It's strange being here during the Christmas season. For one thing there's the weather. It went from being bright and sunny in the morning and gloomy and rainy every afternoon to suddenly very bitterly cold and sometimes overcast in the mornings and usually clear, sunny and even hot in the afternoons, and chilly again as soon as the sun sets (I don't think I will ever understand how the weather could do a complete 180 like that). It's not quite like any season in Montana, and certainly not like the beginning of winter/Christmas weather. I feel like I'm in some kind of Twilight zone where the passage of time follows a whole new set of rules, and is most distinctly marked by the presence or absence of rain and the state of the milpas, or cornfields. Back in the "summer months"' (but what they call winter), the corn stalks boasted dark green shiny leaves. Beginning in October, they crisped and curled into a pale golden brown that glows copper when the morning or evening light hits it. Now, harvest time, the corn stalks have either been toppled haphazardly to the ground (to collect the dried corn) or chopped all together, leaving the bare mounds of earth bristled with spiky stumps. The milpas are interspersed throughout the town, and now that they've been chopped down, suddenly the town has opened up and you can see the neighboring houses and stores as if several curtains dividing up the town had suddenly been drawn, leaving the buildings bare and exposed.
As far as Christmas, it has been acknowledged in small ways, but it is not the explosion of Christmas that takes place back home. Decorations have popped up on a few houses, a scattering of a few Christmas lights and an occassional tree poking up from a roof (since most of the houses are made of concrete block, most of them are square with a flat roof you can access, including mine). Apparently here the Christmas trees go on the roofs rather than in windows. The hardware store that my host family operates has been transformed, in the evenings, into a flashing singing Christmas wonderland of electronic santas and little trees and Christmas lights, products they're selling. (But inside the house, there's nary a Christmas decoration to be seen.) And on the camionetas (buses) I occassionally hear a Christmas song in Spanish. Mostly, they just get on my nerves though. The songs are either manically upbeat and happy or so sticky sweet and sappy that they make me feel more scroogish about the season. (They're probably no more corny than the songs back home, but because a series of happy memories are not attaced to them, they don't have the same effect). For someone who dearly loves Christmas, I'm mostly trying to ignore it this year. It's so different here as to be almost a completely different holiday, and thinking too much about the Christmas that's going on at home just makes me homesick. So generally I'm just trying to pretend it's not going on.
At one point I did try to acknowledge Christmas. I bought a teeny Christmas tree in the supermarket and brought it home to decorate with the 6 year old girl in the family. I brought it up to the patio outside of my "apartment"(if that's what you can call it) and the neighbors accross the street that same day had put a big fake tree on their roof with lots of decorations and flashing, singing lights. I teased them that it wasn't as good as my tree, and although I'd planned on putting it somewhere inside, I decided to leave mine outside on the patio for a while accross from the big tree, on a ledge where I usually leave my dishes. Well I forgot to bring it in, or didn't bother. Of course that night happened to be very windy, and when I woke up, the tree was gone. I wasn't too worried because I figured it had fallen down to the open part of the house below, but when I asked, the family said they hadn't seen it. The little girl and I walked out to look for it on the street, but it wasn't there. I asked the neighbors accross the way, and they had not seen it either. We all figured that someone, who gets up earlier than me, must have come accross it and brought it home.
So my one attempt failed, but at least it's become a favorite joke in the neighborhood. People just love to bring up my Christmas (that I had for about 5 hours) and speculate about where it might be. I've told all the children my theory that it flew up to the mountain to live with all the other pine trees, where it is the one and only Christmas tree.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
All Souls Day
If the Halloween celebration was pure-tourist, the next day I got to witness a holiday that was pure Chapín—All Souls Day. In Guatemala, the tradition is to fly kites as a way to connect the living on earth to the souls of the departed in Heaven. It’s also traditional to visit the cemeteries. The biggest and most famous celebration of the holiday in Guatemala just happened to be in Sacatepéquez, the department where we lived in during training (and where Antigua is). There are 3 towns that have the most famous celebrations and draw the big crowds, but my small training town also had a big celebration and I had promised my host family almost in the first week of training that I would go there to celebrate it with them.
In these towns, the people take the tradition of kite-flying to another level. Secret committees of young men in the town form to create paper maché kites as tall, or taller, than the houses. These enormous kites, supported by bamboo posts, can’t actually fly. The climax is when they are lifted into standing position off the ground, a process that involves a lot of ropes, poles and coordination… and many of the biggest ones crack as soon as they’re lifted, and supposedly sometimes they fall onto the crowd. This is a shame because the secret committees spend around 8 months making the most elaborate ones. The designs are incredibly intricate and beautiful and often depict a scene related to religion or traditional Mayan life.
Almost half of our training group ended up going to my small training town rather than the larger and more famous towns for the celebration which was a nice surprise (I was expecting at most only the 3 others girls that lived there during training). And it was really good to spend some time with my first host family. They surprised me with a birthday present of blue jeans that fit me perfectly (last thing I expected from a family of mostly women who wear traditional traje). I still have no idea how they managed to pick out my size, and they were very pleased to see me wear them. I also got to meet the volunteer that came after me and who had just graduated from training (so strange to not be the new kids on the block any more). We spent the morning watching the kites being raised and the smaller ones flying. Then I had lunch with my host family and visited the cemetery with them. They prayed at the grave of the son who was killed by gang members some years past (the gang mistook him for a member of a rival gang that they were hunting). Then they sat amongst the graves and ate corn on the cob and sweet potatoes. The cemetery was full of Guatemalan families doing the same thing, only some were eating pumpkin and other things. I was the only non-Guatemalan there, and I felt privileged to have a more complete experience of the holiday than the tourists who would only see the kites.
And it was interesting to see the calm even celebratory attitude of the Guatemalans as they visited their departed loved ones. I know my host family was sad in thinking about the loss of their family member—who had died so unjustly and at such a young age—but there were many smiles and jokes as well. The point seemed to be remembrance in peace, rather than remembrance in sorrow, and a true acceptance of their death. Such attitudes are not easy for anyone, but I felt like I saw more calmness and peace than I ever have in cemetery visits in the US.
In these towns, the people take the tradition of kite-flying to another level. Secret committees of young men in the town form to create paper maché kites as tall, or taller, than the houses. These enormous kites, supported by bamboo posts, can’t actually fly. The climax is when they are lifted into standing position off the ground, a process that involves a lot of ropes, poles and coordination… and many of the biggest ones crack as soon as they’re lifted, and supposedly sometimes they fall onto the crowd. This is a shame because the secret committees spend around 8 months making the most elaborate ones. The designs are incredibly intricate and beautiful and often depict a scene related to religion or traditional Mayan life.
Almost half of our training group ended up going to my small training town rather than the larger and more famous towns for the celebration which was a nice surprise (I was expecting at most only the 3 others girls that lived there during training). And it was really good to spend some time with my first host family. They surprised me with a birthday present of blue jeans that fit me perfectly (last thing I expected from a family of mostly women who wear traditional traje). I still have no idea how they managed to pick out my size, and they were very pleased to see me wear them. I also got to meet the volunteer that came after me and who had just graduated from training (so strange to not be the new kids on the block any more). We spent the morning watching the kites being raised and the smaller ones flying. Then I had lunch with my host family and visited the cemetery with them. They prayed at the grave of the son who was killed by gang members some years past (the gang mistook him for a member of a rival gang that they were hunting). Then they sat amongst the graves and ate corn on the cob and sweet potatoes. The cemetery was full of Guatemalan families doing the same thing, only some were eating pumpkin and other things. I was the only non-Guatemalan there, and I felt privileged to have a more complete experience of the holiday than the tourists who would only see the kites.
And it was interesting to see the calm even celebratory attitude of the Guatemalans as they visited their departed loved ones. I know my host family was sad in thinking about the loss of their family member—who had died so unjustly and at such a young age—but there were many smiles and jokes as well. The point seemed to be remembrance in peace, rather than remembrance in sorrow, and a true acceptance of their death. Such attitudes are not easy for anyone, but I felt like I saw more calmness and peace than I ever have in cemetery visits in the US.
All Hallows Eve
Conveniently, our 3 month in service conference Reconnect was scheduled for the week following Halloween weekend. So of course almost all the volunteers from our training group arrived on Friday to celebrate Halloween in Antigua. I had grand plans to be Dorothy from Wizard of Oz, playing up the fact that I live in the department of TOTOnicapan, and we’re certainly not in Kansas anymore. BUT, due to lack of funds/time and the scarcity of blue gingham dresses in Guatemala, it just didn’t come to together. So I had probably the most boring and obvious costume of my life—a witch (especially because I am a person who prides herself on the resourcefulness and creativity of her Halloween costumes). My parents had mailed me a simple, renaissance-style black dress that I had bought in Boston and I had just bought rather unattractive and orthopedic-like black shoes to wear to my students’ graduation that could be sort of witchy-ish. And because the city of Antigua is centered on the needs and desires of travelers (NOT Guatemalans, who generally don’t celebrate Halloween, as the general belief is that its devil-worship) I was able to find a witch’s hat… and fishnet stockings, just to make it slightly less boring.
But I guess if you’re ever going to go classic Halloween, it should be in Guatemala, where the very act of celebrating Halloween is rebellious and unorthodox. In the afternoon in one of the camionetas I saw a flier that had a picture of a witch flying on a broomstick with a circle and cross through it (like the non-smoking pictures), beside a picture of saintly Jesus. The print said, “Say yes to Dios, Say NO to Halloween.” I would have liked to keep it as a souvenir but I don’t think the driver would have appreciated that.
It was a fun night. Some of the costumes were much more impressive than mine, such as my friend Aliyya who wore nothing more than a costal (a plastic woven shopping bag) and my friend Amanda who was a very charming flapper girl. The biggest hit was probably Kelsey, who went as an “ayudante”, the men who collect the fares on the buses. She did an impressive impersonation of the ayudantes who frequently lift their shirts to rub their bellies and obnoxiously shout out the names of the buses destinations (“Chimal!Chimal!”) while rapidly waving their hand. Mostly it was good to “reconnect” with all the people from my training group, many of whom I hadn’t seen in 2 months. And obvious though my costume was, there was scarcely another witch in sight and I did get several compliments (even, “the cutest witch I’ve ever seen”).
Feliz cumpleanos to me
So this birthday was a memorable one, that's for sure, if only for how uneventful and, I'll admit it, downright depressing it was.
I had been bothered for a few days by a cough and head and body aches, but I woke up on Saturday, my birthday, feeling worse than ever. It was a gray day and already drizzling outside, which is a bad sign. Rain in the afternoon in Guatemala during the rainy season is an almost certainty, so when it rains in the morning, it means you're in for a full day of rain.
In an attempt to celebrate, I fixed myself some yummy French toast. Then I was determined to do laundry, despite the rain, and after breakfast, got started scrubbing in the outdoor (but thankfully covered) pila. None of the family members I saw wished me a happy birthday, but I wasn't too concerned. I figured we might have a little celebration at dinner, and perhaps it isn't the tradition here to wish a person a happy birthday various times throughout the day as it is in the States. I felt confident that they knew it was my birthday because I had mentioned it a couple of times to the sister as we did the dishes earlier in the week, and I had seen her tell the older mother. The sister had even told me, “We'll get you your birthday cake to celebrate.”
After a while of washing, I was feeling quite crummy and exhausted and dispirited by the rain, so I contented myself with washing only undergarments and socks and left the rest for another (perhaps sunnier) day. I passed the afternoon coughing in bed, sleeping and reading, and the rain continued. As the day wore on, I became less confident that the family was aware it was my birthday, as no one said anything.
