a mountain. As I was huffing and puffing my way up I was passed by quite a few campesinos, carrying quarter-chords of firewood on their heads, or herding their cows up the hill at a run. After about three hours of hiking we reached a pass, where we could look out over the countryside. There was nothing but forest and a few scattered cornfields, for as far as the eye could see.

In the valley on the other side of the pass was Acul. Acul is significantly larger than the other aldeas in the Ixil region because it was a model community. During the Civil War, in the early eighties, the army created what they called model communities, or development poles. In the Ixil region, where I was hiking, the army pursued a scorched earth policy. They sought to starve out the guerillas by stomping out their support, essentially squelching entire communities. As Efrain Rios Montt once said, they had to "Drain the pond to find the fish." To that end, the army would raze entire villages. They would burn and loot farms, often massacring residents and forcing others to flee as refugees. Those who remained were rounded up and relocated to model communities, making one larger town where there were once many distinct towns. There, the army could control the population and conscript the men and boys, as well as securing strategic regions. My guide, who lived in Acul, told me a little bit about life there.

Life was highly regimented. Wake at 4am, for flag raising and a patriotic speech. Breakfast at 5am, two tortillas and beans. Work at 5:15. Educational hour at 12, military exercises for men, cooking and health classes for women. Lunch at 1pm, two tortillas and beans. Work at 1:15. Political reeducation at 6pm, singing of patriotic songs. Dinner at 8pm, two tortillas and beans. Family time at 8:15. Bed at 9. Repeat. It all seems very pinko for a political regime premised on fighting communism to me.

Another big part of life in Acul were civil patrols and conscription. All adult men were forced to spend one day a week in a civil patrol. Those who didn't were branded guerrillas, often forced to flee, kidnapped and tortured, or killed. Because the army didn't trust the residents of Acul, who might have guerilla tendencies, they under trained and equipped them. The men were forced to patrol and scout for the army and to act as decoys for guerillas ambushes, armed with only machetes. The army encouraged patrollers to be particularly brutal, to prove their allegiance with the army. They would often force patrollers to kidnap, torture, rape or kill community members suspected of being communists, who were generally just more educated, organized, or assertive citizens. These events were public spectacles, designed to ensure obedience to the army. More often than not, the victims of the victims were friends or family members.

Boys were conscripted into the army for two year terms at the age of twelve. The army would arrive, unannounced, in schools, to collect the children in pick-up trucks. In other communities, families would hide their sons, or send them away. In Acul, this was impossible, because the army knew who everyone was, and where they were at all times.

After Acul, we hiked an hour to Xexecoup, and another hour to Xexecoum, beyond that. (Correct spellings unknown. My guide was completely illiterate.) Xexecoup and Xexecoum were both more typical highland towns, a dozen or so tiny tin-roofed houses scattered around corn fields and cattle enclosures. As a result of their experiences with the military and their scorched earth policy, they were very suspicious of outsiders, and especially me. None of the villagers wanted to sell us food, or give us a place to stay. Eventually, we convinced them to sell us dinner. After rice, beans and tortillas, seeing that I spoke Spanish and ate my tortillas with salt and chile, they decided that we were trustworthy and let us stay in the schoolhouse pictured above. (Granted, that was on the floor, with a single blanket, no electricity and extra bats!)

A Party is a Party in All Parts

After the hike from Xela to Lago de Atitlan, I left San Pedro for the pueblo of Nebaj, fifly miles north, in the Ixil Triangle region. From Nebaj, I'm planning to hike the same distance I'd hiked in the days before, plus another twenty miles, across the Cordillera de los Cuchumatanes, the Sierras of Guatemala, back to Todos Santos Cuchumatanes, and then to take a bus back to Xela, completing a big circle.

Getting to Nebaj was an adventure in it of itself. The ride required a camioneta, microbus and pickup truck over six hours. It was getting dark and there was a driving rainstorm as I rode the last hour into Nebaj, on a steep, winding and bone-jarringly rutted dirt road, in the back of a pickup truck.

