La Gringa en Guatemala

El ultimo dia

2009-04-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

What do you do for your last day in Guatemala after you've been here for almost seven months?

Hopefully eat freshly-made, piping hot tortillas and black refried beans, and maybe fried platanos and ripe sweet mango served peeled and sliced and bagged for you on the street. Or ride a chicken bus just for fun. And sing along to "Te Amo" by Makano, loud and heart-felt and slightly out-of-tune. Smile at one of the curious children that approach you because you are a gringo and look and sound different from them. And probably buy some sort of woven handicraft.

I remember when I circled March 17th on the little calendar I have in my Spanish notebook, and counted the weeks until it came. It felt like an eternity at times. But then it came and went. And I didn't leave that day; my ticket was extended. I was not ready for the adventure to be over.

But now I leave May 1st. Tomorrow. And there will be no more extensions.

So it's my last day in Guatemala and all I've done so far today is have a job interview via Skype for a job back home. My future is there now, and part of me is ready, anxious for it to start, wanting to know what happens next in the story. And the other part of me is a little heart-broken to be leaving.

As I have been traveling I have met and encountered people along the way, some of whom with I exchanged email addresses, some of whom became my facebook friends. Part of traveling is forming relationships that exist for the moment, and you are thankful for them for that moment, and the experienced shared is valuable, but there doesn't necessarily have to be a future.

But my home-base since last September has been here in Guatemala City, with "Team Oxford" (Oxford Language Center) and the house of Bryant, Joe and Maria. It has been my refuge between long bus rides. It is where I have shared meals and computers and jokes and morning yoga sessions and lazy Sunday afternoons watching movies. . . I was at the Christmas party, the bowling party, the poker party, the dance party, and the baptism of the first Oxford baby, Nicholas. Maria and I were the consistent fans at the Monday night soccer matches. I threw Remy's stick for him to fetch more times than I can count.

So last night, as we finished dinner (a scruptious dinner which I prepared, by the way), Hergil looked at me and said, "Have we really only known you since last September?"

It feels a lot longer to me, too. But now their lives will go on without me, and mine without them. So I am trying to define what these friendships mean to me as I pack my bags and prepare to go.

Because I can say I'll be back, but by then their lives will have changed and so will mine.

I guess that is what is so sad about good-byes.

Tres dias a pie (and the mother of long posts!)

2009-04-24T12:03:00.000-07:00

So, the last thing that I really wanted to do here in Guatemala, (and one of the first things I had put on my to-do list last Sept.) was to hike from Nebaj to Todos Santos, a three-day trek through the Cuchumantes mountains in Northwestern Guatemala. I tried to book the trip in early February but no groups were going, and then I tried to go it in early March but was disuaded when I heard that the road to Nebaj was dangerous due to a major landslide that took out the road between Coban and Nebaj on January 4th. (We eventually came over that way and it was a pretty massive landslide, as you can see!)

Finally Tracy, whom I met last September the day we de-boarded the plane in Guate City, agreed to be my companera de caminata. When we arrived in Nebaj we found out that a different group had departed the day before, so there was no guide available for us. Our hopes were crushed a bit (well, except that the hotel in Nebaj had THE BEST, CLEANEST, most comfortable beds in Guatemala and cable TV to boot, for $8 each/night and I kind of wanted to stay there forever), so we started working on plan B. Just when we thought we might try a different hike, the guide company called back and said they found someone to take us.

The man they found was Juan, 58-years old and father to 12 children, and a native of Palop, the town where we stayed the first night. I asked the woman in the office if Juan knew the route well, and she assured me that he did, as he is a local of the area, and he and his wife run a camping hut of sorts in Palop, where people traveling through can stay in a comfortable dorm (no electricity but a nice building and good beds).

So we set out one Tuesday morning with Juan and a backpack each, and over the next three days we covered over 24 miles of dusty trail, beautiful scenery, and some considerable sweat (no tears, though!).
Day one went well--we took a bus about two hours and then hiked in mid-day dust and heat for a few hours. We stopped for lunch in a town called Salquil Grande, where, convieniently one of Juan's daughters lives. She and her kids made us Box-bol (pronounced bocksh-bol), which is the traditional food of the Ixil area--leaves of a squash plant wrapped around corn masa and cooked in a sort of stew. It kind of feels like eating a big fat cigar filled with mushy corn goo. Sounds delicious, huh? (see pics!)

Day two was the most challenging hiking--we started at 7 am with a trail called "viente-cinco vueltes" (25 turns), a steep, rocky trail with 25 switch-backs (actually, I can't verify that because I lost track after a certain point.) That afternoon we started to get lost--well, to be fair to Juan, we were never totally lost, but we frequently had to stop and ask for directions, since it had been ten years since Juan had last done the whole trek, start to finish. It was an interesting lesson in cultural differences, as the local people we encountered couldn't fathom why we wanted to walk, and why we wanted to walk on trails instead of roads, and why we wanted to walk if there was some other form of transportation available to us.
Here's how it went:
Juan: "Is there a trail from here to . . .(insert name of town or landmark here)"
Local people: "Oh--you don't have to walk on a trail. You can go down to the road and catch a ride with a pick-up or car."
Juan: "But these women want to walk, and they want to walk on a trail, not a road."
Local people: "OK. Well, there's a trail over there, but it will cut down to the road soon and you can catch a ride on a pick-up or car from there."
Juan: "Thanks, we'll do that."
Then he would ask the next person we saw and the whole conversation would begin again.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with a peace-corps worker who laughed at me when I asked him why the people in his village (where there is no electricity) didn't have campfires together in the evenings. He said: "Can you imagine if I told them--yeah, in the U.S. sometimes for FUN we cook over fire."
Here are a few more highlights from the trek, since pictures say more than words:
The view of Palop early morning on day 2:

The youngest daughter in the family of 15 kids where we slept on night 2 (in Capenella, Huehuetenango, convieniently Juan's sister-in-law lives there so we stayed at her house)... this little girl was sucking on the remnants of a bag of sugar when we arrived:

The bed in which we slept on the second night (how I missed my therm-a-rest and a warm sleeping bag!):

Descending into the valley of Todos Santos on day 3 (it all felt worth while at this point!)

Juan, our trusty guia

2009-04-18T17:16:00.000-07:00

Juan enjoying a Kashi Bar on the road up to Ventoza, day three of our trek. (Huehuetenango looks like New Mexico, huh?!?)

So, after all this, can I even Speak Spanish?

2009-04-18T16:19:00.000-07:00

That's the million dollar question for me these days.

The main reason I came to Guatemala was to learn to speak Spanish. And now I have only two weeks left, and I am wondering what I have learned.

It's been an interesting process, one that I thought would be easier upon arrival. After all, I grew up in Santa Fe, where one of the main roads is Paseo de Peralta and we used to sing "De Colores" in the 2nd grade. I took two years of Spanish in high school and 3 semesters in college. I mean, surely I would have a head-start, right?

But when I got here last September, I couldn't speak enough Spanish to even get around. Just renting a room, ordering and paying for a meal, or finding the right bus was stressful and confusing, because when you don't understand the language, everything is twice as hectic and strange and overwhelming.

Sometimes over the past six months I thought I would never reach a point of easy conversation, much less fluency. But then, as time passed, all of the things my first Spanish teacher in Xela told me started to ring true: the sound of the language started coming back to me, and when I needed to say something the words would come--not always just right, but at least in the right order and with a semblance of meaning.

I reached little milestones along the way--I had my first dream in which I was speaking in Spanish in early February. Then my classmates in Spanish school started asking me for the translations of words because it was faster than looking them up: "Anna, what's the word for. . .?" And I surprised myself and them by actually knowing off the top of my head, three times out of four. Then I got my first joke. And one day on the bus I started to understand what a song on the radio was about. And finally--and this is just recently--I found I could talk on the phone without going into a complete panic.

But for every milestone there has been a frustration--a miscommunication, a time when my vocabulary was incredibly insufficient and I defaulted into English, and instance after instance where I was sure I sounded like a four-year-old or a cave man.

So, when we set off on Tuesday morning for a three-day trek from Nebaj in the Department of Quiche to Todos Santos in Huehuetenango (yes, as in it's way-way out there in the middle of no where) with our guide, Juan, I was curious how well we would communicate.

Juan speaks Ixil as his first language, and Spanish as his second. The expedition consisted of just us three: Juan, Tracy, and me.

And the first afternoon, as we toiled up dusty footpaths that ascended straight up the sides of steep hills, we talked. I tried to explain the phenomenom of on-line dating; he explained what happens in his community if someone is widowed. We discussed U.S. immigration policy and Guatemalan land rights and traditional clothing and the impact of tourism on the local people.

And as I was climbing a hill, out-of-breath from exertion but fired up about whatever it was we were talking about, emphatically trying to make a point, and Tracy looked at me and said, "Man, your Spanish rocks." And then I realized that I was actually speaking in Spanish. I had forgotten. I was just speaking.

I know I am far from fluent. Pero puedo hablar bastante. And that is good enough for me, for now.

Our last day of the trek, Juan told us jokes and riddles to keep us going. Here's one for you:
Puedo correr por la dia y correr por la noche
Y no tengo que comer nada
Pero voy lejos y rapido
Quien soy?

Sabes?