My fears were confirmed when I was called down to dinner and there was no cake in sight. To make matters worse, for dinner I was served my absolute least favorite dish, in fact the only thing they make that I truly dislike. I don't know what the Spanish/K'iche' name is, but privately I call it “Pig Skin and Fat Chunk Soup”, which is basically what it is. A thick, greasy tomato-based soup filled with bits of tough, chewy pig skin and chunks of fat or tendons. Everyone else seems to really enjoy it, but it's a hard one for me (especially considering I've been mostly vegetarian for the past couple of years). The one perk was I also got a baked sweet potato. After finally getting down the soup, I relished the sweet potato and pretended it was my birthday cake. I also didn't have to wash the dishes, but I think this was due to the fact that they could tell I was sick and I finished eating later than the others.
I really can't feel too sorry for myself because, considering the number of mis-communications I've dealt with here in Guatemala, I shouldn't have trusted that mentioning it once to someone several days beforehand was good enough. It's also possible that this family doesn't celebrate adult birthdays because of their religion (I've heard some Evangelicals don't). And although I saw them celebrate the small girl's birthday, I haven't seen an adult birthday celebration in the family yet. Still, I find it odd that no one said anything. I don't think a friendly “Happy birthday!” would have really done too much religious damage.
I did get some wonderful phone calls throughout the day, including one from my first host family that almost made up for everything. They passed around the phone so every person could enthusiastically exclaim, “¡Feliz cumpleaños Yessica!” And of course my family back home called and were wonderful and sympathetic and serenaded me over the phone with “Happy birthday to you...”. And technically, I had already celebrated my birthday a week before, out dancing and drinking with my fellow volunteers in Panajachel, which was a great time.
Still, this rainy, coughy, clothes-washey, lonely birthday is not going to make my top 10 list.
I had been bothered for a few days by a cough and head and body aches, but I woke up on Saturday, my birthday, feeling worse than ever. It was a gray day and already drizzling outside, which is a bad sign. Rain in the afternoon in Guatemala during the rainy season is an almost certainty, so when it rains in the morning, it means you're in for a full day of rain.
In an attempt to celebrate, I fixed myself some yummy French toast. Then I was determined to do laundry, despite the rain, and after breakfast, got started scrubbing in the outdoor (but thankfully covered) pila. None of the family members I saw wished me a happy birthday, but I wasn't too concerned. I figured we might have a little celebration at dinner, and perhaps it isn't the tradition here to wish a person a happy birthday various times throughout the day as it is in the States. I felt confident that they knew it was my birthday because I had mentioned it a couple of times to the sister as we did the dishes earlier in the week, and I had seen her tell the older mother. The sister had even told me, “We'll get you your birthday cake to celebrate.”
After a while of washing, I was feeling quite crummy and exhausted and dispirited by the rain, so I contented myself with washing only undergarments and socks and left the rest for another (perhaps sunnier) day. I passed the afternoon coughing in bed, sleeping and reading, and the rain continued. As the day wore on, I became less confident that the family was aware it was my birthday, as no one said anything.
My fears were confirmed when I was called down to dinner and there was no cake in sight. To make matters worse, for dinner I was served my absolute least favorite dish, in fact the only thing they make that I truly dislike. I don't know what the Spanish/K'iche' name is, but privately I call it “Pig Skin and Fat Chunk Soup”, which is basically what it is. A thick, greasy tomato-based soup filled with bits of tough, chewy pig skin and chunks of fat or tendons. Everyone else seems to really enjoy it, but it's a hard one for me (especially considering I've been mostly vegetarian for the past couple of years). The one perk was I also got a baked sweet potato. After finally getting down the soup, I relished the sweet potato and pretended it was my birthday cake. I also didn't have to wash the dishes, but I think this was due to the fact that they could tell I was sick and I finished eating later than the others.
I really can't feel too sorry for myself because, considering the number of mis-communications I've dealt with here in Guatemala, I shouldn't have trusted that mentioning it once to someone several days beforehand was good enough. It's also possible that this family doesn't celebrate adult birthdays because of their religion (I've heard some Evangelicals don't). And although I saw them celebrate the small girl's birthday, I haven't seen an adult birthday celebration in the family yet. Still, I find it odd that no one said anything. I don't think a friendly “Happy birthday!” would have really done too much religious damage.
I did get some wonderful phone calls throughout the day, including one from my first host family that almost made up for everything. They passed around the phone so every person could enthusiastically exclaim, “¡Feliz cumpleaños Yessica!” And of course my family back home called and were wonderful and sympathetic and serenaded me over the phone with “Happy birthday to you...”. And technically, I had already celebrated my birthday a week before, out dancing and drinking with my fellow volunteers in Panajachel, which was a great time.
Still, this rainy, coughy, clothes-washey, lonely birthday is not going to make my top 10 list.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
surviving... THE FIRST THREE MONTHS
So now I am in Reconnect, the conference that marks the end of THE FIRST THREE MONTHS in site. THE FIRST THREE MONTHS is in all caps because every time that you hear anything about it from other more veteran volunteers or staff members, they will let you know that it is the "hardest part" of Peace Corps. Many times in training I would think ahead to the dreaded FIRST THREE MONTHS that loomed ahead of me and wished I could press the fast-forward button to just get to the fourth month when things start to get good.
Now that I have reached the ended of that supposedly dark and very much dreaded time, it's hard to know if truly it will be and has been "the hard part" for me. I can definitely say that I had my tough moments... many encounters with chuchos, many less-than-friendly stares, many uncomfortable dinners with the host family as they chatter away in K'iche' and more than anything, many moments of feeling very very alone... the most alone I've been in my life. Also being surprisingly busy and stressed as I've tried to juggle too many things (an experience that is not typical of Peace Corps).
But on the flip side, I have had so many moments of feeling welcomed into the community-- such as when I walk past the house where 6 little girls live (they look almost identical, just different sizes) and they shriek with excitement and smother me in hugs, or when I get onto the bus and some other young women from town joke with me, or when I play a game of basketball with some of my students in the town center. Now when I am on the bus heading in on the dirt road into the valley to my town, I really feel the relief and comfort of coming home.
I think I've reached a new point. I no longer feel such a sharp pang when I think about Montana or look at photos of home. I no longer have a tiny panick attack when I hear the words TWO YEARS (which is in all caps because I feel like that's the number one hang up that prevents people from doing the Peace Corps and also the biggest stumbling block I've had). I feel so comfortable getting around this beautiful country. I'm starting to feel like a member of my community (whenever I leave the house or take the bus, someone stops to chat with me). And lovely Xela is always waiting for me when I need an escape and some perspective from the Peace Corps Community-- my fellow volunteers. All-in-all, it really feels like my life here-- no longer this strange and overwhelming experience that I'm struggling to be comfortable with. It's just my life. And I feel good about it being my life for the next 21 months.
So if this is the point I was so desperate to reach, it feels good to have arrived.
Now that I have reached the ended of that supposedly dark and very much dreaded time, it's hard to know if truly it will be and has been "the hard part" for me. I can definitely say that I had my tough moments... many encounters with chuchos, many less-than-friendly stares, many uncomfortable dinners with the host family as they chatter away in K'iche' and more than anything, many moments of feeling very very alone... the most alone I've been in my life. Also being surprisingly busy and stressed as I've tried to juggle too many things (an experience that is not typical of Peace Corps).
But on the flip side, I have had so many moments of feeling welcomed into the community-- such as when I walk past the house where 6 little girls live (they look almost identical, just different sizes) and they shriek with excitement and smother me in hugs, or when I get onto the bus and some other young women from town joke with me, or when I play a game of basketball with some of my students in the town center. Now when I am on the bus heading in on the dirt road into the valley to my town, I really feel the relief and comfort of coming home.
I think I've reached a new point. I no longer feel such a sharp pang when I think about Montana or look at photos of home. I no longer have a tiny panick attack when I hear the words TWO YEARS (which is in all caps because I feel like that's the number one hang up that prevents people from doing the Peace Corps and also the biggest stumbling block I've had). I feel so comfortable getting around this beautiful country. I'm starting to feel like a member of my community (whenever I leave the house or take the bus, someone stops to chat with me). And lovely Xela is always waiting for me when I need an escape and some perspective from the Peace Corps Community-- my fellow volunteers. All-in-all, it really feels like my life here-- no longer this strange and overwhelming experience that I'm struggling to be comfortable with. It's just my life. And I feel good about it being my life for the next 21 months.
So if this is the point I was so desperate to reach, it feels good to have arrived.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Día de Independencía
So I realize this blog is monstrous, but I really couldn´t decide what to leave out, the Independence Day is such a big deal here. So I tried to break it up into section to make it more readible. And this should make up for a month of nothing!
The Countdown
September 15 is the Independence Day for Guatemala. I knew this for a long time, but what I didn't know is that it would be more accurately named “Independence Month”. The first signs began at the end of August when an arcade randomly appeared in the street beside the house (a bunch of game-machines housed by a rickety wooden structure built on the spot) and gradually in the following days stands selling homemade sweets, burned CDs or knickknacks began to appear in the streets. Eventually, a couple rickety, chipped-paint hand-operated tiny ferris wheels and a merry-go-round (recycled from the States where they were probably used in the 1950s) popped up. More and more I began to hear the bands (mostly comprised of drums and trumpets) practicing their loud patriotic ballads, sometimes until 9 pm in the rain. Each night after dinner, as I helped the sister wash the dishes in the pila, the topic of conversation was mainly how many days were left until the Independence Day activities began in my town.
The Concurso
Now Independence Day is in general the most important holiday in Guatemala, more celebrated than Christmas, but even so, I think my town celebrates it with more fervor than average. At least within the 8 or so villages that make up my municipality, our Independence Day is famous for being the biggest.
On September 5 it all officially started, with the “Concurso de Bandas” or band competition. Bands from the elementary schools of the 32 “parajes” or districts of my town marched down the street to the town center. Each one had its own costumes and style (ranging from sleek black slacks and jackets with bow ties, to all-white outfits with red bandannas, cowboy hats and sunglasses, to girls in beautiful same-colored trajes and boys in formal suits). For the “Concurso”, each band performed about 3 songs, accompanied by flag-bearing dancers. I was very impressed the uniformity and quality of their performances.
The Bailadas
Shortly after that, I attended the first “bailada”. I didn't really know what it was, only that it would be occurring in the evening, most of the town went, and it somehow involved dancing. The bailada took place in a large indoor hall of the town center's elementary school. A long wooden catwalk had been built leading to the stage at one end of the hall and covered with pine needles. There was a live band that included a marimba to one side and the whole hall was adorned in light blue decorations (the color of Guatemala's beautiful flag). The hall was packed on each side of the catwalk with most of the townspeople (standing).
My first bailada was put on by the town center's elementary school. I was only there for a few minutes when a lady spotted me (I think perhaps the mayor's wife) and swept me up to sit in one of the seats off the side of the stage, across from the mayor himself and other town government representatives. I know she was trying to honor me, but I would have been much more comfortable back in the crowd with my host family, especially since the whole time I was nervous I would have to get up and give some kind of impromptu speech (which luckily, for this first bailada, I didn't).
About the closest American definition you could give a bailada would be a : “beauty pageant/school performance/cultural fair/talent show/high school dance”. I quickly learned that the bulk of it is the presentation of the different “queens”, (roughly along the same line of thought as prom queens/beauty queens). These “queens” were chosen by their schools and they each represents a different group or theme (some of them include: Queen of the Feria, Queen of the School, Queen of Sports, Queen of the Parent Directive of the School, Indigenous Queen of the Community, etc.). Each queen is accompanied by several damas, or “ladies-in-waiting.” Each one was wearing a very beautiful (expensive) traje and her black hair was elaborately done up, usually with small fake flowers twisted into it and covered in sparkles. First the MC would announce the damas, and one by one, each would do a slow rhythmic step down the very long platform to the chiming marimba music with every eye on her while the MC announced facts about her and her family until she finally reached the stage where she would gracefully bow to everyone and take a seat. The youngest damas were no more than 3 years old, and some of the queens couldn't have been more than 7 (while others were young adults). My own little 6-year-old host sister was a dama for the “Niña de Deporte” (the Queen of the Sports). It is a great honor for the girl and her family to be chosen, but I'm sure some of them must have been terrified by that long slow walk.