Because Nebaj is a very small and traditional town, I was terrified that I would arrive to find all the windows dark, everyone already in bed. Imagine my delight when approaching town I could hear bits of banda and ranchera music, punctuated by fireworks. When we rounded the corner to town, we could see a ferriswheel, and the town's annual fair in full swing. I felt like they were putting it on just for me!

However, because it was feria, there were no rooms for rent anywhere. I must have asked at every hotel in town. There were absolutely no white people around to ask for advice, or to share a room. I couldn't even find someone who would rent me a blanket and some floorspace. Fortunately, just I was beginning to get desperate, I bumped into a blonde girl. "English !?!" I asked her. As it turned out she was a student in Vancouver, BC, was super sweet and was willing to share her room with me. We romped around the central park for a bit, watching the fireworks, mingling with the locals, dancing to the marimba, drinking Gallo and sampling the local tamales.

Many of the campesinos from the surrounding countryside also came out to enjoy the festivites. Everyone was strutting around, dressed in their Sunday best. The local dress, calle traje, here is breath-taking. As in other parts of Guatemala, the women wear elaborately embroidered blouses called huipiles and skirts called cortes, held up with wide belts called fajas, covered in symbols that represent Mayan mythology and the local flora and fauna. Outsiders often think that the patterns are random, but in reality, they require incredible effort and skill. The planning, hand dyeing, and weaving on a backstrap loom require hundreds of hours of work. A good huipile will cost at least Q500 ($65). Thus, women generally only have a few and they will last for decades.

While there are some constants to traje, it is also highly reigonal. Indigenous people can often identify where other indigenous people come from just by looking at thier clothes. This was a terrible problem during the Civil War, as army officials identified certain areas as enemy zones. Wearing traditional traje, which is one of the most important parts of the indigenous identity, was like being branded a target. When homes were burned or looted, all of the women's traje were lost. Replacing them would take years and in the meantime women would be forced to wear rags.

In Nebaj, the traje is generally green, with an especially elaborate huipil. Most indigenous outfits include a shawl, called a rebozo, which doubles as a baby wrap, a knapsack and a headcovering for hot days. In Nebaj, the rebozo was green or maroon, striped, with white stitching of stars and flowers stretching across the width and tassels on each end. The women were also wearing their hair up, braided under bundles of thread with pom-poms on either end called cintas.

Unfortunately, because Nebaj is a very small town with few tourists, entirely indigenous, and was particularly hard-hit by the Civil War, people are very wary of outsiders. The women were absolutely unwilling to have their pictures taken, which is understanable. I had to settle for buying a shawl and sharing this picture, which is from Corbis.

To the Lake!

We got the clients up at 3am and herded them up into the hills over town to watch the sunrise. Unfortunately, the clients were kind of grouchy and the sunrise wasn’t very good. Fortunately, I had purchased a few watermelons in Xipiran and hidden them in my pack. They were a welcome surprise when we sliced them up with breakfast and I was glad to be unburdened by them!

By that point the sun was high in the sky and we began hiking along the hills that ring the lake and up to La Naríz, a little peak overlooking the lake. From there we descended into San Juan la Laguna, where we went for a little swim and had lunch at a local women’s cooperative. The women weave, grow an awesome kitchen garden and raise some sheep and goats. I could have easily have hung out there for a lot longer, I so enjoyed sitting, talking and working with the women. I want to be a farmer when I grow up!

From there it was a short hike into San Pedro. San Pedro is one of those quintessential ex-pat towns, full of hippies young and old, and lifelong language students who don’t actually speak any Spanish. We left the clients to soak up the bong-smoking, bongo-bashing bohemian atmosphere, while the guides and kids caught a combi back to Santa Lucía Utatlán. We parted ways there, and I headed north to Nebaj, while the boys headed back to Xela.

Highland Hiking, Hangin' Out

We had breakfast in a comedor off of the market square. I love Guatemalan breakfast. It consists of tortillas, eggs, beans, queso fresco and black coffee. Unfortunately, although Guatemala is one of the world’s greatest coffee producers, almost all coffee is instant. Good coffee is grown for export only. Even then, most of it fetches pretty pathetic prices. Starbucks, the single biggest buyer, forces prices to exploitatively low levels.