So much to say, so little time

2009-04-11T14:42:00.001-07:00

I have about ten blog entries started in my mind, but have had no time or rapido Internet, so some pictures will have to do for now. Tomorrow I am heading to Nebaj in the Ixil region to start a three-day backpacking trip to Todos Santos. (Jenny B, if you're reading this I am FINALLY going to get there, and I still have the regalitos!)

The road from Coban to Nebaj is questionable due to a landslide and some ladrones, so wish me luck!

Unas fotos

2009-04-11T14:40:00.001-07:00

Al lado de Rio Chahabon en Lanquin (El Retiro Lodge)

Semuc Champay -- my favorite place in Guate

2009-04-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

A Caballo en San Cristobol de las Casas en Mexico

2009-04-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

Mexican Spanish verses Guatemalan Spanish

2009-03-30T16:58:00.001-07:00

There are a lot of things about Mexico that remind me of home. Oaxaca and San Cristobal de las Casas (in Chiapas, where I am now) both feel like Santa Fe--mountain desert air, streets full of tourists, great restaurants and galleries of art around every corner. It makes me realize that the name "New Mexico" is oh-so-appropriate, and that Santa Fe being part of the USA is truly a political fluke of sorts. Santa Fe has way more in common with Oaxaca than it does with Indianapolis, for example.

I guess the other thing was being there with Kate and the Aters. Kate speaks SUCH good Spanish she is truly a local, practically the mayor of Oaxaca she knows so many people. So I learned a bit of Mexican slang, much more than I have learned of Guatemalan slang in eight weeks of Spanish school.

And Kate and I discovered some funny differences in our two Spanishes. It was a case of I say tomato, you say tomah-toe, but with totally different words. But it caused us great amusement (it may not do so for you--if that is the case, you can skip the rest of this post!)

So, here is our guide to communicating across cultures: (English in black, Mexican Spanish in Green, Guatemalan Spanish in Blue)
peanut = cacahuate = maní
grass = pasto = grama (the kind you walk on, not the kind you smoke--remember this is a PG-13 blog.)
speed bump = tope = tumulo
turkey = guajolote = chompipie (also called a pavo in both countries)

The last thing I did before I left Oaxaca was eat the famous chapulines (grasshoppers cooked in oil, chile, and lime). They make that place in the back of your cheek cringe because they are sour and salty and spicy all at once. The folklore in Oaxaca is that those who eat them are destined to return. I am down with that. Que chido.

My inner "Walden Pond"

2009-03-26T09:39:00.000-07:00

I haven't seen a cloud in the sky since I arrived in Oaxaca early Monday morning, bleary-eyed from the overnight bus. (There is always a moment on the overnight bus, at say, 3:15 a.m, when I think-"I will never do this again," but then, like all really painful things, the horror of it fades in my mind and the next thing I know, there I am, about to get on an overnight bus.)

Yes, I made it to Mexico. Green, white and red. Tacos on every corner. Jugs of horchata and rose de jamaica. Live music and dancing on the zocalo in the evenings. Murals and graffiti and skeletons up to all sorts of antics. Cathedrals and plazas and colonial buildings with big, airy courtyards.

So--What have I been doing since I arrived here, you may ask?

The answer is nothing. Yes, I am quite serious--nothing. There is no to-do list. Kate lived here for three years so I just follow her about, not caring where we end up, not intent on an agenda. It feels nice to have someone else in charge for a while.

Nice, yes. But something in my nature is uncomfortable with the blanket of unscheduled time laid out before me each day. Something in my head whispers--what do you intend to accomplish today? What will you have to show for your time in Mexico? I chalk it up to American culture--that the desire to do, do, do is inherent in me and I am not able to squelch it, even when I really try. (And I am REALLY trying: siesta every afternoon, sitting by the pool before lunch, leisurely breakfasts and almost two books under my belt.)

Kate tells me that the lack of pressure to do anything is what she loves most about Mexican culture. When she lived here she was thrilled to discover that when her Mexican friends asked her, "Què hiciste hoy?," their response was the same whether she said: "I studied Spanish for two hours, went to Yoga, cleaned the house, bought groceries, etc." or if she said: "I went to the bank." It didn't matter to them if she spent her spare time making bamboo furniture and perfecting her mole sauce, or if she sat around and played with her dogs all day; there was no judgement on how she spent her time, and she loved that about living here. She feels that the U.S. puts pressure on her not to "waste" her time, pressure that is constant and unyielding.

I wrote to Brendan, (my Aussie nomad friend who talked me into this whole "quit-your-job-and-travel-about" thing) about my guilty unease with having so much free time, so little responsibility, so much "unproductivity" in my life.

And he responded: "Sounds like you need to read Thoreau's Walden Pond - for a truly great American perspective on life."

So I am trying to cultivate my inner Walden Pond. I am searching for a way to be more comfortable with the nothing that fills my days. I have a feeling that, by the time I have mastered it, I will be back at home, applying for jobs, finding a place to live, watching my to-do list grow exponentially.

I guess I should just enjoy nothing while it lasts.

Decisions, decisions

2009-03-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

North or south? Chicken bus or first-class? Road made dangerous by landslide or the long way around? These are some of the thoughts that woke me up way too early this morning.

So, my latest foot-loose and fancy-free travel plan was this: Come north to Alta Verapaz for a long weekend and hang out at Semuc Champey (done), then head back (south 10-12 hours by bus) to El Salvador to help Manolo with his tour company in Tabuca for a week, and then head back north to Mexico (2 days at least, or a day and an overnight bus--travel warnings be damned!) to meet Kater in Oaxaca for a week, then come back south to Alta Verapaz (home!) to meet Tracy for another week of Spanish school before holy week.

Reading it now it seems obvious that the plan is a little bit flawed. Because traveling by bus on your own, while sometimes an adventure, is also tiring, long, hot and slow, and the movies they show have bad sound quality and are usually crap.

So this morning I woke up at 6, packed, bought a ticket for Guatemala City, boarded the bus, got five blocks out of Coban and--asked the driver to stop so I could get off. Walked back into town. I just wasn't ready to set out on that journey by myself, tired and unsettled, and feeling ill-at-ease about the distances I was about to try and cover and about the destinations I was trying to squeeze in.

I remember the excitement I felt when I was still a relatively new manager at the Fraser Valley Library and a staff member came to me with a question and I made a decision, told the person what to do, and--they went and did it. And amazingly, it worked. I remember feeling so empowered, but also surprised that I was capable of such rapid decision-making and communicating of said made decision.

So here I am, supposedly older and wiser and traveling the world, and even though I have no where important to go and nothing to in particular that I need to do, I find the decisions I have to make at times overwhelming and even immobilizing. Every day is filled with small but demanding decisions that I took for granted at home--what to eat and where to buy it and how to prepare it, how to get from one place to another, where to sleep for the night, how to best pack wet clothing without soaking everything else in my bag, and how to make myself understood when I am trying to explain why I want a refund for a perfectly good bus ticket that I decided not to use.

I think the hardest thing about decisions is that, once one is made, it closes the doors of possibilities that the other options offered. I've never been especially good at letting go of those missed opportunities, those alternate realities and what they may have meant if I had just made a different decision.

So I am trying to keep my mind off of where I would be now if I had stayed on that bus this morning. I am trying to be OK with just laying low for now, seeing what happens, and not trying to travel 1500 miles by bus across three different countries in the next seven days.

But who knows what questions will wake me up tomorrow.

Megan, BJ, and Tim roadside in El Salvador

2009-03-04T12:41:00.000-08:00

Traveling solo

2009-03-04T12:03:00.001-08:00

So, I always wondered how those crazy Australians manage to travel for years at a time and never get homesick or suicidal.

I think I may have discovered their secret: latching on to other people and then not letting them ditch you, no matter how hard they may try.

Enter Megan, BJ, and Tim into my life. After a couple of days of hanging out on the beach in El Zonte, I was fortunate enough to be taken under their Canadian wings. We rented a car last weekend and went northeast away from the crowded beach into the cooler mountain air and the town of Tacuba. From there we rode in the back of a pick-up truck (of course!) into the Imposible National Park (named so because apparently the impossibly narrow windy road is much improved over it´s original condition).

The hike we embarked upon was guided by Jordy (also Canadian, but the French kind), Ismael and Mario (local fellas) and consisted of hiking down into a river bed and then following the river through the canyon and a series of waterfalls. When you reach the waterfalls, you have the option of jumping off of the rock into the water below, or if your legs shake a bit, being lowered down by rope and harness.

Since then, I have become a permanent fixture in their lives: we went to the feria gastronomica (food fair) in Juayúa (chicken fajitas, salad, and all the fixings for $3), to explore la Laguna Verde and Concepción de Ataco. They fill me in on the politics of El Salvador (election day is March 15th and it´s Obama vs McCain all over again!) and now Megan is my surfing buddy, so at least when I am swept away by a fierce undertow there will be a witness, or when my nose starts bleeding from a particularly violent collision with my board there is someone there to offer kleenex and sympathy.

They may breathe a small sigh of relief when I head back to Guatemala, but they have been good sports about my intrusion. There are certainly awkward moments--"Hey, you don't really know me, but I want to come to the mountains with you for the weekend" doesn´t always sound so smooth, but overall it beats the heck out of being alone for days on end.