Once all the damas were at last seated on the stage, the queen would be announced and do her slow dance-walk down the platform, accompanied by a young man (about her age). Once up front, the incoming queen would give a speech (first beautifully greeting and acknowledging every important person and group present, from the mayor to the band), usually on some social issue. Then last year's queen would give a welcome speech to the new one, and there would be some ceremony of the transferring of the reign. Then the young man that accompanied the new queen would come up, kneel before her and take her hand, and recite a traditional poem that is a love-sick ode to her beauty and wisdom and give her a rose. The various queens and damas and their gentlemen would remain seated on the stage throughout the bailada until the very end, when, one-by-one each dama and queen would be announced and make the slow dance step back down the aisle.
Between queens, there would be other entertainment arranged by the school, which were anything from cultural dances to hip-hop lip syncs to skits. When the official ceremony ended, the lights would dim and the band would begin to play many of the current hits and the entire crowd would gather around the area in front of the band to watch the tiny group of brave souls that were dancing. Really, about 10% of the crowd danced while the other 90% watched (most of them from the platform above the dance floor).
I attended 4 bailadas (certainly not all of them), and they each followed this formula, although the specific entertainment definitely varied, and the Institute where I work had by far the most entertaining, including a skit entirely in K'iche' which had the whole crowd cracking up the entire time (except for me, I just smiled). For my Institute's Bailada, I did have to finally make that impromptu-speech I'd been dreading the whole time. The young father of my house gave me a very gracious introduction, and then I had to fumble through the proper greeting of everyone present, which roughly went, “Señor Mayor and his corporation, representatives of the Parent Directive, Director of the Institute and faculty, and general public, I wish all of you a very good evening,”... only in Spanish (I left out the Independence Day Planning Committee and the band). A good part of the crowd, mostly children, laughed each time I pronounced something strangely, but then the majority would clap to encourage me, so all in all I guess it wasn't that bad.
Dancing in the Spotlight
And I danced at 2 of the bailadas, which I'm still not sure was wise. Leading up to the 15th, I can't say how many times I got asked by girl students from my school if I was going to dance. I would always answer probably not, just watch, and they would act so disappointed. So, at my second or third bailada, my feet started itching to the music that was playing and one of my fellow teachers hunted me down a dance parter, and I figured what the heck. So I danced, with about 10 other people, with about 100 people watching (I am truly not exaggerating). The second time I made my dance debut was the last bailada, the Community Bailada. This time there was a bigger dance floor, but it was roped off. Admittedly, more people danced this time (maybe 20?) and there was more space... but there was also a few cameras filming the whole thing for the local tv station. I danced with a high school kid that was probably about 20 that I have absolutely no interest in beyond being a dance partner. I only danced for a while, but I'm not sure how long until I live it down. Not do the people here in town still like to mention that they saw me dancing, but I've had students from two of my institutes in two other communities several miles away tell me that they heard that I danced or saw me dance. And they just love to ask who my partner was (I don't even remember his name!). Ahhh... cultural matters.
Honorary Eating
Prior to my Institute's Bailada, I was invited to the honorary lunch of the Institute's queen (one of my students) and the honorary dinner of the queen of the Parent Directive. The lunch went okay (wasn't asked to speak and there was a big crowd, although I of course was put at the table with all the important people), but the dinner was definitely awkward for a few reasons. First, besides the two queens, I was the only woman seated. The rest were the mayor's representative all the older men of the Parent Directive, the father of the queen, the Institute's director and only the male teachers. Secondly, the director introduced me and I had to give a little speech (I really hate those). Thirdly-- and this one really takes the cake-- I was sitting on a plastic stool on my jacket. I needed something from my jacket pocket. I stood up a little and reached under me to remove my jacket. I knocked over the chair and DIDN'T REALIZE. I fell. (I didn't fall all the way on my butt, but enough to make a spectacle of myself.) At least everyone had a good laugh and did some joking about it. (And if anyone was worried that I lost my soul-- a Maya belief about being startled-- no one made matters worse by doing a ceremony to retrieve it for me.)
Gimnasia
Another random thing I got involved with was the young dad of my host family, also a teacher at the Institute, asked if I would help with the girl's gymnastics routine for the town parade on the 15th. I know NOTHING about gymnastics (which I explained to him), but he thought I might be good at it since I like to exercise. I decided, as I so often do here, what the heck. I went to a couple of practices and ended up spending a couple of hours coming up with a new routine to add to the list and trying to teach it to them. Then, the day of the parade, the hookup for the speakers on the truck didn't work and the poor girls didn't get to do the routines they worked so hard preparing. They generally looked like a bunch of wilted flowers, but with some encouragement they did some occasional half-hearted steps to the band music of the parade. But later that day, the dad arranged for them to do a short routine at the soccer game's half show. One of the songs was for the routine I had prepared, but without my guidance they completely forgot it and ended up improvising. Oh well, it was fun to feel like I got to “help out” a little (though it was mostly just moral support).
El Quince
I spent the entirety of the 15th in town activities, beginning with marching with the sad-faced gymnastics girls. The parade ended at the town center where people just milled around for a while and countless students asked to have their picture taken with me (most of them I didn't know). I really am a celebrity in this town. Then I handed out snacks to all the Institute's parade participants. In the afternoon I went to the soccer tournament (because no Guatemalan Feria is complete without soccer) and then walk around the food stands with one of the teachers from the school and her son. That night I went to the town bailada for my last dance.
My Town
Despite the many awkward moments, the awful impromptu speeches, watching the 10th queen sway down that long long platform, the fuss I caused by dancing, and almost every night going to bed to thumping loud live music since I live right across from the event hall, I loved the Feria. There was something so heartening about being at these events with this town that is beginning to feel like my home, about looking around the crowd and seeing faces of the ayudantes (assistants) from the camionetas (buses), seeing the lady I buy my vegetables from every market day, seeing the shop owners and my students and the little kids that ask me how to say things in English every day, all mingled together and recognizing this community that is becoming my own. And I have my place in it. I'm their gringa, their one and only.
One night, after returning from a bailada, I went up on my rooftop and looked down at the straggling people strolling around the lit-up food stands, talking and laughing; listened to the thumping upbeat Latino music coming from the hall and saw glimpses of the dancers through the elementary school windows; looked down at my town, under the dark shapes of the mountains and the distant stars, and felt like I was happy to call it home.
The Countdown
September 15 is the Independence Day for Guatemala. I knew this for a long time, but what I didn't know is that it would be more accurately named “Independence Month”. The first signs began at the end of August when an arcade randomly appeared in the street beside the house (a bunch of game-machines housed by a rickety wooden structure built on the spot) and gradually in the following days stands selling homemade sweets, burned CDs or knickknacks began to appear in the streets. Eventually, a couple rickety, chipped-paint hand-operated tiny ferris wheels and a merry-go-round (recycled from the States where they were probably used in the 1950s) popped up. More and more I began to hear the bands (mostly comprised of drums and trumpets) practicing their loud patriotic ballads, sometimes until 9 pm in the rain. Each night after dinner, as I helped the sister wash the dishes in the pila, the topic of conversation was mainly how many days were left until the Independence Day activities began in my town.
The Concurso
Now Independence Day is in general the most important holiday in Guatemala, more celebrated than Christmas, but even so, I think my town celebrates it with more fervor than average. At least within the 8 or so villages that make up my municipality, our Independence Day is famous for being the biggest.
On September 5 it all officially started, with the “Concurso de Bandas” or band competition. Bands from the elementary schools of the 32 “parajes” or districts of my town marched down the street to the town center. Each one had its own costumes and style (ranging from sleek black slacks and jackets with bow ties, to all-white outfits with red bandannas, cowboy hats and sunglasses, to girls in beautiful same-colored trajes and boys in formal suits). For the “Concurso”, each band performed about 3 songs, accompanied by flag-bearing dancers. I was very impressed the uniformity and quality of their performances.
The Bailadas
Shortly after that, I attended the first “bailada”. I didn't really know what it was, only that it would be occurring in the evening, most of the town went, and it somehow involved dancing. The bailada took place in a large indoor hall of the town center's elementary school. A long wooden catwalk had been built leading to the stage at one end of the hall and covered with pine needles. There was a live band that included a marimba to one side and the whole hall was adorned in light blue decorations (the color of Guatemala's beautiful flag). The hall was packed on each side of the catwalk with most of the townspeople (standing).
My first bailada was put on by the town center's elementary school. I was only there for a few minutes when a lady spotted me (I think perhaps the mayor's wife) and swept me up to sit in one of the seats off the side of the stage, across from the mayor himself and other town government representatives. I know she was trying to honor me, but I would have been much more comfortable back in the crowd with my host family, especially since the whole time I was nervous I would have to get up and give some kind of impromptu speech (which luckily, for this first bailada, I didn't).
About the closest American definition you could give a bailada would be a : “beauty pageant/school performance/cultural fair/talent show/high school dance”. I quickly learned that the bulk of it is the presentation of the different “queens”, (roughly along the same line of thought as prom queens/beauty queens). These “queens” were chosen by their schools and they each represents a different group or theme (some of them include: Queen of the Feria, Queen of the School, Queen of Sports, Queen of the Parent Directive of the School, Indigenous Queen of the Community, etc.). Each queen is accompanied by several damas, or “ladies-in-waiting.” Each one was wearing a very beautiful (expensive) traje and her black hair was elaborately done up, usually with small fake flowers twisted into it and covered in sparkles. First the MC would announce the damas, and one by one, each would do a slow rhythmic step down the very long platform to the chiming marimba music with every eye on her while the MC announced facts about her and her family until she finally reached the stage where she would gracefully bow to everyone and take a seat. The youngest damas were no more than 3 years old, and some of the queens couldn't have been more than 7 (while others were young adults). My own little 6-year-old host sister was a dama for the “Niña de Deporte” (the Queen of the Sports). It is a great honor for the girl and her family to be chosen, but I'm sure some of them must have been terrified by that long slow walk.
Once all the damas were at last seated on the stage, the queen would be announced and do her slow dance-walk down the platform, accompanied by a young man (about her age). Once up front, the incoming queen would give a speech (first beautifully greeting and acknowledging every important person and group present, from the mayor to the band), usually on some social issue. Then last year's queen would give a welcome speech to the new one, and there would be some ceremony of the transferring of the reign. Then the young man that accompanied the new queen would come up, kneel before her and take her hand, and recite a traditional poem that is a love-sick ode to her beauty and wisdom and give her a rose. The various queens and damas and their gentlemen would remain seated on the stage throughout the bailada until the very end, when, one-by-one each dama and queen would be announced and make the slow dance step back down the aisle.
Between queens, there would be other entertainment arranged by the school, which were anything from cultural dances to hip-hop lip syncs to skits. When the official ceremony ended, the lights would dim and the band would begin to play many of the current hits and the entire crowd would gather around the area in front of the band to watch the tiny group of brave souls that were dancing. Really, about 10% of the crowd danced while the other 90% watched (most of them from the platform above the dance floor).