In the morning we hiked along the valley floor, through farms and a few small villages. It drizzled off and on, Seattle style, but it was so beautiful we didn’t pay it much mind. We climbed out of the valley though the forest, on a maze of footpaths and game trails. While the locals navigated the trails with heavy loads and no hesitation at the forks, our clients struggled up the hill and we had to keep a close eye on them, lest they get lost. The boys were a huge help, each one sticking with one of the slower hikers, taking some of their stuff and showing them the way. Eventually the trail emerged on a high ridge, where I took this photo, before we plunged back down again.

In the afternoon we followed a river through the valley, zig-zagging across it again and again. Some of our female clients exemplified gringa stereotypes, taking off their shoes at every single crossing, timidly hopping from rock to rock, occasionally falling in. Again, the boys were a huge help, finding sturdy sticks and ferrying the girls’ packs across the biggest fords. Just as we were climbing out of the river valley it began to rain in earnest, soaking us to the skin. It’s a steep, slippery ascent up to the road and many of the clients were already wet from the river, so Xiprian, or Santa Clara La Laguna was a welcome sight.

This Quetzaltrekkers trip has been staying with the same family for years now. The mother, Doña Ana, had warm water for washing up and a hot dinner waiting when we arrived. Afterward, the father, Don Pedro, played guitar and he and the guides sang folk songs in Spanish. Before bedding down we built a fire in the courtyard. We roasted marshmallows and Abe read us some of the new Harry Potter, which he’s been hoarding and been hauling around, although it’s crazy heavy.

Just a Leisurely Jaunt Through Guatemala

This weekend is my last at Quetzaltrekkers. While it's hard to leave so soon, I'm also totally excited for my last trek. Instead of Tajulmulco, I’m helping guide a hike from Xela to San Pedro, on Lado de Atitlan, with Fydor and Abe. We’re also taking a few of our favorite older boys from the orphanage along, as a treat for them and a break for their house parent.

The trip actually started at Casa Argentina, with a walk to the bus station. From there we took a camioneta up to Xecam, a tiny town high in the hills above Xela. The road was so steep, rock and winding I was amazed the bus could pass, but glad to be riding. Xecam was little more than a few houses, a church, a school, cornfields and sheep. So we set out, with still more climbing to be done. We wove in and out of the forest and people’s fields, always ascending. By midday it was clear that a few of our less fit clients weren’t going to make it, so we were forced to send them home at the first road crossing. From there we hiked up onto a ridge overlooking the Santa Maria valley and had lunch.

In the afternoon we descended quickly through the cloud forests and into the corn fields around Xetinamit. Eventually we ended up on a winding road, where we could let all the clients and the kids hike ahead and hung back, stopping for a swim in the river and to smoke. As we were rambling down the road, singing Cielito Lindo, this man overtook us and started singing along with us. Then he was gone as quickly as he came. It was soo cool.

The road ended in Ixtahuacan, or Nueva Santa Catarina. During the civil war it, like many other indigenous villages, was renamed. As the war went on the town, like many others, was split, with some in support of the military, others in support of the guerillas and still more stuck in the middle. Eventually the town divided in two, Viejo and Nuevo Santa Catarina, and the two still haven’t reconciled. Despite its horrible history, small and indigenous Ixtahuacan was very welcoming. They let us camp in their school for a small donation and all the kids came out to play soccer with us in the square.