Because when you travel solo, you have moments of wonderful and unexpected companionship, moments of fierce-some independence, and moments of such great loneliness it's all you can do to keep from howling like a freakin' wolf.

Despedidas and more salt water than one person should ingest at one time

2009-02-28T16:41:00.000-08:00

I left Alta Verapaz with some reservations. It was the first place I felt really "at home" in Guate, it was safe and comfortable--I could ride my bike to and from the farm, I knew the buses, I knew the bus drivers.

When I left I had three farewell parties, one with the librarians, one with my fellow students at Spanish school (marshmellows roasted over the fire and bottles of Gallo), and lunch with my friend Callie. It was funny how well I fit in there, how comfortable I became in such a short time, and how unsure I felt about leaving.

But then I got to the beach in El Salvador, and I saw how much I was missing. El Zonte is on the pacific coast, about 30 minutes north by public bus from La Libertad, the largest costal town with more waves for the more serious surfer. I rented a board on Thursday afternoon and fought my way out past the break. I was blinded by salt water, drank brine like fine wine, and now feel like someone beat me with the board rather than that I actually rode on it. But ride it I did, not with much finesse but at least upright and standing, if only for moments at a time.

I believe that surfing is a good metaphor for my love life recently (as well as my golf game, actually!)--every time I think I have had enough, that I don´t want to do it anymore, and that I should just give it up, cash in, kiss it all good-bye, I get that one moment of exhiliration, that thrill of feeling the wave catch hold of the board and send it forward without any effort, and I am hooked, I am on top of the world, I am invincible. Before I know it, it all comes crashing down around me again, but then I remember that moment of giddy glory, and I get back on the board and paddle out again.

Oh, the things people carry! --My first poem about Guate

2009-02-16T14:28:00.000-08:00

Here in Guate you have lots of luck

if you have access

to a car or pick-up

So when people don´t

(which is most of the time)

Oh, the things they can carry

the hills they can climb!

Baskets of things both live and dead

Bundles of wood carried just with your head

Babies on backs and snacks pushed in carts

Good balance is one of the finest of arts

I´ve seen

Cinder blocks

Live chickens boxed

Tortilla masa

Lumber for casa

Baskets of every shape and size

Peanuts and bread and all sorts of pies

I´ve seen furniture

And front and back doors

I saw one man carry a whole chest of drawers!

I´ve seen
Bikes atop buses with six to a seat

Parts and pieces of uncooked meat

Deliveries for those who live far away

Choco-bananos and flowers in bouquet

Heaps of comida to sell at the mercado

Half-a-tree´s worth of ripe avocado

Stacks of leaves for making tamal

Machetes in case you get into a brawl

I´ve seen

Farmers with hoes

Kids with bare toes

Necks strong as steel

Food for ten meals

Women with posture staighter than straight

Men who can carry two-times their weight

I´ve seen so many things!

It´s hard to descibe

I couldn´t carry them if you gave me a bribe!

No matter the weather

or time of day

No matter the distance

Or how poor the pay

I´ve seen so many things about which to rhyme

But it´s the things people carry

The hills they can climb!

(Inspired, of course, by Dr. Seuss, and the hard-working people of Alta Verapaz)

If only this had happened to me when I was in the 7th grade. . .

2009-02-11T12:37:00.000-08:00

I woke up on Monday morning in a one-room hut with a dirt floor. In the room with me were 7 other people--my friend Callie (co-library volunteer from Portland) and the family Tení Wue. We shared three beds, two twin beds and a double, between the eight of us. We awoke to tortillas made with fresh-ground maize and salsa, instant coffee with lots of sugar, and entertainment provided by the youngest daughter, Martita, age 3. Martita sat on my lap all the way through breakfast and spoke to me with much sincerity in Q éch-chi, and in turn I would look earnestly at her and reply in English, which made all of the other kids laugh as if I was Eddie Murphy.

How I ended up having a slumber party in a Mayan village is a sort of long and convoluted story, but it comes down to being friends with Callie and having been a summer camp counselor. Callie brought me to Semac for the first time about a month ago, (she is doing work there for a documentary film about the style of weaving the woman make) and I fell in love with the kids (5 of them--2 boys and 3 girls: Delia, Hilado, Nilsa, Jesus, and Martita) of the family Tení Wue.

This was our third trip to Semac, and we came armed with backpacks for the overnight stay, fruit to give as a gift to the family for hosting us, and cameras to take pictures of the weekend-long community festival, a mix of pagan and Catholic ritual--a room full of saints and offerings and candles, food offerings, and a masked dance. The dance is called the Katrina, after the name of the dueño´s wife. The dancers interact with the crowd in a circus-clown manner, and the crowd apparently does not tire of the game for the three days and nights. (All of this info is according to the Peace Corps volunteer there, Andrew.)

The family met us near the bus stop, all of the girls in their nicest traditional dress, hair freshly washed and combed, the boys with fresh hair cuts and straw cowboy hats.

There is no charge for any of the activity as far as I can tell, and the community offers you food (hunks of beef with a salty gravy made out of rice, and of course tortillas de maize and tamelitos), hot chocolate made with crushed cacao, coffee sweetened beyond recognition, and a liquor of some kind, also mixed with a sugar cane juice.

The interesting part came with the dancing. After most people had eaten, there was a men´s dance, a women´s dance, and then the partner dancing began. Only the adults partake in the dancing, and it seemed to me that more of the older people were dancing, so at first Callie and I watched and took some photos.

Eventually, a nice pharmacist from Coban asked me to dance. The music is marimba and the dance is very basic--not really salsa at all, just sort of hopping back-and-forth from foot-to-foot.

Callie also started dancing, and after the lengthy song came to an end, my partner just held on to me, as did hers, and suddenly we were in for another 6-8 minute song. All of the men in the room thought it was hilarious, especially a few of the older men who had been enjoying their fair share of the sugar cane liquor. Before we knew it, we were both dancing with new partners. Things started to feel a bit tense when my original pharmacist tried to re-claim me, so I decided to sit down with the girls from our host family before things got out of hand. But my partner at this point wouldn´t let go of me.

Andrew saw this all from across the room, and intervened, telling us that we didn´t have to dance with anyone if we didn´t want to. So we both extracted ourselves from our partners and sat down. But we couldn´t be in the room without a constant stream of invitations to dance. I felt like the luckiest girl at a 7th grade dance, but it quickly became clear that we were more of a disruption than anything, and Andrew and our host dad, Carlos Enrique, kept having to help us when certain men wouldn´t take no for an answer.

At this point we decided to leave, so Martita grabbed my hand and led the way out. We smiled and waved our good-byes, and followed our family back to our home for the night.

I know it sounds cliché but the hospitality of these people who have so little is overwhelming. They are so glad to welcome you into their world--I hope to someday return the favor, and to not forget their kindness and generosity when I return to the states and my old life takes over.

Laguna Lachuá National Park -- and la gringa tonta

2009-02-06T12:12:00.000-08:00

Last week I ventured northwest 4 hours to an out-of-the-way tourist destination called Laguna Lachua National Park. It is named after the Qéqchi words meaning "smelly water" because it has a sulphurous smell. Before going, I checked with the local tourist offices to see if there was a group going, but there wasn´t, so I went by myself via public transportation. I was a little nervous about it, but by Friday night I knew which bus to take, where to catch it, and how much it would cost to get there.

I left at 6 am Saturday morning. The bus ride was interesting--I got to ride up front with the driver and take advantage of all the amazing Alta Verapaz scenery--rolling mountains covered with mist and evergreen trees. The bus conductor was really nice and, when it started to rain, stopped and covered my backpack with a piece of plastic since I had forgotten my rain cover.

The bus, however, was not so nice. Once we hit open road, the driver was really punching it, and the bus was wobbling like a washing machine with an uneven load. Every 45 minutes or so we would pull into a gas station or bicycle repair shop and add air to the front left tire. Then, the sliding door in back stopped working and no one could get out of the bus; some of the passengers climbed out of the windows at a couple of stops. The bus driver finally stopped and borrowed some tools, dismantled the entire door, and then put it back together so it would function properly.

Upon arrival at the park, I paid for my entrance (Guatemalans, 15 Q, Extranjeros, 40 Q) and my overnight stay. You have to pack in your food and water--it´s kind of like a ski hut trip but in a rainforest. I received a receipt for my payment and the friendly park guy, Ramiro, told me that I would have to show it to the other friendly park guy when I got to the lodge. "So don´t lose it," he told me.

I hiked the 4 kilometers (photos coming soon!) by myself--it was lovely and secluded and I felt a little bit like Indiana Jones or something, except that the trail was immacutlately maintained and there are signs along the way identifying trees and other wildlife.

Upon arrival, I met Carlos, (the other friendly park guy) a sort of John Wayne of Alta Verapaz--old, weathered, full of stories and jokes, tough in appearance but a bit of a softie. As I had been warned, he asked me for my receipt, which, even after emptying my pockets and several parts of my backpack, I could not locate. (Here is where the gringa tonta part begins.) So, we went to call the front to verify that I had paid. I followed him out to the dock of the incredibly beautiful, pristine lake, and he said, OK, here´s where you have a signal for your phone (in Spanish, of course) and I said, Oh, I don´t have my phone--I left it back at the lodge (or something like that in a much more basic, 6-year-old way of speaking). Carlos looked at me briefly like I was retarded, and then laughed kindly and told me to sit down and rest. So we enjoyed the view for a while and then went back to the lodge.