I attended 4 bailadas (certainly not all of them), and they each followed this formula, although the specific entertainment definitely varied, and the Institute where I work had by far the most entertaining, including a skit entirely in K'iche' which had the whole crowd cracking up the entire time (except for me, I just smiled). For my Institute's Bailada, I did have to finally make that impromptu-speech I'd been dreading the whole time. The young father of my house gave me a very gracious introduction, and then I had to fumble through the proper greeting of everyone present, which roughly went, “Señor Mayor and his corporation, representatives of the Parent Directive, Director of the Institute and faculty, and general public, I wish all of you a very good evening,”... only in Spanish (I left out the Independence Day Planning Committee and the band). A good part of the crowd, mostly children, laughed each time I pronounced something strangely, but then the majority would clap to encourage me, so all in all I guess it wasn't that bad.
Dancing in the Spotlight
And I danced at 2 of the bailadas, which I'm still not sure was wise. Leading up to the 15th, I can't say how many times I got asked by girl students from my school if I was going to dance. I would always answer probably not, just watch, and they would act so disappointed. So, at my second or third bailada, my feet started itching to the music that was playing and one of my fellow teachers hunted me down a dance parter, and I figured what the heck. So I danced, with about 10 other people, with about 100 people watching (I am truly not exaggerating). The second time I made my dance debut was the last bailada, the Community Bailada. This time there was a bigger dance floor, but it was roped off. Admittedly, more people danced this time (maybe 20?) and there was more space... but there was also a few cameras filming the whole thing for the local tv station. I danced with a high school kid that was probably about 20 that I have absolutely no interest in beyond being a dance partner. I only danced for a while, but I'm not sure how long until I live it down. Not do the people here in town still like to mention that they saw me dancing, but I've had students from two of my institutes in two other communities several miles away tell me that they heard that I danced or saw me dance. And they just love to ask who my partner was (I don't even remember his name!). Ahhh... cultural matters.
Honorary Eating
Prior to my Institute's Bailada, I was invited to the honorary lunch of the Institute's queen (one of my students) and the honorary dinner of the queen of the Parent Directive. The lunch went okay (wasn't asked to speak and there was a big crowd, although I of course was put at the table with all the important people), but the dinner was definitely awkward for a few reasons. First, besides the two queens, I was the only woman seated. The rest were the mayor's representative all the older men of the Parent Directive, the father of the queen, the Institute's director and only the male teachers. Secondly, the director introduced me and I had to give a little speech (I really hate those). Thirdly-- and this one really takes the cake-- I was sitting on a plastic stool on my jacket. I needed something from my jacket pocket. I stood up a little and reached under me to remove my jacket. I knocked over the chair and DIDN'T REALIZE. I fell. (I didn't fall all the way on my butt, but enough to make a spectacle of myself.) At least everyone had a good laugh and did some joking about it. (And if anyone was worried that I lost my soul-- a Maya belief about being startled-- no one made matters worse by doing a ceremony to retrieve it for me.)
Gimnasia
Another random thing I got involved with was the young dad of my host family, also a teacher at the Institute, asked if I would help with the girl's gymnastics routine for the town parade on the 15th. I know NOTHING about gymnastics (which I explained to him), but he thought I might be good at it since I like to exercise. I decided, as I so often do here, what the heck. I went to a couple of practices and ended up spending a couple of hours coming up with a new routine to add to the list and trying to teach it to them. Then, the day of the parade, the hookup for the speakers on the truck didn't work and the poor girls didn't get to do the routines they worked so hard preparing. They generally looked like a bunch of wilted flowers, but with some encouragement they did some occasional half-hearted steps to the band music of the parade. But later that day, the dad arranged for them to do a short routine at the soccer game's half show. One of the songs was for the routine I had prepared, but without my guidance they completely forgot it and ended up improvising. Oh well, it was fun to feel like I got to “help out” a little (though it was mostly just moral support).
El Quince
I spent the entirety of the 15th in town activities, beginning with marching with the sad-faced gymnastics girls. The parade ended at the town center where people just milled around for a while and countless students asked to have their picture taken with me (most of them I didn't know). I really am a celebrity in this town. Then I handed out snacks to all the Institute's parade participants. In the afternoon I went to the soccer tournament (because no Guatemalan Feria is complete without soccer) and then walk around the food stands with one of the teachers from the school and her son. That night I went to the town bailada for my last dance.
My Town
Despite the many awkward moments, the awful impromptu speeches, watching the 10th queen sway down that long long platform, the fuss I caused by dancing, and almost every night going to bed to thumping loud live music since I live right across from the event hall, I loved the Feria. There was something so heartening about being at these events with this town that is beginning to feel like my home, about looking around the crowd and seeing faces of the ayudantes (assistants) from the camionetas (buses), seeing the lady I buy my vegetables from every market day, seeing the shop owners and my students and the little kids that ask me how to say things in English every day, all mingled together and recognizing this community that is becoming my own. And I have my place in it. I'm their gringa, their one and only.
One night, after returning from a bailada, I went up on my rooftop and looked down at the straggling people strolling around the lit-up food stands, talking and laughing; listened to the thumping upbeat Latino music coming from the hall and saw glimpses of the dancers through the elementary school windows; looked down at my town, under the dark shapes of the mountains and the distant stars, and felt like I was happy to call it home.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
K'iche'
Since I’ve gotten to my site, one of the largest barriers to integrating has been that everyone, when given the choice, will speak in K’iche’ (roughly pronounce “kee-chay“), their maternal language, rather than Spanish, a language mostly learned secondly in school. This has also impeded the improvement of my Spanish because I’m not being constantly immersed in it. At the schools, everyone speaks Spanish, but otherwise, in the streets, in the house, in the market, what I’m hearing is K’iche’. I spent most of my dinners eating in silence while the family jabbers away in K‘iche‘…. although sometimes the young dad will engage me in a conversation in English… which is nice, but also doesn’t help my Spanish.
I love being in an Indigenous Mayan community, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But it has been frustrating when I feel like my Spanish is just creeping along, rather than this explosion of fluency I expected. And it’s also frustrating when everyone is communicating around me and I can’t take part.
For a long time I’ve thought about finding a K’iche’ teacher, and the Peace Corps will pay for lessons. But I maybe didn’t quite prioritize it since undertaking an entirely new and difficult foreign language when I am still constantly grappling with Spanish, a language I’ve studied since high school, was not exactly a welcoming prospect. Regardless, one Sunday, the Peace Corps Mayan language coordinator called and asked if it would be okay if he came to my site on Monday, the next day, to find me a K’iche’ teacher. I was a little annoyed because I didn’t like the thought of this stranger going around my community and asking for something for the gringa-- I wanted to find my own K’iche’ teacher. But I can’t complain because the job got done. By 3:30 on Monday, I was sitting down with one of the K’iche’ teachers at the institute (my institute is one of the rare bilingual ones), making plans for when we would have classes.
I was a little hesitant because I didn't know this guy well and I was nervous about making a complete fool of myself and failing miserably at learning K’iche’. But all my fears were put to rest after the first lesson. My teacher turned out to be very professional, patient, and encouraging. Probably the biggest surprise was the enthusiasm I felt myself. I forgot how delicious it can be to discover a new language, since it was many many years ago that I was starting out with Spanish. There is a certain thrill in finding a completely new way to express the world around you.
K’iche’ is a challenging language, mostly for the pronunciation. The very prominant letter q’ is a sort of clicking sound from very deep in the throat (and k‘ is another clicking sound from less deep in the throat), which means that my K’iche’ teacher and I have spent a good part of our classes sounding like cats that have a furball stuck in their throat as he tries to teach me to make this sound. I feel that this sound simply doesn’t exist in my throat, and I should just give up on it. But my teacher insists its there, so I keep on sputtering and gagging, hoping to find it eventually.
This past Wednesday for the first time I really had to put my new K’iche’ skills to the test. It was market day, the day I always go to buy my fruits and vegetables and basic foods. My teacher thought we should take advantage of this to practice my K’iche’, so after a quick practice of asking how much and translating my grocery list, we left. I don’t think I was ready for this activity since we barely practiced ahead of time, and I was nervous and flustered suddenly trying out a new language with the people at the stands I go to each week, with my teacher at my side, and I made many mistakes, even on things I knew. But I must say they were pretty pleased, or at least entertained, at my effort. I don’t expect to get even a stone’s throw from fluent, but at the very least it will be nice to be able to have some of the very basic conversations that make up much of daily life here with the people in their maternal language (about the weather, about where I’m from, and, everyone’s favorite, about finding me a Guatemalan husband). Already I’ve been able to pick out a rare word from the dinner conversation, like a familiar face in a sea of strangers, and maybe someday, I’ll be taking part myself.
I love being in an Indigenous Mayan community, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But it has been frustrating when I feel like my Spanish is just creeping along, rather than this explosion of fluency I expected. And it’s also frustrating when everyone is communicating around me and I can’t take part.
For a long time I’ve thought about finding a K’iche’ teacher, and the Peace Corps will pay for lessons. But I maybe didn’t quite prioritize it since undertaking an entirely new and difficult foreign language when I am still constantly grappling with Spanish, a language I’ve studied since high school, was not exactly a welcoming prospect. Regardless, one Sunday, the Peace Corps Mayan language coordinator called and asked if it would be okay if he came to my site on Monday, the next day, to find me a K’iche’ teacher. I was a little annoyed because I didn’t like the thought of this stranger going around my community and asking for something for the gringa-- I wanted to find my own K’iche’ teacher. But I can’t complain because the job got done. By 3:30 on Monday, I was sitting down with one of the K’iche’ teachers at the institute (my institute is one of the rare bilingual ones), making plans for when we would have classes.
I was a little hesitant because I didn't know this guy well and I was nervous about making a complete fool of myself and failing miserably at learning K’iche’. But all my fears were put to rest after the first lesson. My teacher turned out to be very professional, patient, and encouraging. Probably the biggest surprise was the enthusiasm I felt myself. I forgot how delicious it can be to discover a new language, since it was many many years ago that I was starting out with Spanish. There is a certain thrill in finding a completely new way to express the world around you.
K’iche’ is a challenging language, mostly for the pronunciation. The very prominant letter q’ is a sort of clicking sound from very deep in the throat (and k‘ is another clicking sound from less deep in the throat), which means that my K’iche’ teacher and I have spent a good part of our classes sounding like cats that have a furball stuck in their throat as he tries to teach me to make this sound. I feel that this sound simply doesn’t exist in my throat, and I should just give up on it. But my teacher insists its there, so I keep on sputtering and gagging, hoping to find it eventually.
This past Wednesday for the first time I really had to put my new K’iche’ skills to the test. It was market day, the day I always go to buy my fruits and vegetables and basic foods. My teacher thought we should take advantage of this to practice my K’iche’, so after a quick practice of asking how much and translating my grocery list, we left. I don’t think I was ready for this activity since we barely practiced ahead of time, and I was nervous and flustered suddenly trying out a new language with the people at the stands I go to each week, with my teacher at my side, and I made many mistakes, even on things I knew. But I must say they were pretty pleased, or at least entertained, at my effort. I don’t expect to get even a stone’s throw from fluent, but at the very least it will be nice to be able to have some of the very basic conversations that make up much of daily life here with the people in their maternal language (about the weather, about where I’m from, and, everyone’s favorite, about finding me a Guatemalan husband). Already I’ve been able to pick out a rare word from the dinner conversation, like a familiar face in a sea of strangers, and maybe someday, I’ll be taking part myself.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Escape to the Lake
This past weekend, I felt the happiest and most at peace that I have been yet in Guatemala.
I wish I could say this feeling was related to some breakthrough in my service or a new level of connection with the people in my village. But no. I was a complete tourist and went to Lago de Atitlan, one of the most famous sites in Guatemala-- an enormous lake in the center of the country, with 3 volcanoes gracing its shoreline, along with a scattering of little indigenous villages (some that are more over-run with tourists than others). Because of its striking beauty, it is considered one of the 7 natural wonders of the world.We couldn’t have found a better place for our training group’s “One Month Reunion.”