As a special treat, we take interested clients for a temescal, a traditional Mayan sauna. It’s an amazing, if somewhat unusual experience. First, the sauna structure is itself absolutely tiny. You have to get on your hands and knees to crawl through the doorway and inside it’s just tall enough for someone small, like an indigenous Guatemalan man or a western woman, to sit. When we three guides were all inside, it was like something out of a Marx brothers movie. Once inside, you seal the entrance, so that the warm air escapes. In one corner there’s a fire so hot that you have to switch places to avoid sitting near too long. You pour water on the fire to create steam and put copal in it to clear the lungs and the head. Once you’re warm and sweating, you bathe by pouring buckets of icy water on yourself, a pleasant shock to the system. This particular temescal was constructed of concrete masonry units, coated in layers of soot

Temescals are very important in indigenous culture. They’re an efficient way to bathe in extremely cold highland weather, as you only need to heat a small space and many people can share it at once. They’re also important in indigenous medicine, used for all sorts of infirmities. Traditionally they were used for spiritual cleansing rituals too, after battles and before rituals. When indigenous couples are married, the temescal is often one of first things they build, sometimes with the help of the community. When their children are born, the parents may then bury the placenta in the temescal.

I don’t know about burying placentas, but the sauna certainly was soothing before bed.

Hogar, Sweet Hogar

As I mentioned before, I've begun guiding with a local NGO called Quetzaltrekkers. It is absolutely awesome. I love the work and I love my coworkers, but the best part are the organizations we support. This is the sort of thing I could see myself doing for the rest of my life. I am happy and I am at home.

All of the profits from our treks support three organizations. Escuela de la Calle, Primeros Pasos and an orphanage. Escuela de la Calle serves who wouldn’t otherwise be able to attend school, with a full range of services, like hot lunches, health care and after school activities. Primeros Pasos is clinic on the outskirts of Xela that sees kids and adults and does home and school visits.

My favorite is our orphanage. We have anywhere from eight to eighteen kids, from four to eighteen years old. Right now we have twelve, ranging from six to fourteen, ten boys and two girls. There's only one adult in the house, so the older kids, especially the girls, end up taking care of the younger ones a lot. The Quetzaltrekkers staff tries to go over to the house a couple of nights a week, to have dinner, play futbol, help with homework and just hang out.

The kids seem so happy and full of life, especially considering what a hard time most of them have had. Very few of them are actually orphans. Most of them were abandoned by a single parent or another family member when times got really tough. Some ran away when their parent's alcoholism became incapacitating, or abuse unbearable. Some of the kids do have caring parents who are concerned with their welfare, and have sent to live at the orphanage in town so they can attend school, or so that the parents can seek work in the United States and send money home for a better future.

These two little monkeys are Julian and Eduardo. And while letting them sit on my lap while I read them stories may have given me lice, they are what makes my life meaningful.

On a totally tangential note, I find organizational naming practices here hilarious. Organizations, especially governmental organizations, are given long descriptive names so that there is no doubt about their purpose. Then, because the names are so long and hard to say, they're generally converted back to acronyms. The acronyms usually bear no resemblance to the original name, or clue to the organization's function, i.e. Escuela de la Calle, the Street School, becomes EdelaC.

Ameobas Plot Against Ally!

I've been a little sick of late. I'm actually amazed that I'd avoided it so far, considering my fondness for street food and the infirmities of my fellow students. However, I am protected by an abundance of vaccines and a stomach of steel, developed over years of eating dirt. Unfortunately, my super human powers were unable to protect me from myself, as I absentmindedly drank a glass of tap water yesterday. I blame my amazing immunity for getting my gastrointestinal guard down!

My family host family is super sweet, but kind of stressful, every time I get sick. (I had a cold a couple of weeks ago.) They're well-educated, but their understanding of germ theory is sorely lacking. They believe almost all illnesses are related to changes in altitude, temperature, being out in the rain and not eating enough. While they may be wrong about how I got sick, their remedies are amazing. At first I was skeptical, because they have no scientific basis, and limited sapidity. But as it turns out, drinking disgusting mushes made of rice, corn and random herbs can do wonders.

It's a good thing, because taking over the counter medicine here is akin to doing crack at home. A trip to the pharmacy is hilarious. First, you have to play this crazy game of medical charades to explain your infirmity to the pharmacist. None of the packages are labeled. The pills are all mixed together in their blister packs. So you have to go on faith that the pharmacist understands your ailment and is giving you the right drug. They don't include instructions, but I recommend you avoid using heavy machinery after taking any quantity of anything here. It's probably ten times the strength of what you could buy over the counter in the states. If the illness doesn't kill you, the dry mouth from the drugs will.