Eventually he gave me a room, and as soon as I unpacked I found my receipt tucked in with a roll of T.P. --must have somehow stuck it in there when I stopped to use the latrien en route.

I enjoyed a dinner of salad and beans and tortillas that I had brought with me from Carchá, and then before bed I thought that I should put my food in a safe place, but I didn´t want to take it up to my room, which was spotless and pest-free. Once again, I asked my friend Carlos if I should put my food in a particular place. I thought that he told me no, so I stuffed it in the corner of the kitchen and went to bed.

As any good backpacker knows, (and I should have known), that was not the smartest decision. In the morning I found my breakfast spread about--orange half-eaten and a pit and a bit of peel, licked absolutely spotless, from what once was an avocado. Luckily, I had put my yogurt and tortillas in the fridge, so they were spared. Carlos, still kind and patient, questioned my judgement a bit and then explained that a tacuasin had eaten my breakfast. "What´s a tacuasin?" I asked. A giant guatemalan rat, he said, indicating through hand motions that it is about a foot and a half long. "Well, he really loves avocados," I replied. Carlos laughed and offered to share his pan dulce and tomatoes with me for breakfast.

I hiked out after a nice swim in the lake (heard it has healing properties for the ugly wound on my leg that is still festering a bit). I waited for 2 hours for the bus back--apparently bus service on Sundays is more limited. By the time I left, I had promised to meet Ramiro (the first friendly park service guy) in Coban for English lessons (I keep trying to tell people that just because I can speak it does not mean I can teach it) and I had met a gaggle of local boys who somehow knew I was the silly gringa who lost her receipt and let a tacuasin eat her breakfast. News travels fast in that part of the country, apparently.

I arrived home in Carchá after dark on Sunday, tired from a long ride in a bus packed full. I did not see or speak to one English-speaking person the entire weekend--everyone that I met at the park was Guatemalan (and one guy from Costa Rica). You got it-- now I am boldly going where no gringa has gone before! (Ok, that might be a stretch, but I managed a full expedition without major injury and only minor mishaps, so I think I am making progress!)

The best thing about public transportation

2009-01-29T16:22:00.000-08:00

is the people you meet on the bus. In this area of the country, almost all of the buses are little microbuses, (14 passenger vans that sometimes hold up to 30, although I have heard the record is 32 plus a chicken). There is no central bus station here, which I thought was very confusing at first, but now I appreciate it because I never take the wrong bus--all of the buses from my particular station are going to the location I desire. If I want to go somewhere else, I just have to find that bus station (station is a bit too grand word for a dirt parking lot at which the buses wait).

So. Every afternoon after my Spanish classes I take the bus (3 Quetzales each way, about 80 cents altogether) from Carchá where I live to San Juan Chamelco, where I volunteer at the library for a couple of hours each afternoon. (How did I find this library, you may ask? Sonia, of course, who is cousin of Maria, girlfriend of Joe, roomate of Bryant, friend of Kevin, whose mom worked with my mom at an elementary school in Abq.)

Now that I am a regular on the bus, I am getting to know the other folks who ride it. There is a Mayan woman who has a chubby-cheeked son--she always comes to catch the bus first and then he comes running as we pull away, carrying the last few things they needed to buy at the market, and she tells the conductor to please stop for her hijo. She is the most joyous person with whom I have ever had the pleasure of being crammed into a microbus--full of laughter and jokes and funny comments for everyone. Sometimes I ride with her when she heads home with her groceries and then again when she comes back with the finished product--fried chicken tacos with cabbage salad and a splash of red picante sauce, served in a plastic bag for 3 Q each. There are students going to and from the two schools on the road--one for indigenous men and one for students of agriculture. They wear rubber boots and sun-drenched faces and carry notebooks or backpacks.

Today a local woman, mother of 7 children (I later found), questioned me relentlessly about why I am single at my age. Luckily my Spanish is not good enough to know if she was trying to set me up with someone she knows.

My newest friend on the bus is one of the drivers, Juan Carlos. We have a special handshake and he and the local bike mechanic started teaching me a bit of Q´eqchi. (see side bar to learn some with me.) I have discovered that learning Q´eqchi is the way to people´s hearts here. Even when I say the most basic thing I receive gleeful responses (perhaps because my pronunciation is so poor it amuses them?!?)

Apparently, gringas who can speak Spanish are a dime a dozen, but one who can speak a little Q´eqchi--now that is something to write home about!

Altogether my daily commute is about an hour and fifteen minutes, including walking to the bus station and back home. But there is no traffic, no stress, no problems. I could do this every day for a long, long time.

A few fotos. . .

2009-01-26T12:24:00.000-08:00

Carchá is in a river valley surrounded by hills like this one.

2009-01-26T12:22:00.000-08:00

Brrr! We had a few really cold nights and I slept in all my clothes, ski socks, and my wooly hat!

2009-01-26T12:20:00.000-08:00

Pero leo La Prensa Libre, because I am a snob!

2009-01-26T12:18:00.000-08:00

Mi casa -- I live in the room up on the roof!

2009-01-26T12:04:00.000-08:00

Las bibliotecarias en la biblioteca en Chamelco -- Sonia, Gabby, y Doña Gloria

Un toro en una tienda de platos

2009-01-25T17:44:00.000-08:00

"Like a bull in a china shop"is a pretty accurate desciption of how I feel in Guatemala the majority of the time, and so that is what I told my new Spanish teacher, Alex, when we met my first day of lessons. He laughed heartily, since I am almost 8 inches taller than him and have over 20 pounds on him. And because I hit my head on the stairway going up to my room three times (hard) before I remembered to duck sufficiently to miss the low ceiling on the landing.

Such is life here in San Pedro Carchá, near the 3rd largest town (Coban) in the central part of the country known as Alta Verapaz. Gringos are much more sparse here than in Antigua, so I create a little bit of a spectacle every where I go. And Alex, well, he may as well be mayor of Carchá, since he knows everyone in the entire town, as far as I can tell. I like it here--it reminds me of being in the Safeway in Fraser. You have to schedule in about 20 extra minutes for small talk because you´re always sure to see someone you know.

The area around Coban is green and lush, with steep hills and volcanic rock rising out of numerous sinkholes. The trees stick up from the tops of the hills like characters from a Dr. Suess book. When I wake up to go running at 6 am, we are usually socked in with fog, but by 10 am it is warm and sunny.

How did I end up here, since it is a part of the country I only visited briefly during my first trip? Again, it comes down to who you know, and I know Maria, who is girlfriend of Joe, who is roomate of Bryant, who is friend of Kevin, who is son of Linda, who used to work with my mom at an elementary school in Albuquerque. Small world, indeed. I now live with Maria´s aunt and uncle and their daughter Alicia in a little green and pink house on a hill overlooking an outdoor soccer court where boys play soccer with an empty plastic bottle on Sunday afternoons. Makes me wish I had packed a soccer ball.

I witnessed Jehovah--but it was on accident

2009-01-24T15:50:00.001-08:00

It looked like a church and smelled like a church and we sang a hymn of sorts when we first arrived. But my host mom, whom is a wonderful, giving, generous woman, had told me before we went that it was kind of like a discussion group, a public speaking group, and a philosophy group all at once, and I figured it would be good for my Spanish.

So I went, on Thursday night, and I didn´t quite get saved all in one night, but they have me in their sights and I am pretty sure I have a good chance!

After two days and five stiches

2009-01-19T05:12:00.000-08:00

"Guatemala--take two" has been interesting. This time, there were no tears when I hugged my dad good-bye at the airport, there was little apprehension about flying, and when I arrived everything was familiar. But along with the comfort of knowing a place, there was a little less anticipation and excitement in my stomach as I de-boarded the plane.

In any case, I would have to say that it was easier the second time around. It´s like I´ve been here and done this before.

And now on to my most recent mishap which resulted in my first official Guatemalan medical treatment. On Friday morning, I was playing with Bryant´s dog, Remy, in their back yard. Remy loves to play fetch but doesn´t always find and return the sticks that we throw down into the barranco (canyon) behind the house. So at this point, Remy was stickless and I set out to remedy the problem.

I had never before ventured into the barranco, as it is steep and covered with vegetation. I found a decent sized stick on a downed tree, and was working at detaching it when I lost my footing and fell into the tree. I landed with my shin against the end of a broken branch, which punctured my leg and left a dime-sized hole in my lower left shin.

I was more in shock than in pain, as you could see into my leg and it was kind of fleshy and oozing stuff. I was heading to Camino Seguro for the day to volunteer at the English Office, and Bryant had to go to work, so I tried to put on a brave face and I stuck a piece of T.P. on my leg and we set off. (Never mind that I started feeling slightly ill and faint upon walking to the truck.)

En route to Camino Seguro, Bryant helpfully snapped his fingers in my face and yelled, "Don´t you die on me!" with volume and enthusiasm, which helped keep my mind off the swelling that was turning my lower leg into a kind of ugly, swollen version of its former self.