Of course me and the 2 girls I traveled with had an adventure getting there... because everything is an adventure in Guatemala. Rather than wait a couple of hours for the direct bus to the lake from Xela, we went ahead and hopped on one that would get us part-way there. But the ayudante was trying to charge us so much (the “gringo price”) that we decided to get off at another main hub and try our luck with a different one. There we found a microbus that claimed to go all the way to the Lake for a good price, so we thought we were in luck… until of course they dropped us off on the side of the highway, at the intersection with the highway that goes to the Lake. So we get on another bus, which of course also does not go all the way to the Lake, but to Solola, the city above the lake. By now we were fervently hating camionetas and lying ayudantes. But all our bad camioneta karma was redeemed in Solola when a man in a nice pickup offered us a ride in the truck bed, and we got our first glimpse of the lake from high above in the open air, as the evening light was turning golden, winding down the highway. It was love at first sight.
The truck dropped us off in Panajachal-- or, commonly called in Guatemala, “Gringotenango” (roughly, The Place of the Gringo). Everything about it is designed to reel in the tourist with over-priced woven-painted-beaded goods, not to mention crawling with wily little street kids who are either trying to sell you something or sneak something from your pockets (or both). Of course, disasteful as the place is, we ended up doing a bit of shopping, until it was getting rather late and began to rain. (I ended up buying a scarf to wrap around my head, and that, along with my torn jeans, hiking boots and over-sized backpack, made me look like I dressed for the part “tourist in Gringotenango”.)
Finally we made our way to the docks to catch a boat to San Cristobol, the village where our hostel was. By now it was raining in earnest, and when the boat finally left (after waiting until it was packed with people), the waves were very choppy and water was sloshing in on all sides (and from above), and we arrived at San Cris looking like a bunch of wet dogs-- which awarded us a hero’s welcome from everyone there, especially because we were the last to arrive (even after those that waited the 2 hours for the direct bus).
As soon as I got dryish, the contentment settled in. The hostel was more like a cozy guest lodge with little cabins scattered along tropical plant-lined paths. I ate a huge Indian flavored potlatch style dinner, drank wine, and enjoyed the company of the wonderful people I had shared training with, many of whom I hadn’t seen since graduation (including the beloved girls from my training town). After a while some of us went down to the dock to go for a swim, since the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. The water was surprisingly warm, and the night was gorgeous, and we swam for hours beneath the looming shapes of the volcanoes. At one point, I floated on my back and felt like this magical lake was holding me in the palm of its hand to face the stars above. It was so beautiful as to be almost alarming-- like looking into a well and finding the entire universe contained there.
The next day was pure bliss-- a day I will always remember. After a delicious breakfast, me and a few others walked along the lake to a place that rented kayaks, and we paddled out toward the center of the lake. The day was clear and bright and the expansive lake calm. The volcanoes were striking, but so were the steep hills surrounding the lake, ruffled with thick jungle and etched with gorges and waterfalls. Once we were out a ways, we jumped off our kayaks and swam and floated around, then later paddled along the shore. The rest of the day passed leisurely, which a picinic lunch on the dock of bread, wine and cheese, more swimming, more wine, and some laying in a hammock.
That evening, we rummaged through the costume room to find crazy things to wear for the weekly Saturday night “Cross-dressing party” at the hostel, and I came up with a rather convincing hunter’s outfit (one of the tamer outfits). Unfortunatley, thanks to the wine and my normal 9 pm bed time, I was too exhausted to stay up late.
The next morning, we all had to get going, and of course leaving was another adventure. We had heard there was a direct bus from a different town on the lake, so we took the boat there, only to find the town was taken over by a Christian parade and the bus wouldn’t leave for an hour (if then). We found a pickup that was willing to load up all 14 of us and our huge packs and take us part way along the highway. So we all piled in standing in the back and hung on (it had one of those racks that usually for keeping animals secure), looking like so many cows on their way to market. We joked and laughed and wondered if the driver’s buddies were waiting in the jungle with machetes to rob us all, and watched the lake slowly grow small and distant below us.
It was little more than a day I spent there, it made an enormous impact on me. The knowledge that this paradise exists, that I can and will make my escape there again many times in these two years, filled me with satisfaction and gave me back the grace to return to my village without regret, something I had been lacking in a recent bout of homesickness. This reuinion-labor-day-kayaking-cross-dressing-celebration was exactly what I needed.
I wish I could say this feeling was related to some breakthrough in my service or a new level of connection with the people in my village. But no. I was a complete tourist and went to Lago de Atitlan, one of the most famous sites in Guatemala-- an enormous lake in the center of the country, with 3 volcanoes gracing its shoreline, along with a scattering of little indigenous villages (some that are more over-run with tourists than others). Because of its striking beauty, it is considered one of the 7 natural wonders of the world.We couldn’t have found a better place for our training group’s “One Month Reunion.”
Of course me and the 2 girls I traveled with had an adventure getting there... because everything is an adventure in Guatemala. Rather than wait a couple of hours for the direct bus to the lake from Xela, we went ahead and hopped on one that would get us part-way there. But the ayudante was trying to charge us so much (the “gringo price”) that we decided to get off at another main hub and try our luck with a different one. There we found a microbus that claimed to go all the way to the Lake for a good price, so we thought we were in luck… until of course they dropped us off on the side of the highway, at the intersection with the highway that goes to the Lake. So we get on another bus, which of course also does not go all the way to the Lake, but to Solola, the city above the lake. By now we were fervently hating camionetas and lying ayudantes. But all our bad camioneta karma was redeemed in Solola when a man in a nice pickup offered us a ride in the truck bed, and we got our first glimpse of the lake from high above in the open air, as the evening light was turning golden, winding down the highway. It was love at first sight.
The truck dropped us off in Panajachal-- or, commonly called in Guatemala, “Gringotenango” (roughly, The Place of the Gringo). Everything about it is designed to reel in the tourist with over-priced woven-painted-beaded goods, not to mention crawling with wily little street kids who are either trying to sell you something or sneak something from your pockets (or both). Of course, disasteful as the place is, we ended up doing a bit of shopping, until it was getting rather late and began to rain. (I ended up buying a scarf to wrap around my head, and that, along with my torn jeans, hiking boots and over-sized backpack, made me look like I dressed for the part “tourist in Gringotenango”.)
Finally we made our way to the docks to catch a boat to San Cristobol, the village where our hostel was. By now it was raining in earnest, and when the boat finally left (after waiting until it was packed with people), the waves were very choppy and water was sloshing in on all sides (and from above), and we arrived at San Cris looking like a bunch of wet dogs-- which awarded us a hero’s welcome from everyone there, especially because we were the last to arrive (even after those that waited the 2 hours for the direct bus).
As soon as I got dryish, the contentment settled in. The hostel was more like a cozy guest lodge with little cabins scattered along tropical plant-lined paths. I ate a huge Indian flavored potlatch style dinner, drank wine, and enjoyed the company of the wonderful people I had shared training with, many of whom I hadn’t seen since graduation (including the beloved girls from my training town). After a while some of us went down to the dock to go for a swim, since the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. The water was surprisingly warm, and the night was gorgeous, and we swam for hours beneath the looming shapes of the volcanoes. At one point, I floated on my back and felt like this magical lake was holding me in the palm of its hand to face the stars above. It was so beautiful as to be almost alarming-- like looking into a well and finding the entire universe contained there.
The next day was pure bliss-- a day I will always remember. After a delicious breakfast, me and a few others walked along the lake to a place that rented kayaks, and we paddled out toward the center of the lake. The day was clear and bright and the expansive lake calm. The volcanoes were striking, but so were the steep hills surrounding the lake, ruffled with thick jungle and etched with gorges and waterfalls. Once we were out a ways, we jumped off our kayaks and swam and floated around, then later paddled along the shore. The rest of the day passed leisurely, which a picinic lunch on the dock of bread, wine and cheese, more swimming, more wine, and some laying in a hammock.
That evening, we rummaged through the costume room to find crazy things to wear for the weekly Saturday night “Cross-dressing party” at the hostel, and I came up with a rather convincing hunter’s outfit (one of the tamer outfits). Unfortunatley, thanks to the wine and my normal 9 pm bed time, I was too exhausted to stay up late.
The next morning, we all had to get going, and of course leaving was another adventure. We had heard there was a direct bus from a different town on the lake, so we took the boat there, only to find the town was taken over by a Christian parade and the bus wouldn’t leave for an hour (if then). We found a pickup that was willing to load up all 14 of us and our huge packs and take us part way along the highway. So we all piled in standing in the back and hung on (it had one of those racks that usually for keeping animals secure), looking like so many cows on their way to market. We joked and laughed and wondered if the driver’s buddies were waiting in the jungle with machetes to rob us all, and watched the lake slowly grow small and distant below us.
It was little more than a day I spent there, it made an enormous impact on me. The knowledge that this paradise exists, that I can and will make my escape there again many times in these two years, filled me with satisfaction and gave me back the grace to return to my village without regret, something I had been lacking in a recent bout of homesickness. This reuinion-labor-day-kayaking-cross-dressing-celebration was exactly what I needed.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Basquetbol y tortillar
The day before yesterday, Monday, I finished teaching in the Institute in my town, and as I was walking back to the house, a group of girls from the Institute were playing a game of "basquetbol"... in their strappy high-heeled sandals and cortes (long wrapped woven skirts), of course. They called to me and asked to join them. I've just been WAITING for someone to invite me to play. It was so much fun. Some of the girls are decent, especially considering the outfits they were wearing, and the Gringa-Playing-Basketball of course attracted a bit of a crowd of spectators (mostly men). For a while there was a large group of boys from the Institute watching enviously, and some of them kept shouting to me, "¡Seño!" (the standard female title here, short for señorita) "¡A game!" but I told them I was already playing. Of course they didn't ask to join the game since girls and boys generally don´t mix for sports (me being the obvious exception in their minds). Some other day, I'll play with the boys. But it was a lot of fun playing with the girls-- they were so cute and shy, and they laughed every time I gave them a high five. Baby steps toward my girls-group dream, perhaps? They invited me to come the next day, but I returned from the other Institute too late, and it was raining, and I was exhausted. But I'm sure there will be other opportunities.
Then the next evening, the little 6 year old girl invited me to come down to the kitchen and practice "tortillar"ing, forming tortillas with your hands from the play-dough like maza, or corn dough, and placing them on the plancha, or fire-heated stove top. This basically involves rolling a chunk of maza between your palms to form a smooth round ball, and then slapping the ball between your palms rapidly to form the flat round disks. The idea is to get them very thin and very round. I´ve "tortillar"ed a little with the other host family, but always quit after a little while. Last night, with the help of the girl´s mother Lidia, I made quite a few tortillas, and they were rather round I must say (although quite fat and rough-textured). And I didn't drop any (like I did twice with the other family). I´m getting better. By the end of this two years, I´m going to be a great Guatemalteca.
It amuses me about my life here that one evening I can spend playing basketball with the girls-- a very modern and new pasttime here-- and the next evening, making tortillas from maza and cooking them over a hot fire-- a tradition almost as ancient as the Mayan people themselves, the "corn people." I never know what new encounters the next day will bring.
