A conversation and the return

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

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

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

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?

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?