Luckily, Camino Seguro has a medical office with a wonderful and talented enfermera named Lucy. Lucy cleaned up the wound and agreed with me that it was "muy feo." She tried to close it up with a butterfly bandage, but it continued to gape and so she determined that I needed stitches. I have only had stitches once before in my life, but it is a testament to her that she was able to do such a good job (note the photo) since there was no flap of skin with which to cover and stitch up the wound. Not to mention that I continued to be faint and slightly nauseous during the entire visit. (I guess I won´t be trying to get into Med School)

She had me good as new in about 45 minutes, and I went to work for the day. So much for that expensive travel medical insurance!

Now I am healing quite well (check out that photo!) and have a whole new group of Spanish vocab words at my disposal: branch=rama, wound=herida, stitches=punzadas, y hinchazón=swollen part.

And so, despite my "extensive" travel experience at this juncture, all it took was two days back in Guate and a vicious game of fetch to land me under a nurse´s care.

The people who knew you when

2009-01-12T09:07:00.000-08:00

I sat at brunch yesterday at a table across from two of my oldest friends. We have known each other almost as far back as my memory stretches. They were my friends through my awkward years; we played at recess and scratched our initials in wet cement; they knew me when I was afraid of the dark and had to call my dad late in the night to pick me up from sleep-overs. They know what I look like in a girl scout uniform. They were there the first time I kissed a boy, the first time I drank too much, the first time I stood up for myself when I sensed a grown-up was being unfair. They know me almost as well as I know myself. And even though our lives have changed dramatically since then--countless boyfriends and apartments and jobs and years studying and now mortgages and husbands and babies--they still know me. And they love me for who I am now as much as who I was then.

It's funny that I thought I had to travel all this way and meet so many new people in order to discover more about who I am and what I want. When the people who knew me when are here with open arms, ready to see me succeed, and standing like obnoxious fans in the home section of the stadium, cheering loudly for me every step of the way.

A conversation and the return

2008-12-16T11:04:00.000-08:00

The taxi cab driver who took me to the Cancun airport yesterday spoke to me the whole way--in Spanish--and I understood most of what he said. He worked pouring concrete in Oregon and wishes he could return. Now he works seven days a week driving a taxi in a town with cheap and convenient bus service. He bemoans the drugs and alcohol problems that he feels are impacting the young people of his country. He feels there is little justice in this world for a hardworking man like him.

So I tipped him an extra $5. Perhaps that was his ploy, the whole purpose of his speech. But I enjoyed listening to him. I wished afterward that I had remembered the right form of the past tense of "venir (to come)" and instead of saying "I went here from Guatemala" I had said "I came here from Guatemala." But hell, at least I used the past tense. And he seemed to understand. I guess that is progress.

Then I boarded a plane. And when I reached Denver the air was freezing cold, and it finally felt to me like Christmas is coming. And the faces and hugs of friends and family are better than even the most unexpected kindness from strangers. And I am surprised that I find comfort in the material things about America I thought I didn't need--well-insulated homes with warm blankets and high-speed Internet access that is actually fast and a Walgreens on the corner that is brightly lit and has everything you could possibly need on a cold night as you arrive, weary from a long day of traveling.

It feels good to be home.

Burning Devils and Overnight Buses

2008-12-08T11:12:00.000-08:00

On the seventh of December there is another Guatemalan tradition that mixes the pagan with the Christian traditions. . . everyone burns devils and trash in the streets in order to cleanse their homes and souls in preparation for the arrival of Jesus at Christmas. In Antigua, the location they selected for this ritual is on a street between the town´s only two gas stations. I am hoping it is because of a keen sense of irony and not a desire to blow up the beautiful colonial city.

I was in Guatemala City for the celebration. We bought the devil pinata and burned it outside the bus station in Zone 1 prior to boarding a 10:3o overnight bus to Flores. The overnight bus seems like such a good idea in theory--you save on lodging for a night AND you awake magically transported to your destination, ready for action in the day.

That is just in theory, however. Steve St. John (my New Mexican traveling partner who also happens to be a professional photographer) and I experienced a slightly different version: the man sitting across the isle from us slept so soundly that he snored quite audibly, even through my ear plugs. The seat behind us had two men and a 11-year-old boy who slept partly on their side but with appendages spilling over on to unsuspecting heads. The bus stopped at least three times: bathroom break, police checkpoint, and to put out a fire that was apparently burning somewhere in the vicinity of the engine.

It wasn´t a dull trip, at least. So we arrived today in Flores (in the department of Peten in Northern Guate), bleary-eyed and disoriented. But the beds in the Los Amigos hostel are comfy, the day is ours to do with as we please, and tomorrow we conquer Tikal, the capital of the Mayan ruins of Guatemala. (And possibly the capital of tourism as well. . . )

I´m not sure who is seeking revenge, but he brought an army

2008-11-28T16:57:00.000-08:00

So, I emerged from two days during which I only saw my bed and the toilet, and my boss at Camino Seguro said, ¨Yeah, here in Guatemala we say - It´s not if you get sick, but when.¨

I must admit I was getting a little bravado about my iron stomach. When I first arrived, I brushed my teeth with bottled water, always asked if ice cubes were made with agua pura, and knew not to eat any fruit that did not have to be peeled first. But, I grew complacent. The last time I had a Pupusa, I went for the chicharron instead of the basic queso, and while on the coast enjoyed ceviches more than once, which my guide books says is dangerous culinary territory.

But there was no adventure eating on Monday, nothing out of the ordinary--just the regular routine. So I can´t put my finger on what reduced me to a sniveling, shivering, Tylenol PM-popping patient.

I´ll spare everyone the details since you have leftovers to enjoy, but it wasn´t pretty. I think the scariest part is that I actually fainted and fell in the hallway outside my room on Tuesday night, whether from dehydration or fever I am not sure. Luckily no one was there to witness it, and more luckily I did not strike any vital body parts (i.e., my head) on any immovable objects (por ejemplo, the floor).

I´ve been back at work two days and my 4th graders are behind on the Christmas skit and I continue to prefer having un baño within sprinting distance, but I survived.

Meet Lefty

2008-11-26T18:46:00.000-08:00

He was my baby turtle. I mean, not my baby turtle, but I paid 10 Q to set him free. It was kind of a race on the beach in Monterrico--there was a rumor of a T-shirt prize for the first turtle to the water, which must have been a lie because after about 6 meters you couldn´t really tell whose turtle you were rooting for.

I named him Lefty because it kind of sounded like a fast and crafty kind of turtle. And because in the song ¨Pancho and Lefty,¨ Lefty is the one who survives. In the end, he was neither fast nor particularly crafty but he did tend to swerve to the left.

What´s in a name, really?

2008-11-23T08:29:00.000-08:00

When I started at Camino Seguro, I introduced myself to a couple of people at the bus stop the first morning. I said, ¨Hi, I´m Anna.¨ The response I received was, ¨oh, you´re the 5th or 6th Anna we have working here.¨ And so, just like that, I was magically transformed into Adrianna.

Adrianna is my real name, after my paternal grandfather, Adrian, but I have never gone by it--I have always been Anna. The summer between my junior and senior years of college I tried Adrianna on for size, but found that my co-workers at the restaurant where I was working (The Blue Corn Cafe) more often called me Audrey, Andrea, or Abigail--it just did not seem to slide off the American tongue with much ease. (It´s also a challenging one for telemarketers--they almost always come up with a pronunciation I never fathomed.)

But Adriana is a common name in Spanish, so I have enjoyed telling the kids my name and seeing the immediate recognition on their faces. It is a name they know, and I feel like maybe it makes me more familiar to them, more approachable.

This rebirth of my real name made me start thinking about names, and how they determine who we are, if they do. I am wondering, is the Adrianna I am here different from the Anna I was at home? Is she quieter, a bit more reserved, less likely to be at the center of things and more likely to be on the sidelines? Have I changed because of my new name or was this change coming anyway, a result of three months without a home-base, without a direction, without a sense of what comes next?

The Children of Camino Seguro

2008-11-16T18:21:00.000-08:00

This Monday actually felt like a Monday. It´s because I´m working. Volunteering, yes, but working all the same.

I started at Safe Passage (Camino Seguro) on November 3rd, but I haven´t had time to write about it since then because we work long days (on the bus at 7 am and off it again at 6 pm). Also, because I am trying to formulate exactly what I want to say about the experience.

Camino Seguro is a place for some of Guatemala City´s poorest children to come for food and love. While they´re there, they also get help with school, the chance to play lacrosse and go swimming, and do other things that kids like to do, like create art projects, science experiments, watch movies, and play games on the computers.

When I first started, it seemed like the kids were normal kids--they hang out with their friends, laugh, joke, sometimes misbehave, etc. But these kids are a little bit different. They live adjacent to the city dump--the largest in Central America--and that is where their parents and neighbors work every day, jumping on the piles of freshly collected garbage in search of treasures to recycle or resell. The kids used to work there, too, and some of them probably still spend some of their weekends there, collecting cardboard or aluminum cans.

One mother of some of our kids told a coworker recently that she worked for 11 hours in the dump a couple of weeks ago. When she went to sell the items she had collected, she ended up with a net of 7 Quetzales, not quite $1 US, for a whole day´s work.

So, at Camino Seguro we are trying to break the cycle of poverty that surrounds life near the dump. The project has three arms--a Guarderia for pre-school aged children, the main school reinforcement site for elementary-high school aged kids, and an Adult Literacy Program where some of the mothers of the children learn to read and write, up to a 6th grade level. I help teach English at the main school, and I am working with the coordinator there to re-organize the office and teaching resources before the new year begins. Check out this great YouTube video of some of our students! It´s about 8.5 minutes long, but they say everything a lot better than I can in writing this! (And the whole video was made by one of the school´s volunteers, too.)