Then the next evening, the little 6 year old girl invited me to come down to the kitchen and practice "tortillar"ing, forming tortillas with your hands from the play-dough like maza, or corn dough, and placing them on the plancha, or fire-heated stove top. This basically involves rolling a chunk of maza between your palms to form a smooth round ball, and then slapping the ball between your palms rapidly to form the flat round disks. The idea is to get them very thin and very round. I´ve "tortillar"ed a little with the other host family, but always quit after a little while. Last night, with the help of the girl´s mother Lidia, I made quite a few tortillas, and they were rather round I must say (although quite fat and rough-textured). And I didn't drop any (like I did twice with the other family). I´m getting better. By the end of this two years, I´m going to be a great Guatemalteca.
It amuses me about my life here that one evening I can spend playing basketball with the girls-- a very modern and new pasttime here-- and the next evening, making tortillas from maza and cooking them over a hot fire-- a tradition almost as ancient as the Mayan people themselves, the "corn people." I never know what new encounters the next day will bring.
Pila scrubbin blues
Dear Reader,
Do me a favor. The next time you come across your washer and drier, give them a friendly little pat in thanks for all the hours of labor they save you each week. Washing clothes by hand is A LOT OF WORK. Socks are the worst. I simply hate socks. They’re so little, and there are so damn many of them. And you have to scrub first the outside and then the inside, and then you have to rinse first the outside and then the inside. For every sock! It’s no wonder that Guatemalan women have foregone socks for sandals (although they have to wash their husbands’ and kids’ socks, at least they’re saving themselves some time). And sweatshirts. Don’t even get me started on sweatshirts! You have to keep pouring water and keep sprinkling soap and keep kneading it, over and over, to finally get it nice and sudsy. And then rinsing all that soap out again takes forever!
Although I must say there is no feeling quite so satisfying as, after those hours of scrubbing and rinsing, to see your clean clothes out drying beautifully in the sun… until storm clouds suddenly gather to rain down the “rinse cycle”-- that may or may not finish any time soon.
I know electric washers and driers waste a lot of energy. But they do certainly save a lot of human energy. And if you’re going to use them, just be grateful.
Betsy's journey
So at the moment I am sitting on my ridiculous king-sized bed, sipping some of the best coffee in the world, listening to one of my favorite Wilco songs, typing this blog entry on my beloved computer (Betsy). Peace Corps? Posh Corps is more like it!
(WARNING: A very long and not really that interesantly tale ensues about FedEx Guatemala´s horrible customer service and my family & I having to pay obscene amounts of money and mountains of stress to get my computer here, so only read it if you´re really bored, and I won´t be sad if you don´t.)
Then came the fateful moment when we decided that mailing it FedEx would be the safest way-- one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Red lights should have flashed and horns should have sounded their warning when it cost $500, but my generous parents bit the bullet and sent it anyway (although if they had told me it cost this much, I would have told them to forget it). But that was only the beginning of our worries. First, FedEx contacted us to say that they needed the physical PC Center address rather than the PO Box (where all the regular mail packages go). Then they needed the name of someone to receive because I couldn’t be there. Not a big deal; I took care of it. Then there was the matter of the tax. Yes, for some reason when you ship FedEx rather than the regular mail service, it goes through customs and acquires a tax. The tax for my computer would be roughly $300 (or Q2000, WAY more than I can pay on my PC budget). But no worries, the FedEx Guatemala office assured me, this tax could be waived with a tax identification number, or NIT number. I told them I could probably use Peace Corps’. They said if not, I could go to a government office with my passport and get a temporary NIT number to avoid the tax (all this transaction was in Spanish, by the way, complicating things a bit). Thing was, they needed it by Tuesday or they were shipping the computer back the US ($500 or no). This was Friday (and let‘s keep in mind I have a full schedule teaching in 4 institutes).
Newborn
The very first night that I arrived in site, over a month ago now, the young mother gave birth to a newborn son. A few days later, I held this tiny new being in my arms, wrinkly and red and helpless, and thought, “When I leave here, this boy will be two years old. I will watch him make that mysterious transition from ‘baby’-- a helpless creature that does little more than cry, soil its diaper, and gurgle-- to a ‘person’, a little human being with his own very unique personality.” Looking at the little guy, so new and bewildered in a universe that had suddenly shifted so completely, I felt I could sympathize. And I thought, “we’ll figure this place out together, buddy.”
Monday, August 18, 2008
Mountain climbs and meditation baths
Yesterday was an interesting day... in the random entertaining way that days can be interesting here.
About two weeks previously, a group of girls from the Institute shyly approached me and asked if I had a climbed up the mountain ridge above our town yet. I hadn't, and they invited me to go with them two Sundays from that day. Of course I was enthralled, for several reasons-- because it is my dream to start a girls´group as a secondary project (though I'm still trying to figure out exacly what it will entail), because these girls will be my students, because I'm trying to ¨integrate into the community¨, and because I love hiking, duh! (And I´ve also been told that it is not safe to climb alone, so I´ve been impatiently tapping my feet, just waiting for someone to invite me.)
So this Sunday finally arrived, and I met them in the square. We of course got off to a late start, it being Guatemala and all, and on the way we stopped by at a tienda where the girls dropped 50Q to buy gatoraides and muffins for all of us (a lot of money for young Guatemalan girls) and would not accept my contribution.
It felt amazing, rising on the trail above the town, and I felt like I could be in Montana, with the breeze moving the pine trees around me and the taste of the clean cool air. Also, although the girls talked in K´iche´ mostly at first, more and more we got to talking.
I of course was wearing my new Keen hiking boots, pants, and an Underarmor T shirt. The girls were of course wearing the beautiful hand-woven trajes and little high heeled plastic sandals that the women here always wear. Yet, of course, I (the experienced hiker-mountain climber) was the one slipping around on the hard rain-slicked trail. At the top, we sat for a while and chatted, and played an impromptu tag-like game among the pines. The view was breathtaking-- you could see the whole valley below lined with soft hills and even in the distance where the plateau drops off. We walked to the other side of the ridge where we could look down on another valley housing another aldea. This valley was so covered in milpas (corn fields) that it looked like someone had tried to carpet it with plastic mini golf grass but hadn't quite finished, because there were still patches of the softer-colored natural grass. It was a lovely morning. They taught me their secret handshake and some greetings in K´iche´.
On the way down I (of course) slipped and fell on my butt. The girls all fluttered around me in concern and rushed to help me up. We continued for a bit, and then they decided they had better go back to the place where I had fallen to retrieve my heart, because I had left it there. (It is a Mayan belief that if a person is startled, they leave a part of their soul and as a result will fall ill.) It´s remarkable how powerful these beliefs are, even for girls who want be astronauts, models, or business managers, like these. So they went back and did a quick ceremony to retrieve my heart, then we continued.
They sounded interested in going again some time. My girls´ group may still just be a half-baked idea, but this feels like a start. If anything, it's nice to have a few new friends in town.
Then that afternoon, I headed back to the house and got ready to go with my host family to some hot springs. They had invited me to ¨bathe¨ at the hot springs with them. I of course did not have a clear idea of what this meant (swimming? taking baths? hot tubbing?), nor what was appropriate dress for an outing with an Indigenous Guatemalan family where water would be involved in some way (a family where the women always wear traje and never reaveal so much as a shoulder). So in preparation, I put on my bathing suite (without much hope), under a skirt and t shirt (in case we'd just be wading) and packed my back pack with a large t shirt (in case a bathing suite with a t shirt cover-up was the appropriate attire), along with my soap (they did say bathing!) and of course towel and jeans to change into (in the case I´d actually be taking anything off). I felt that if at that point I didn't have the appropriate attire, then it really wasn't my fault... this was the best I could do.
We all (mom, dad, sister, grandma, grandpa, great grandpa, plus 2 babies, a two year old and a 5 year old and me) piled into a borrowed Ford truck (the kind with a hatch back), and immediately there was something so assuringly familiar about the family-road-trip feel to it (such as when Dad couldn´t open the back door, or we had to stop after 5 seconds of driving to properly close Grandpa´s door, or the little girl asking many times before we even hit the highway if we were there yet), that I felt very at home... despite the fact that there were twice as many people as seat belts.
We drove for a long while and finally arrived at a series of buildings besides a strong-flowing river. The Grandma was suddenly ask me if it would be best if I had my own room, and I (still unsure of what ¨bathing¨ meant) awkwardly said I could go with them (assuming just the women) or have my own room, whatever they thought was best, putting the ball in their court. It was decided that it would be ¨safer¨ for me to have my own room. So a man led me (past small, steaming pools where men were sitting in swimming trunks) to a small room with a very large tile-lined bath (almost a small pool) where a faucet was streaming hot water. Host dad told me to come find them in a hour. I couldn´t believe my luck! I locked the door, stripped to my bathing suite (there was a large hole in the door that prevented me from stipping compeltely) and slid into the hot water. After craving privacy and quiet, it was like an answered prayer, and the water was so deliciously hot and wonderful. I even meditated for a while (if there´s ever a time to take up meditation, it´s in the Peace Corps, especially if you´ve been presented with a room with your private hot-springs bath to yourself for an hour).
On the long ride home in the dark, I dozed a little between Grandpa, Mom, and the newborn baby boy. If I was in a foreign land, it certainly didn´t feel that way.
About two weeks previously, a group of girls from the Institute shyly approached me and asked if I had a climbed up the mountain ridge above our town yet. I hadn't, and they invited me to go with them two Sundays from that day. Of course I was enthralled, for several reasons-- because it is my dream to start a girls´group as a secondary project (though I'm still trying to figure out exacly what it will entail), because these girls will be my students, because I'm trying to ¨integrate into the community¨, and because I love hiking, duh! (And I´ve also been told that it is not safe to climb alone, so I´ve been impatiently tapping my feet, just waiting for someone to invite me.)
So this Sunday finally arrived, and I met them in the square. We of course got off to a late start, it being Guatemala and all, and on the way we stopped by at a tienda where the girls dropped 50Q to buy gatoraides and muffins for all of us (a lot of money for young Guatemalan girls) and would not accept my contribution.
It felt amazing, rising on the trail above the town, and I felt like I could be in Montana, with the breeze moving the pine trees around me and the taste of the clean cool air. Also, although the girls talked in K´iche´ mostly at first, more and more we got to talking.
I of course was wearing my new Keen hiking boots, pants, and an Underarmor T shirt. The girls were of course wearing the beautiful hand-woven trajes and little high heeled plastic sandals that the women here always wear. Yet, of course, I (the experienced hiker-mountain climber) was the one slipping around on the hard rain-slicked trail. At the top, we sat for a while and chatted, and played an impromptu tag-like game among the pines. The view was breathtaking-- you could see the whole valley below lined with soft hills and even in the distance where the plateau drops off. We walked to the other side of the ridge where we could look down on another valley housing another aldea. This valley was so covered in milpas (corn fields) that it looked like someone had tried to carpet it with plastic mini golf grass but hadn't quite finished, because there were still patches of the softer-colored natural grass. It was a lovely morning. They taught me their secret handshake and some greetings in K´iche´.
On the way down I (of course) slipped and fell on my butt. The girls all fluttered around me in concern and rushed to help me up. We continued for a bit, and then they decided they had better go back to the place where I had fallen to retrieve my heart, because I had left it there. (It is a Mayan belief that if a person is startled, they leave a part of their soul and as a result will fall ill.) It´s remarkable how powerful these beliefs are, even for girls who want be astronauts, models, or business managers, like these. So they went back and did a quick ceremony to retrieve my heart, then we continued.
They sounded interested in going again some time. My girls´ group may still just be a half-baked idea, but this feels like a start. If anything, it's nice to have a few new friends in town.