Election Season in Guatemala

It’s election season here in Guatemala, which is both hopeful and terrifying at the same time. It’s hopeful because the polls have the candidates in a dead heat. It’s the first time a left-leaning candidate has had a fighting chance in over fifty years. It’s terrifying because extreme violence has marked this election. Over fifty candidates, family members, election workers and party activists have been killed and countless more attacked and intimidated since last September. Most of the attacks have allegedly been carried out organized crime, drug cartels and youth gangs in an attempt to intimidate politicians. Unsurprisingly, the left has had far more casualties. This is particularly disturbing given Guatemala’s history of horrific political violence and how fragile and recent the 1996 peace accords are.

The two front runners are Alvaro Colom, of the Unidad Nacional de la Esperanza (UNE), the National Unity of Hope and General Otto Perez Molina, of the Partido Partiotico (PP), the Patriotic Party. Colom has been a businessman and a civil servant. He represented UNE in 2003, losing to conservative Oscar Berger of the Gran Alianza Nacional (GANA), the Grand National Alliance. Colom’s platform centers on fighting poverty through education and healthcare and cracking down on government inefficiency and corruption. Obviously, I’m supporting him.

Perez Molina is a retired General, and was in charge of Army Intelligence during the civil war. As such Perez Molina is popular for his law and order position. His party’s slogan is “Mano Dura”, which translates to “Hard Hand”. He’s promised to increase police forces by 50% and reinstate the death penalty. This makes him especially popular in Guatemala City, which has horrible gang problems and one of the highest murder rates in the Americas. Perez Molina was implicated in the 1998 murder of human rights activist Bishop Juan Gerardi, but like so many other former army officers, he’s never been charged and justice will probably never be served.

Because Guatemala uses a proportional representation system, rather than a first past the post system, which we use in the States, there are a number of parties, which can change and exchange power from one election to the next. Another interesting candidate is Rigoberta Menchu, of Encuentro por Guatelama (EG), Encounter for Guatemala. Menchu won a Nobel Prize for her book, I, Rigoberta Menchu, about the atrocities she and her community suffered during the civil war.

At the same time, the man pictured here, Efrain Rios Montt, of the Frente Republicano Guatemalteco (FRG), the Guatemalan Republican Front, is running for congress. Rios Montt was a general and then military dictator during the civil war, responsible for massacres, murders, disappearances, systematic torture and rape, in what the UN has called a government sponsored genocide. Rios Montt and other military leaders maintain that they were only fighting a counter insurgency against communist guerillas. Spain is currently seeking his extradition, charging him with crimes against humanity. He would be immune from prosecution if elected. Rios Montt attended the School of the Americas at Ft. Benning, Georgia and had enjoyed considerable support from the United States. Rios Montt is also an evangelical minister, a friend of Jerry Falwell, Pat Robertson and Ronald Reagan.

Unfortunately, the general election is going to be our last day in Guatemala, September 9th, so I won’t be able to work as a poll watcher. If necessary, a run-off will be held on November 9th. In the meantime I’ve been volunteering as an election educator, teaching people how to vote. While this may sound silly, it’s hard to vote here. In some areas, you might be turned away and told you can’t vote, even though you’re a registered voter. (Sounds familiar, huh?) Your vote will be disqualified if you don’t use an X, or if your X extends outside of the box. Plus, if you’re illiterate, it may be hard to find your candidate among all of the other contenders. So I help people practice voting. It is awesome work.

Envrionmental Issues

One thing that taking the Tajumulco trip made clear for me is the seriousness of some of Guatemala's enviornmental is the environmental issues.