In addition to the extracurricular activities and tutoring help, Camino Seguro provides scholarships for all of the items the kids need to attend school--uniforms, school supplies, etc. And the families of the kids enrolled at Camino Seguro receive food and clothing supplies to compensate for the income lost because the kids are not working to help support their families.

I did visit the dump. It is hard to describe--immense, gaping, hot, and swarming with vultures. A couple of months before I was there, a huge landslide of trash collapsed because of a methane gas build-up beneath it. No one knows exactly how many people were buried.

So, some days I have to remind myself when I am filing papers and coaxing 14-year-olds to say, ¨She is studying,¨ that it is important work.

I would say more but it´s about bedtime.

Being lost

2008-11-08T16:20:00.001-08:00

I am probably lost in more than one way. . . but during the past week of living in Antigua I have been lost about 12 times. The city seems simple--it is a grid, with Avenidas running north and south and Calles running east to west. But then in certain sections of the city they don´t call them by their numbered names--they call them by their street names, so suddenly Primero Avenida becomes Calle de San Marcos or something, and my whole navigation system is shot to hell.

And so. I looked for the gym this morning for 45 minutes (didn´t need to work out by the time I found it because I was power walking around town for so long beforehand). It would be understandable if I had never been there before, but I was there. Yesterday afternoon. My roomate, Julie, showed me where it is and I thought, ¨OK I´ll come back tomorrow morning and sign up.¨ And then I walked in circles for 45 minutes.

Anyway, I passed a Guatemalteca on the street and asked her in my much improving spanish if there was a gym on this street. She said that she didn´t think so and went on her way. So I circled round again and started to get really frustrated. And then I saw her again. Picture me in my soccer shorts and headband, sweating in the early morning sunshine. And she smiled. And I smiled.

Another lap. I am near tears with frustration. And then I see her coming my way, and we both bust out laughing.

And I finally found it. And she made my day.

Back up to November 1st

2008-11-07T17:28:00.000-08:00

November 1st was Dia de los Santos here, and I spent the majority of the day in a cemetary. It wasn´t like Memorial Day, though--I did not witness much mourning or sadness. In fact, there were ice cream trolleys and pizza deliverymen and kids of all shapes and sizes running over and around the graves. Families picnicked next on top of concrete tombs and the gringos present shot photo after photo of the hundreds of homemade kites, some of them 6-8 feet in diameter, flying above the buried bodies of their family members, neighbors, and friends.

In the little town of Santiago, about 40 minutes from Antigua, the local residents create and fly their kites in order to send messages to their loved ones in the cielo. Although I am not usually fond of crowds and being herded from place to place, this festival was worth every minute of the crowded tourist bus packed with gringos. We (two good friends from my Spanish school and I) were there for 4 hours, and I ate street food with abandon, took photos like the turista that I am, and sat atop a tomb watching the experts fly their kites with much passion and effort. It truly felt like a celebration. (Photos coming soon, I promise!)

There is, however, a darker side to Dia de los Santos. That evening, just after dark, we arrived (via the back of a pick-up truck) in the village of El Hato to stay the night at the Earth Lodge. The church bells started to toll as we arrived and all of the townspeople were gathered in the central part of the village just outside of the school. Adults, the elderly, and the children were all there, standing in lines. My friend Betsy, from my Spanish school, told us (although she didn´t remember her source) that All Saint´s Day is the day that the children who died in the past year come and select the children who will die in the coming year.

Kind of gives, you chills, huh?

Travel and Scuba and more Travel

2008-10-25T09:26:00.000-07:00

Ferry-colectivo-taxi-bus-microbus-chicken bus-colectivo-ferry. That pretty much sums up the past two days of traveling from the Roatan, Honduras to Livingston, Guatemala, which is a town accessible only by boat on the carribbean coast. Yesterday was a 12-hour travel day. But it went relatively smoothly considering the first bus we took was, according to my schedule, supposed to arrive in San Pedro Sula Honduras at 10 am and we arrived a little after 11. And one of the microbuses had about seven guys who had been working at the banana plantation pile up on the roof--I thought it was going to collapse on us. It was like watching a clown car fill up--they kept climbing up one after the other and I was thinking ¨where are they all sitting?¨

The coastal areas North of San Pedro Sula all the way over the border were hard hit by the recent rains so as we moved up the coast yesterday we saw shanty towns of tarp tents where people who have been displaced are living. We saw a boy of about 12 carrying a television on his shoulder as he waded through chest-deep water. In Guatemala they have semi-truck trailers parked by the side of the road with kids sleeping on mats beneath them. It was hard to see but apparently the government is providing some food and other assistance.

So I was a gringa in Honduras for the past week or so. I went early to Roatan and learned how to scuba dive with Daniel, a British guy working for an outfit called Reef Gliders. We did everything in the ocean--confined dives requiring skills like swimming without a mask, sharing a regulator, learning to hover, etc. It was challenging because the usually calm sea was a bit rough, so sometimes while we were underwater there was current and waves pushing you around. My dive partners were Tao and Bativa, a honeymooning couple from Israel whose names I am sure I did not spell right.

Once Jon arrived we did three fun dives to sites called Spooky Channel (it was a little bit dark down there and Jon spotted a green moray eel--his hunter instincts make him a good dive partner), Texas, and Herbie´s Fantasy. Apparently the fish life here is amazing (second only to Australia´s Great Barrier Reef) but I have no comparison so I guess I´ll just have to be content that I was spoiled on my first dives.

So. . . now we are staying in a bungalow at a hostel called the casa de la iguana with a bunch of young Americans working there. So much for practicing my Spanish! Next we plan to head inland by boat up the Rio Dulce and then to Semuc Champay. Last little tidbit--my new favorite snack is the lychee fruit--they sell them as you board the buses in Honduras and they are delicious!

This one is just really for mom and dad

2008-10-15T17:46:00.000-07:00

Because I don't have a new email address for you, mom and dad, so I can't tell you that I am OK. I was stuck in La Ceiba, Honduras overnight (not the best place to be stuck but it worked out) but I made it to Roatan on a flight this morning. I haven't been able to figure out the phones here yet but hopefully tomorrow. I have a room and started my dive course today (I absoultely love, love, love scuba diving) and I don't have malaria yet but have been eaten by bugs a lot and I am taking my malaria medication I will hopefully be able to call you tomorrow, but in case I can't, I am doing well. Except I miss everyone and my spanish is regressing already.

Love,

Anna

On the road again

2008-10-12T21:35:00.000-07:00

Well, during three weeks of Spanish school I learned six verb tenses, and now my head is more muddled when I try to use them than when I arrived. But yesterday I rode the "chicken bus" (the local buses which are 5x cheaper than the tourist shuttles but 3x more crowded and slightly more dangerous) without too much difficulty. I would like to say I "conquered" the chicken buses, but that would be a bit presumida since it was only a 3-hour journey and I felt victourious simply because I came out of it with all of my belongings and no major mishaps. (However, I did have to change buses twice and I learned how to ask them to put my mochila--backpack-- in a safe place.)

Now I have sprayed half my clothes with Permethrin, a killer bug-spray for clothes, in preparation for a week on Roatan off the coast of Honduras. Tomorrow morning I leave quite early (need to be at the bus station by 5 am) to travel over land to La Ceiba, where I will fly 15 minutes to the island. I am going now so I can start my open water scuba course, a 4-day mix of book/video learning and dive practice.

Once again the New Mexican connection came through for me; tonight I am back in Guatemala City but safe in the home of Bryant, director of the Oxford Language School here in the capital. We spent the afternoon in a nice American fashion--watching American football and drinking beer with his dad, who is also visiting.

When I return from three weeks traveling in Honduras and east/central Guatemala with mi novio, Jon, I will be volunteering for Bryant and some colleagues at Camino Seguro school here in the capital (but living in Antigua with a Guatemalan family.) I am excited to get started doing some work that hopefully will allow me to practice my spanish as well as use my library experience in a productive way.

I don't know how much I will be writing while Jon and I are on the road, but I am sure I will post some fresh photos at some point!

Until then, take care mis amigos and thanks for reading!

The pickpocket attempt and mi familia muy amable

2008-10-09T17:20:00.000-07:00

Nothing was stolen and I wasn´t ever in any real danger. But I had a little reminder last weekend that being an extranjero also makes you a target. It was a good lesson to learn.

On Sunday afternoon I went to the zoo with my family. They planned a nice picnic lunch (we brought the grill to make carne asada), and since we had a lot to carry we took the bus. (Did I mention that my family doesn´t have a car?) Anyway, the bus was very crowded so we piled in and I was standing, pushed up against an occupied seat. All of a sudden, I felt fingers on the side of my leg, trying to open a velcro pants pocket (which only had my cell phone and 3 quetzales inside.) I looked down and saw an older man pull his hand away. I shifted positions so that my pocket and my backpack were out of his reach.

Everything would have been just peachy except that this man was apparently not pleased that I didn´t let him rob me. He started pushing me with his knee, effectively shoving me into the isle and the other people crammed on the bus. Then he stood up and started calling me names, like ¨basura¨(trash) and other things I won´t mention since this blog is rated PG-13. I could smell the sour alcohol on his breath.