Then that afternoon, I headed back to the house and got ready to go with my host family to some hot springs. They had invited me to ¨bathe¨ at the hot springs with them. I of course did not have a clear idea of what this meant (swimming? taking baths? hot tubbing?), nor what was appropriate dress for an outing with an Indigenous Guatemalan family where water would be involved in some way (a family where the women always wear traje and never reaveal so much as a shoulder). So in preparation, I put on my bathing suite (without much hope), under a skirt and t shirt (in case we'd just be wading) and packed my back pack with a large t shirt (in case a bathing suite with a t shirt cover-up was the appropriate attire), along with my soap (they did say bathing!) and of course towel and jeans to change into (in the case I´d actually be taking anything off). I felt that if at that point I didn't have the appropriate attire, then it really wasn't my fault... this was the best I could do.
We all (mom, dad, sister, grandma, grandpa, great grandpa, plus 2 babies, a two year old and a 5 year old and me) piled into a borrowed Ford truck (the kind with a hatch back), and immediately there was something so assuringly familiar about the family-road-trip feel to it (such as when Dad couldn´t open the back door, or we had to stop after 5 seconds of driving to properly close Grandpa´s door, or the little girl asking many times before we even hit the highway if we were there yet), that I felt very at home... despite the fact that there were twice as many people as seat belts.
We drove for a long while and finally arrived at a series of buildings besides a strong-flowing river. The Grandma was suddenly ask me if it would be best if I had my own room, and I (still unsure of what ¨bathing¨ meant) awkwardly said I could go with them (assuming just the women) or have my own room, whatever they thought was best, putting the ball in their court. It was decided that it would be ¨safer¨ for me to have my own room. So a man led me (past small, steaming pools where men were sitting in swimming trunks) to a small room with a very large tile-lined bath (almost a small pool) where a faucet was streaming hot water. Host dad told me to come find them in a hour. I couldn´t believe my luck! I locked the door, stripped to my bathing suite (there was a large hole in the door that prevented me from stipping compeltely) and slid into the hot water. After craving privacy and quiet, it was like an answered prayer, and the water was so deliciously hot and wonderful. I even meditated for a while (if there´s ever a time to take up meditation, it´s in the Peace Corps, especially if you´ve been presented with a room with your private hot-springs bath to yourself for an hour).
On the long ride home in the dark, I dozed a little between Grandpa, Mom, and the newborn baby boy. If I was in a foreign land, it certainly didn´t feel that way.
Charla number 1
Today I gave my very first charla (class). (Well, my first charla on my own, as a ¨real¨ volunteer.)
I´m a little embarrassed to admit this since I am approaching a month in-site and many of my compañeros have streamrolled-ahead with several charlas and are already well into planning (or have already started) secondary projects. Not me! I´m off to a very very slow start. But I think part of this has to do with the fact that I am in a new site, my schools are very hard to get to, and I don't really have a CTA (school superintendant) to work with directly and help me coordinate. Needless to say, it's been slow-going... although I've let it be that way. I've allowed myself to take my time settling in here and getting my feet under me, and I think that's okay. But I'm excited to get started.
My class was scheduled to be the third period for the tercero students (roughly, eigth grade, about to graduate from middle school). The teacher didn´t show up for most of it (I guess he had a meeting, but of course no one was informed, least of all the students), so I ended up trying to fill up their time with dinamicas-- team builders (while other teacher-less students watched enviously through the window). When the teacher did arrive, I observed their 20 minute math class, then it was time for me to begin.
I am very grateful that I had that time for the dinamicas first. They didn't necessarily understand every instruction I gave and some of the dinamicas didn't really work like they were supposed to, but it didn't really matter. There was a lot of laughter, and they were very patient with me. The ice was certainly good and broken when it was time for my charla! And by then I did not feel the least bit nervous, just certain that I could do this and that I knew my stuff.
And it went well! It was a short class, half the normal time, because they had a school assembly to practice for their Independence Day... basically just an overview of the program, expectations, and a very short lesson on self-esteem, but I still felt good about it. They understood me, and I think I hit the right balance between being serious and positive-- which is so key that first day.
This week I will be giving two more, in two of my other schools. Bring it on.
I think I'm going to like this job.
I´m a little embarrassed to admit this since I am approaching a month in-site and many of my compañeros have streamrolled-ahead with several charlas and are already well into planning (or have already started) secondary projects. Not me! I´m off to a very very slow start. But I think part of this has to do with the fact that I am in a new site, my schools are very hard to get to, and I don't really have a CTA (school superintendant) to work with directly and help me coordinate. Needless to say, it's been slow-going... although I've let it be that way. I've allowed myself to take my time settling in here and getting my feet under me, and I think that's okay. But I'm excited to get started.
My class was scheduled to be the third period for the tercero students (roughly, eigth grade, about to graduate from middle school). The teacher didn´t show up for most of it (I guess he had a meeting, but of course no one was informed, least of all the students), so I ended up trying to fill up their time with dinamicas-- team builders (while other teacher-less students watched enviously through the window). When the teacher did arrive, I observed their 20 minute math class, then it was time for me to begin.
I am very grateful that I had that time for the dinamicas first. They didn't necessarily understand every instruction I gave and some of the dinamicas didn't really work like they were supposed to, but it didn't really matter. There was a lot of laughter, and they were very patient with me. The ice was certainly good and broken when it was time for my charla! And by then I did not feel the least bit nervous, just certain that I could do this and that I knew my stuff.
And it went well! It was a short class, half the normal time, because they had a school assembly to practice for their Independence Day... basically just an overview of the program, expectations, and a very short lesson on self-esteem, but I still felt good about it. They understood me, and I think I hit the right balance between being serious and positive-- which is so key that first day.
This week I will be giving two more, in two of my other schools. Bring it on.
I think I'm going to like this job.
Friday, August 15, 2008
La Graduacion
Me, my host sister, my host mom. Can you pick me out? And no, my host mom is NOT angry, despite appearances. Guatemalans generally don't smile for pictures.
So I thought perhaps I should back-track and talk a bit about that glorious Cinderella-esque transformation from "Trainee" (aka you-don´t-count-yet-you´ve-proven-nothing-scum-of-the-earth) to "Volunteer" (aka the-real-deal/legit/badass).
Needless to say, it was a beautiful sunny day. I had asked my host family if I could wear a traje for the ceremony (traditionally, many of the Trainees that were in Indigenous training sites have worn traje to the graduation) and they were delighted. (I also, if you noticed, straightened my hair with my friend's straightener-- just to balance things out.) So I endured the stares and comments on the camioneta to the training center. I arrived to find I was one of 4 girls that wore the traje, and I must say I don't believe I've been photographed so much in one day since my high school graduation. We were definitely a hit. (But looking at these pictures, it dawns on me that it's NO WONDER that people stare at me! I'm hudge! I'm shockingly white! I look like a different species! I'm a freak of nature! ... note to those who perhaps do not recall, but I am actually somewhat normal-looking in the United States, not even particularly tall!)
After the ceremony, I endured yet another bus ride in the traje back to my village to have one last lunch with my host family. They had prepared my favorite lunch for me (roasted vegetables and chicken in this light tomato soup... with, of course, tortillas) and they gave me a gift of a rosary. I gave them a framed collage of photos of me and them (even one of me and mechanical baby Diego, which they appreciated). As happy as I was to be graduating, to leave the bottom rung of the ladder, to be a "real Volunteer" (after months, no, years, of waiting), my heart did ache a little to say good bye to them. We of course had our moments of misunderstandings, being from very very different worlds, but by the end I had considerable "confianza" (roughly, "closeness", though there is no word in English that captures the beautiful essence of this word) with them. There was a lot of teasing and laughter and sharing of stories and experiences. I was very blessed to have them as my host family.
What followed was the inevitable but amazing celebration in Antigua (yet another Peace Corps Guatemala tradition). My training group completely rented out 2 1/2 hostels for Friday and Saturday nights. After almost 3 months of hurrying home before 6 p.m., it was bliss. We all did our best not to think about the daunting challenges ahead, and instead ate good food, danced, watched movies, went shopping (yay move-in allowance!) and just sat around, enjoying each other's company. It was a good weekend.
Ahh!!! What's that huge pale demon-creature in a traje?!! Oh, right, that's me.
Then on Sunday, I waved good bye to denial and left for my site about mid-day. There were many other volunteers on the bus, but when I got off at Cuatro Caminos (a major transportation hub), in the pouring rain, with almost more luggage than I could haul, it was time to go it alone. I stood and waited for the bus to my town... and waited... and waited, letting the ayudantes (bus assistants) know again and again my destination, but no luck. I tried calling my host dad, but some guy I didn't know answered and I left a message I wasn't sure he understood. At last an ayudante for a bus to a different town told me that on Sundays, that bus went to my town. (Which seemed to make sense, right? There are less commuters on Sunday.) So I gratefully got on. But what the ayudante conveniently didn't tell me (ayudantes have a way of "bending" the truth to get more passangers) was that the bus only went to the entrance to my town on the highway, not actually to my town. My town is set a good 5 km from the highway, on a deserted, rought dirt road that I've been specifically told not to walk because it is sometimes prowled by thieves... not that I could have walked anyway-- I could barely move with all the stuff I had! We're talking 2 years, people!
Needless to say, I was dropped off on the side of the highway in the pouring rain with my enormous, very conspicuous suitecase and backpack, and it was beginning to get late. This was in fact worse than being at Cuatro Caminos, where at least, as a last resort, I could have hopped on to a bus to Xela and got a hostel for the night (which I was thinking of doing before this bus came along). Fortunately a nice older man, who also got off the bus, for some reason took notice of this sopping wet gringa with 2 times her weight in stuff took pity on me and asked where I was going. I told him, and he said there were no buses late on Sundays (so NOW I find out!), but fortunatley there was a pickup truck there to shuttle people to town (sometimes people with trucks work as unofficial shuttles to make a little extra cash), so me, all my stuff, this man and a couple others hopped into the pack of the truck in the pouring rain and traveled the rough 5 km road (which takes a half hour) to my town. Did I mention is was pouring rain? (The truck was going to drop us off about 1 km from the center of town, but the nice man convinced them to take me to the center-- in fact, to my front door.) I arrived sopping wet with my sopping wet stuff to the exclaimations of my new host family (my host dad had in fact tried calling many times but I hadn't heard in the noise of the camioneta, rain and truck).
Congratulations, I thought. You're a real volunteer.
Friday, August 1, 2008
The Beginning
I´m a bit ashamed at how long it´s been since my last update. I have been a slacker... but also more than slightly overwhelmed by all that has happened. I have been in my little aldea in the mountains for 2 weeks now. It´s been a roller-coaster ride, that´s for sure. Being alone here, without the friends in my training group I've become close to and come to rely on, without any Americans at all that have some concept of where I come from and who I am, and being such a novelty in this town and attracting SO MUCH attention... was a bit of a shock, as much as I saw it all coming.
I know now what they mean when they saw the highs are very high and the lows are very low. That's just how it's been here. I feel like my emotional state is a very delicate balance and all the things that happen to me, good or bad, are pepples that can tip it drastically one way or the other. Often the tone for the day is set during my morning walks. A little kid in the street whose face brightens when they see me, shouting "¡Buenos dias, Seño Leoti!" can make me so happy. A morning when the endless hills are glowing with light and the clouds float tranquilly in a vibrant blue sky. A simple "¡Que le vaya bien! (roughly, "hope that all goes well) from a stranger that I greet. After breakfast, sitting on my rooftop in the sun, where no one can see me, but I can see the velvety green hills and the top of a volcano in the far distance, sipping coffee and preparing lessons. Chatting with some eager, shy young ladies at the Institute where I'll be working. Preparing a delicious breakfast of yogurt, granola, fruit and honey with strong coffee (SO tasty after months of comida chapina). All of these things can make me feel truly content here, and the prospect of these two years is not intimidating but envigoring. It really doesn't take much.