Deforestation is a major issue on three fronts. First Hurricane Mitch, arguably encouraged by man-made climate change, did substantial damage to the region which has been slow to regrow. Second, the mountain pine beetle, accidentally introduced from Asia, has felled entire swaths of forest. Third, the local families and buisnesses participate in deforestation in two ways:

First, the individuals have been pushed onto more marginal land because of a the centralization of land ownership, further concentrated by the civil war. They have also pushed into cultivating the land more intensively, because they have to feed their families, as well as earning extra income at market for taxes, school fees, and material goods. They clear this land, higher up in the hills, for farming. But most of the nutrients are stored in the trees, rather than in the soil, so the land quickly loses its fertility. Often, they are forced to cultivate the land continuously, which quickens the process.

Both individuals and buisnesses use Western farming methods, like heavy tilling, fertilizers and pesticides. The heavy tilling means that without the trees and continuous weed or crop cover, the soil is eventually eroded, blown away by the high winds and rains, making the land completely barren. Erosion is also encouraged when they the campesinos keep too many heads of cattle, sheep or goats at elevation. The animals graze down the vegetation, as well as trampling new tree growth.

The pesticides used here are often illegal in the States, and have been linked to the deaths of thousands of campesinos and their children. They are generally sprayed aerially, so they fall on the farmers and their families, as well as infiltrating the water supply. Fertilizers create eutrophication, where excess fertilizers run off into the water supply, and an overabundance of nutrients creates algal blooms that stifle other marine life. Additionally, both pesticides and fertilizers are major expenses, which require every growing applications.

The locals also cut trees down, for use or sale as fuel for fires and fodder for livestock. In addition to deforesting the land for fuel and fodder, the locals also harm the trees as pictured above. They slash them with a machete and all the sap runs down into the cut space. Then they scape off the sap and sell it as kindling. This sucks all the water out of the tree, killing it, as well as rendering it useless for firewood.

The deforestation also exacerbates the dearth of drinking water. Trees help sustain the water table, and filter the water underground. However, with increasing population, agricultural industrial pressure, the water is being used and polluted at increasing rates. To get clean water here, you must buy bottled water. This water, as well as tap water, is more expensive than in the States, an unsustainable expense for most of the population.

However, the pollution problem that bothers me most in Guatemala is the trash. I know this is silly, because it's probably the least pressing issue, but the countryside is absolutely marred by litter. It´s common practice to toss all trash in the street. With changing standards of living and consumer preferences, junk food wrappers make up most of the litter.

I know this is super dorky, but I'm so interested in how all of these issues interact. Human health, population pressure, land tenure, war, changing consumer preferences, changing cultivation methods, deforestation, erosion, water issues, pollution big and small are all interlinked, and improving any one of the issues can improve the others.

Not to Brag, but it was Buena Vista Social Club!

Tonight, I got to see Buena Vista Social Club in concert. Although most of the original members of the club have died since the production of the documentary, but the concert was still amazing. One of the best I've ever seen.

The show was here in Xela, at the Hotel Modelo. Thus, tickets were all of Q90, or $12, and only a few hundred people were in attendance. The band warmed up with all the classic Buena Vista tunes.

I had no idea that people that old could rock that hard. Their fingers flying over the frets, wailing on the bongoes or blaring the brass, the band members were in their own world. They struck such an amazing balance between technical talent and just plain jamming, improvising and inventing new solos as they went.

The venue was woefully small and underequipped, and there were a number of technical difficulties. About two hours into the concert the bandleader announced that they were taking a break to fix the problems. Since the announcement was made in quick Cuban Spanish most of the gringoes in the crowd didn't understand and so they left. The band returned, sans technical difficulties and refreshed for another two hours of music.

Then the party really started. We stacked up all the chairs in the ballroom to make space for salsa dancing. Almost everyone in left in the audience could dance, so it became part concert, part party, part high school dance, with people leaving their cliques to ask strangers to dance. My friend Ethan is a competitive swing dancer in the states, so we had a great time doing swing steps in salsa time and style.

The band started playing Cuban folk songs and requests from the audience, including my beloved Ojala Que Llueve Cafe. At the end of the night, exhausted from the dancing, I sat down on the side of the stage to watch. As the show was ending, this fellow, Ruben, came over to give me a hug! Absolutely amazing.

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.¨