At this point I was pretty scared and was wondering if anyone else on the bus had noticed him trying to pick my pocket. Finally he got right behind me and was pushing me, so I pushed him back and said, ¨Qué es tú problema?!¨ Maya, the mom in my family, then noticed there was a problem and moved between me and the man. The man continued to call me names and then the papá in my family started protecting me by telling the bus driver to kick the guy off and yelling at the pickpocket directly.

Thankfully, we arrived at the zoo and it was time to get off the bus. I kept saying, ¨estoy bien, estoy bien¨ to my family. They were really concerned and said that the man was a real rude guy who is not representative of a typical Guatemalteco.

Anyway, for every bad experience there is a good experience that balances it out. At the zoo, everyone had smiles for me, the guy running the bumper cars kept trying to speak to me in English, I rode the slide and the played on the jungle gym with the girls, and then taught them how to play ¨500,¨an old game I remember from the playground.

While we were eating our picnic lunch, a young man (probably 12 or 13) came by with his shoe-shine kit and asked if we needed his services. We said no, so he ambled away and sat down not too far from us. The papá in my family (I know it´s terrible that I don´t know how to spell his name) grabbed a spare plate and started spooning beans and tortillas on it. Then he added freshly grilled meat and some pico de gallo and took the plate and a cup of hot tea over to the boy so he could have lunch, too.

There is a lot of injustice in this country that obviously makes some people angry and some people resentful of gringos or of the ¨ricos.¨ But there is also some kindness and compassion. Ultimately, there are too many have-nots, too many people working three jobs and barely surviving, too many children who don´t have enough to eat, and too many elderly people living barefoot on the street. But you can´t try to fix it all at once. It´s just paso a paso.

¨Lassie¨ saves the day (i.e., my second mishap)

2008-10-05T16:42:00.001-07:00

It´s hard to believe how much has transpired in the last few days. I find that, as much as I thought I would have plenty of leisure time to sit in sidewalk cafes and browse books, review spanish vocabulary, and watch the people pass by, my life here is full and busy much like my life in Winter Park was. Perhaps I somehow prefer it to be that way . . .

Yesterday I hiked to Laguna Chicabal with one of the teachers at our school and three other students. We took a public bus about 45 minutes outside of Xela to San Martin, a small agricultural village where they primarily grow corn and potates, but I was also psyched to see remolachas (beets! my favorite) and lots of other fresh vegetables. As soon as we got out of the microbus and started climbing, I felt two things: the altitude (we were over 8,000 feet) and a strong desire to get out of the city on a more permanent basis.

Then last night I attended a free concert at the Teatro Municipal with my familia. (Hint--this is where mishap #2 begins.) I went to the concert with my friend Rachel (from Philly) and my family, and after about an hour Rachel and I left to meet some other students. We had a beer but we were pretty tired so we headed home. I got home and let myself in with my key as on many other nights, and dead-bolted and chained the door from the inside, and went to bed.

In the midst of deep sleep, I heard the dog, Pongie, barking rather enthusiastically considering it was the middle of the night. He continued on for quite some time and I began to wonder what was causing him such consternation. Then I began wondering why no one else in the family had been woken up by the racket. Which led me to wonder--was anyone else home?

It was a this point that the horrific truth hit me: I had locked my Guatemalan family out of their own home. I sprang out of bed, noticing that it was 12:23 am, and went for the door. Huddled on the step was the five of them (it was cold!) and immediately of course Maya, the mom, started telling me how nice I was to open the door for them. I felt horrible. I kept telling them that I thought everyone was home already or else I would never have locked the door. I asked how long they had been waiting, and the mom said, ¨only about half-an-hour¨ to which one of the daughters replied, ¨more like an hour.¨ Today, the oldest daugher, Dulce, told me that they thought they were going to have to sleep on the street.

So we´re going out for dinner tonight. I am treating. And they are letting me stick around for another week, but they made sure to get my phone number in case of emergencies.

Stay tuned for my first encounter with a pick-pocket soon! You´ve all read enough for now!

The difference between being on vacation and living somewhere

2008-10-02T18:56:00.001-07:00

As I settle in to life in Xela, I am reminded of the differences between living somewhere and just passing through as a traveler. Differences like dirty laundry that can´t just sit in the bottom of your bag until you get home. Small things like needing a place to excercise but not knowing exactly where to go, and knowing that I am going to run out of soap and toothpaste before I get home.

It´s also about getting to know a city better than just snapping a couple of photos on the central plaza, visting the main tourist attraction, and a eating at restaurant or a bar.

I am getting to know Xela now. I am seeing the bad with the good, because it´s not just quaint, new, and different anymore. I feel the pollution thick and black in my lungs when I arise to go running at 6:15 am. I recognize the 7-year-old boy who awaits his first customer at his shoe-shine stand in the central park each morning. I jog by and wonder what led to his labor at such a young age and wish that my running shoes needed to be shined. This morning I saw a man sleeping on a sidewalk; he was using a stone for his pillow. As I run, the streets become crowded with students in uniforms going to school for the morning--the younger ones escorted by their parents or other siblings and the older ones walking hand-in-hand with their novios. I run for excercise past men pushing heavy wheelbarrows through narrow streets because it is their work. They look at me with a mix of curiosity, disdain, and interest and I am not sure how I should look back.

El Fin De Semana Pasada

2008-09-29T14:48:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, I visited a community called Nueva Alianza about two hours southeast of here where a group of 40 Guatemalan families own a coffee growing farm and cooperative. Their history is very interesting, and as part of this tour the guests actually harvest coffee berries, see how they are processed, and go hiking in the rainforest and learn about the native plants, including those that are edible and some that will sting you or make you sick just from contact. (We also ate cardamon seeds right out of the pod!)

The group that went consisted of 4 students from my school including me, a couple from Denver, a guy from Australia, a young woman from Albuquerque (her parents are my parents´neighbors, it turns out), and a Canadian. The whole weekend cost $40 US, (is the US dollar still worth anything? I am not sure at this point. . . ) for transportation to and from, meals, tours, an overnight stay, and all the coffee you can drink. (And it was the best coffee I have had since I have been here.)

Anyway, we took a minivan to the entrance of the plantation and then transferred to the back of a small pickup truck. It brought back fond memories of my childhood in New Mexico as we bumped along the road that climbed into the hills close to the volcano Santa Maria.

Of all the activities, I enjoyed picking coffee berries the most. So, the next time you go to the Roastery and enjoy a fresh cup of Guatemalan coffee, know that it was by the sweat of my brow (and watch out for the Deet in there, since I was coated in it when I was picking.)

We harvested for about a half and hour by a small stream and you could hear it trickling along as you searched the bushes for the red berries. We were instructed by our guide not to pick the green or yellow ones--only red. You can also chew on the ripe berries and get the sweet miel (honey) out of the berry that surrounds the bean. (See the slide show to your right.)

The interesting thing about this particular farm is that they were privately owned up until about 8 years ago. The owner of the farm was in financial trouble and had not paid the workers for 18 months worth of wages. To make a long story short, the workers finally reclaimed the farm by force and, after many attempts, received support from some unions and a government funding agency to buy the farm and run it as a cooperative. Even so, they work very hard doing a variety of things: coffee harvesting, macademia nut harvesting, water purification and sales, biodisel fuel, and hydro-electric power. They are trying to diversify their ability to support themselves, because even at fair-trade prices, the average person working to harvest coffee for 4-5 hours a day makes about 40 Quetzales, which is equivalent to about $6. A father and son team gave us the tours with a young Michigan woman named Allison who volunteers as a translator. They are obviously very proud of all that they are trying to do.

I was impressed with all that they are trying to do as well. And although they are much better off as a cooperative, the people are obviously still working very hard to make a living. I may go back and stay there and harvest coffee for them (the busiest part of the harvest is now-December) and practice my Spanish for a couple of weeks if time allows. Something about harvesting berries for several hours a day really appeals to me. Must be some agricultural blood running somewhere in my veins.

Now it´s back to conjugating verbs, stumbling to use the preterite, and more rain in Xela. More on life with my family later this week!

La gente me ha encontrado en Guatemala

2008-09-24T15:54:00.000-07:00

(Translation: the people I have met in Guatemala)

Tracy, the NYU Librarian -- see her blog at http://www.theachefordistance.blogspot.com/

Sam, the Mt. Baker ski patroller

Bryant, the New Mexican (from Las Cruces) who is also the director of the Oxford Language Center in Guatemala City

Bryant´s dog, Remy (he looks sad but he is really quite a sweetheart!)

Flor, Juan, y Jose--los niños at The Earth Lodge with whom I played soccer (chicas verses chicos, y las chicas won 5-4, which made Jose cry, unfortunately)

Mi madre y mi hermana mas menor en la familia Alvilar en Xela (Maya y Paoula)

Life in Xela

2008-09-23T17:49:00.001-07:00

Following my strict ¨no plan¨plan, after a night in Panajachel I decided that it was not my kind of place, despite the beauty of Lake Atitlan. It was much too busy and touristy and focused on commerce for me, (los niños are relentless in trying to sell you small dolls, magnets, stuffed horses, etc.) so off I went on Sunday afternoon to Quetzaltenango (also known as Xela--pronounced Shey-lah.)

Xela is the second-largest city in Guatemala, and it has a European feel to it, with narrow streets and small shops & restaurants, at least near the city center.

After an intensive application process that consisted of a phone call, I was accepted to the Pop Vuh school of español and moved in with la familia Alivar, who live only about 12 doors down from the school. I now have tres hermanas menor, y una perro se llamamos ¨Pongi.¨ (Three younger sisters and a dog we call Pongi.) The family is very nice to me although I don´t understand a lot of what they are saying, especially to one another. There are six of us living in the house, which is long and narrow and has one bathroom, a small kitchen, and a store out front that sells used clothing.

On Monday night I went to a fiesta with my family--it was the mother´s brother´s birthday party. We walked about 8 blocks to the grandparents´house, and we played a game like "hot potato" where we would pass a toy while music played and then when the music stopped, whomever was holding the toy had to tell a joke, riddle, tongue-twister, or sing a song. Of course I couldn´t understand much of what was happening, but it was fun nonetheless and I got to sing a couple of old camp songs (in English, of course). Then we had dinner and hit a spiderman piñata (I played too, but did not get any candy to fall out of the stubborn spider.) Everyone is extremely nice and accomodating and the food is OK. So far we´ve had things like chicken tamales (but the sauce is not spicy), rice with vegetables and fried cauliflower, and a dish with cabbage, red peppers, and chicken in a creamy sauce. It´s nice to not have to worry about cooking or washing dishes, so I can´t complain.

Luckily, I was also invited to play in a soccer tournament fundraiser benefiting a local rural health organization. So on Monday and Tuesday afternoons I played at Futeca, an indoor soccer complex with small fields (we played 5 on 5 with two women on each team) made of the same rubber stuff that the new indoor fields in Granby have. I played OK, except that I had to be la portera (the goalie) some of the time, and I think in total had about 7 or 8 goals scored against me. Our team was mostly extranjeros, or foreigners, and we spoke English more than Spanish, although I am becoming familar with las palabras de futbol--la esquina, afuera, pasame, etc.

Things about this area that I find interesting include:

Many of the buildings have re-bar sticking out of the tops, I was told because if they decide to add on, it will be ready for the concrete blocks.
There are tons of shops that sell photo copies. My teacher told me that it´s because text books are very expensive and so students make photo copies of all the books rather than purchasing them.
Everyone is very emphatic about "agua caliente" in the showers, but the water is, at best luke warm, which makes showering similar to walking in the rain, which I have been doing a lot of.

Overall, it´s a lot colder here than I thought it would be--I haven`t worn my sundresses or shorts much, and I will probably need another sweater to get through the winter. Xela is at about 7,000 feet, and if I go next to Todos Santos or Coban, they are also mountainous and will be cold through the winter months, althought the rain is supposed to let up in a month or so (keep your fingers crossed! It feels a bit like Ireland here!)

I have more photos to post and will try to get them up later today. I think of you all frequently and miss my friends from home, although I am meeting lots of nice people here.

My first mishap and mucho lluvia

2008-09-20T06:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I walked from the village of El Hato (where the hostel is located) down to La Antigua, one of the most beautiful and frequently visited towns in Guatemala. It was a nice walk; I practiced my spanish in my head as I trekked down the 5 km paved road, flanked mostly by expensive homes and gardens.

I met with my spanish teacher, Luis, at a touristy restaurant called Cafe Condeza on the plaza of Antigua. Rain threatened, but it stayed dry until about 1/2 way through our lesson.
We finished and Luis said "Adios," but by then it was a steady downpour so I stayed on to write some postcards to people at home.

When I finally ventured into the town, the cobblestone streets had 6-8 inches of standing water in the middle of them, and I had my raincoat but no umbrella. I was soaked within minutes, searching for the post office (which I never did find). After some time at an Internet Cafe, I headed up to the edge of town where I was going to catch my first "chicken bus" (the public buses) up the hill to El Hato. I was a little bit late (if you can believe it!) so I was hurrying down the street. I was almost to the bus stop when a bus came around the corner. I waved it down and jumped on, and it promptly turned the corner--directly away from the road to El Hato. It was packed, so I was standing up front, practically in the driver's lap, and telling the Ayudante (the guy who calls out stops and collects the fares) "El bus no es correcto!" with most likely significant panic on my face. He seemed unconcerned.

Finally, a young Gutemalteca (Gutemalan woman) got on board and told me that she would help me. So I stayed on the bus as it wound through the streets of Antigua, getting farther and farther (not that I knew where I was, but I had a general sense of direction) from the road to El Hato.

Finally, we got to the main market where there are tons of buses going to all sorts of destinations, but I knew that there are only three buses to El Hato per day, and I had just missed the last one. But the young woman took me to the taxi stand and I had a nice taxi driver (who had lived in New Jersey for a year) shuttle me back up the hill.

Cost of the bus to El Hato: 4 Quetzales (about 65 cents). Cost of the taxi to El Hato: 25 Q (about $3.50). Lesson learned: Look at the destination written on the front of the bus prior to boarding (priceless).

Today skies are clearer and I am on to Panajachel (on the lake) where I will start more intensive Spanish school. I can't wait until I can communicate more effectively!

My best to you all! Thanks for reading my ramblings!

First Impressions

2008-09-17T12:01:00.000-07:00

If first impressions are any indication, I am going to love this country and this experience. La Aurora airport was newly remodeled with nice banos, immigration and customs were a breeze, my luggage arrived immediately and in tact, and Victor the driver was awaiting me as promised to whisk me away to the Dos Lunes Guesthouse in Guatemala City. After a night in good company (Tracy, a New Yorker Librarian/Massage Therapist and Sam, ski patroller at Mt. Baker in Washington) with a couple of Gallo cervezas (thanks, Sam), I explored Guatemala City on foot.

It surprised me that the city is not especially pedestrian-friendly. Starting from Zona Viva, (the touristy section), I walked about 15 blocks to the University grounds, where I visited two museums. There are sections with sidewalks, and the in the residential areas there is minimal traffic, but I did not see a lot of people walking--most people are in cars or on motor bikes.

Last night I connected with a New Mexican named Bryant who started the Oxford Language Center in the City, with a branch in Coban. Even though I didn't bring him any green chile, we had dinner together at Tacontento (Happy Taco) and he drove me to fetch my 42 lb backpack at the guesthouse. He also gave me a lot of background on Guatemala, the politics, the gap in the distribution of wealth, etc. And he provided me a futon to sleep on, good conversation with his roomate, Tom, and a delicious breakfast. Bryant is also very much involved with a non-profit organization called Camino Seguro, that seeks to provide education and nutrition for children who live in the Guatemala City's dump (the largest in Central America). Their parents work in the dump, separating and selling recyclables and other items they can reuse from the dump. It is amazing, actually--they reduce the amount of trash going into the dump by over a million tons a year. But Camino Seguro is trying to break the cycle, since there are now generations of families, (grandparent to grandchild) all working and living in the dump.

Although living in Guatemala City was not on my agenda, Bryant told me that they need help organizing the library there. Apparently they get tons of book donations, but have no way to get them into a useful organizational system. So I hope to return to the city in November and work on that for a few weeks.

Now I am in the mountains outside Antigua, at a hostel run by a Canadian-American couple. It's called Earth Lodge and they have great vegetarian fare, avocado groves, and hiking trails into the mountains behind the lodge. I am going to try to post some photos if I can get them to upload. The Internet connection decent, but drops now and then and you have to start over.

Miss everyone!

Early Retirement

2008-09-10T21:44:00.000-07:00

I keep joking about being retired. It's a nice feeling in a way, knowing that when Monday comes there's no need to wake up early, decide what to wear, and feel the weight an impending work weeks brings. But there's also the slightly panicky feeling of checking my bank balance and seeing funds being withdrawn--but nothing coming in.

The most amazing thing about being retired is that my whole day can be spent doing things I used to do before or after work. For example: going for a bike ride and a swim used to be a before or after work activity, and when I was home it became my whole day. Running errands? It used to be something I did quick at lunch or after work. Now it takes up the whole day. It's amazing what you can find to do when there's nothing you have to do.

I also have thought a lot about the fact that you're supposed to wait until a certain age and then retire. My friend Lily and I were talking about it yesterday, and we agree: for every 6-8 years you work, you should get to take 2 years off, dip into your retirement funds, and experience something new and different.

I guess that's what I am trying to do. Tomorrow I board the plane at 8:38 a.m. When I get off I will be in Guatemala!

Being a big fish in a small pond

2008-08-07T08:14:00.000-07:00

After 9 years in Winter Park, Colorado I'm not considered a "true" local (as I have been told the bar is 10 years, and I didn't quite make it.) And it looks like I may never make it, despite time spent at town council meetings, Rotary Club lunches, years of Art Affair book sales, soccer fields, and on chair lifts and snow-covered slopes. Despite the fact that I know all the trail systems from Idlewild to Silvercreek, and that I hike to Devil's Thumb every summer. Despite the fact that I read stories and sang the "Ants Go Marching" song to pre-schoolers who are now teens, and that I can't go into a restaurant, grocery store, or the bank without seeing someone I know.

Is it a good thing to be comfortable in a place, so much so that everything is easy and everyone is a friend or acquaintance? Is it good to be a big fish in a small pond for so long?