In cambio, the scale can definitely tip the other way. Some mornings I just can't handle all the staring and muttering and the whole town treating my walk like a friggun circus act. Having a run in with bad-tempered and dangerous chuchos, street dogs (once one goes in for attack, it attracts a bunch more). Saying "Buenos dias" with a smile and getting a barely audible muttered response, or no reply at all. Getting vulgar comments or whistles from the construction workers (which happens also in the US and doesn't bother me, but for some reason it's so much more intolerable here). Saying something simple (and correct) in Spanish to my host mom and her not understanding (Spanish is a distant second language for her). Waiting two hours in the rain for a camioneta I'm not even sure will come to get my safely home. Little boys in the street throwing apples at me, then running away giggling. Some days there is just a cascade of such pebbles, building a mountain on my scale, tipping my mood very low indeed. Nothing is simple here, and there is no espcaping the glaring spotlight that is constantly pointed at me. Some days, I can handle it with grace and humor. Others, it just feels like too much. The other day, I loaned my best, warmest sweater to a little old lady that was staying the night with us and she took off with it the next day (SO should have seen that coming). That afternoon, I was pouring water from my own jug of purified water when it slipped from the table, cracked, and flooded my room with 5 gallons of purified water. It was just enough to put me over the edge, and needless to say tears were shed that day.
I think one challenge has been that I've gotten off to a very slow start. The director at the Institute in my town was gone for most of the first week, and I wanted to wait on visiting the other schools until I had met with him because he is my main contact. Then I wasted one day trying to get to one of my schools, but once I simply got to the entrance of the town, it was so late that I had to just wait (over an hour) for a bus back home before it got dark. Today I made the long trip out to the one institute I have not yet visited (1 hour 40 minutes including the wait) only to find the director wasn't there and having to turn around. The fews days were I have made it to the schools and felt like I had a productive day have made me feel much better, like I have a purpose here. As I figure out more and more the buses and get the initial meetings out of the way so I can really be with the kids, I know I will feel better and better.
This past weekend I went to Xela for the first time, the 2nd biggest city in Guatemala and only an hour away, and went to a gym with some of my compañeros and had a planning meeting, then went out for Indian food and dancing. A little bit of normalcy, a little time away, really refreshed me and helped me get back some perspective, and today has been one of the good ones. I can only hope the same for tomorrow.
I know now what they mean when they saw the highs are very high and the lows are very low. That's just how it's been here. I feel like my emotional state is a very delicate balance and all the things that happen to me, good or bad, are pepples that can tip it drastically one way or the other. Often the tone for the day is set during my morning walks. A little kid in the street whose face brightens when they see me, shouting "¡Buenos dias, Seño Leoti!" can make me so happy. A morning when the endless hills are glowing with light and the clouds float tranquilly in a vibrant blue sky. A simple "¡Que le vaya bien! (roughly, "hope that all goes well) from a stranger that I greet. After breakfast, sitting on my rooftop in the sun, where no one can see me, but I can see the velvety green hills and the top of a volcano in the far distance, sipping coffee and preparing lessons. Chatting with some eager, shy young ladies at the Institute where I'll be working. Preparing a delicious breakfast of yogurt, granola, fruit and honey with strong coffee (SO tasty after months of comida chapina). All of these things can make me feel truly content here, and the prospect of these two years is not intimidating but envigoring. It really doesn't take much.
In cambio, the scale can definitely tip the other way. Some mornings I just can't handle all the staring and muttering and the whole town treating my walk like a friggun circus act. Having a run in with bad-tempered and dangerous chuchos, street dogs (once one goes in for attack, it attracts a bunch more). Saying "Buenos dias" with a smile and getting a barely audible muttered response, or no reply at all. Getting vulgar comments or whistles from the construction workers (which happens also in the US and doesn't bother me, but for some reason it's so much more intolerable here). Saying something simple (and correct) in Spanish to my host mom and her not understanding (Spanish is a distant second language for her). Waiting two hours in the rain for a camioneta I'm not even sure will come to get my safely home. Little boys in the street throwing apples at me, then running away giggling. Some days there is just a cascade of such pebbles, building a mountain on my scale, tipping my mood very low indeed. Nothing is simple here, and there is no espcaping the glaring spotlight that is constantly pointed at me. Some days, I can handle it with grace and humor. Others, it just feels like too much. The other day, I loaned my best, warmest sweater to a little old lady that was staying the night with us and she took off with it the next day (SO should have seen that coming). That afternoon, I was pouring water from my own jug of purified water when it slipped from the table, cracked, and flooded my room with 5 gallons of purified water. It was just enough to put me over the edge, and needless to say tears were shed that day.
I think one challenge has been that I've gotten off to a very slow start. The director at the Institute in my town was gone for most of the first week, and I wanted to wait on visiting the other schools until I had met with him because he is my main contact. Then I wasted one day trying to get to one of my schools, but once I simply got to the entrance of the town, it was so late that I had to just wait (over an hour) for a bus back home before it got dark. Today I made the long trip out to the one institute I have not yet visited (1 hour 40 minutes including the wait) only to find the director wasn't there and having to turn around. The fews days were I have made it to the schools and felt like I had a productive day have made me feel much better, like I have a purpose here. As I figure out more and more the buses and get the initial meetings out of the way so I can really be with the kids, I know I will feel better and better.
This past weekend I went to Xela for the first time, the 2nd biggest city in Guatemala and only an hour away, and went to a gym with some of my compañeros and had a planning meeting, then went out for Indian food and dancing. A little bit of normalcy, a little time away, really refreshed me and helped me get back some perspective, and today has been one of the good ones. I can only hope the same for tomorrow.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Lava-toasted marshmallows
Last Saturday, I finally made it up to Volcan Pacaya. (The first time, I organized the entire trip, only to get very sick with "intenstinal problems," to put it delicately.) This time around, only a few other volunteers went, as well as some Peace Corps medical staff. It was a cloudy day, so the visibility was poor, but the forests and farmland that the trail wound through was a brilliant green. It felt good to be on a trail again, even though it was crowded with lots of student groups.
When we neared the summit, we walked out onto the uneven black hardened lava. Hot air floated up through vents. We made our unsteady way to a live lava flow. I was surprised by how quickly it flowed. I busted out marshmallows and chickys (chocolate covered cookies) to make a Guatemalan style s'mores, which tasted fantastic. It was worth the wait.
smack down
I really love my family, but I am really sick of watching WWF wrestling while eating dinner.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Maximon
Last week, for Spanish class, my teacher took us to a small town outside of Chimaltenango to visit Maximon, the renegade Mayan spirit/historic figure/demon/Catholic saint-- depending on who you ask.
Maximon (pronounced Mash-ee-moan) has a very prominent presence in Guatemala, although not every quite approves. Legend has it that he was a Mayan fighter that resisted the Spaniards, and that he promised the people that if they always remembered and paid homage to him, he would protect the Mayan people. He is considered by some to be a Nuhal, a spirit that represents certain qualities and energies in the Mayan world-view. Some consider him a representation of Saint Judas (the one that betrayed Jesus) from the Catholic religion. Many Evangelicals consider him to be a demonic figure. But all agree that when you visit Maximon, you´ve come to ask for something-- be it love, wealth, or harm to someone you know.
There are a few "Maximons" scattered throughout Guatemala that people visit to make their requests. The one we visited was in a fairly normal Guatemalan town, only distinguished by the various stores selling special candles, incense and relics. We went up a side street and entered a non-distinct door into a large courtyard where several fires were burning.
I had the strange sense of entering onto a pirate ship. Rough looking men wearing baggy white shirts tucked into trousers, long bandanas and heavy necklaces with crosses were circling the fires, muttering incantations. Women wearing tight-fit revealing clothing sipped bottles of liquour or chain-smoked large cigars to feel closer to the presence of Maximon. Singers with guitars would strum an ode to Maximon for the pricey cost of Q10 per song and dusty little boys tried to sell strings of beads or shine your shoes. Street dogs (chuchos) slinked furtively around, trying to lap up the remnants of the sweet sacred fires that had burned out. Surprisingly, after our near-celebrity status as gringas almost everywhere else, no one paid us much attention as we sat and observed for a while. Eventually, we entered into the dark temple where Maximon was housed.
The plaster figure of Maximon sat encased on a pedestal, clothed in a black suite and sombrero, holding his rifle, surrounded by flowers, candles and bottles of liquour. Tables below him were covered with lit candles, each representing a request, and a long of people was formed, waiting for their turn to approach Maximon. In groups of two or three, they went up to his pedestal, murmured their prayers, dipped their hands in liquor and wiped it on their hair and skin, and left him fistfulls of bills and bottles of liquor. To the right of Maximon was another incased figure of the classic robes of a saint that I assume to be Judas (but no one paid him more than a glance). The walls were all covered in plaques from people thanking Maximon for the good fortune he had given them.
After a while, we went back out to the courtyard and watched an entire family prepared an elaborate sacred fire of sugar, incesnse, sweet wood, candles, chocolate, liquor. They chanted their prayers relentlessly as they added more and more treasures to the firest. They must have spent a fortune. We also noticed a large red chicken waiting in a crate, and we knew what was coming. Finally, it came his turn, and the father lifted the live chicken by the feet and passed it-- squacking-- up and down the bodies of his family members. Finally, with the help of his wife, he pulled the head off with his bare hands and laid its still wriggling, splurting body into the flames. Whatever they were asking must have been a big request. If they're lucky, it will result in another plaque on Maximon´s wall.
Maximon (pronounced Mash-ee-moan) has a very prominent presence in Guatemala, although not every quite approves. Legend has it that he was a Mayan fighter that resisted the Spaniards, and that he promised the people that if they always remembered and paid homage to him, he would protect the Mayan people. He is considered by some to be a Nuhal, a spirit that represents certain qualities and energies in the Mayan world-view. Some consider him a representation of Saint Judas (the one that betrayed Jesus) from the Catholic religion. Many Evangelicals consider him to be a demonic figure. But all agree that when you visit Maximon, you´ve come to ask for something-- be it love, wealth, or harm to someone you know.
There are a few "Maximons" scattered throughout Guatemala that people visit to make their requests. The one we visited was in a fairly normal Guatemalan town, only distinguished by the various stores selling special candles, incense and relics. We went up a side street and entered a non-distinct door into a large courtyard where several fires were burning.
I had the strange sense of entering onto a pirate ship. Rough looking men wearing baggy white shirts tucked into trousers, long bandanas and heavy necklaces with crosses were circling the fires, muttering incantations. Women wearing tight-fit revealing clothing sipped bottles of liquour or chain-smoked large cigars to feel closer to the presence of Maximon. Singers with guitars would strum an ode to Maximon for the pricey cost of Q10 per song and dusty little boys tried to sell strings of beads or shine your shoes. Street dogs (chuchos) slinked furtively around, trying to lap up the remnants of the sweet sacred fires that had burned out. Surprisingly, after our near-celebrity status as gringas almost everywhere else, no one paid us much attention as we sat and observed for a while. Eventually, we entered into the dark temple where Maximon was housed.
The plaster figure of Maximon sat encased on a pedestal, clothed in a black suite and sombrero, holding his rifle, surrounded by flowers, candles and bottles of liquour. Tables below him were covered with lit candles, each representing a request, and a long of people was formed, waiting for their turn to approach Maximon. In groups of two or three, they went up to his pedestal, murmured their prayers, dipped their hands in liquor and wiped it on their hair and skin, and left him fistfulls of bills and bottles of liquor. To the right of Maximon was another incased figure of the classic robes of a saint that I assume to be Judas (but no one paid him more than a glance). The walls were all covered in plaques from people thanking Maximon for the good fortune he had given them.
After a while, we went back out to the courtyard and watched an entire family prepared an elaborate sacred fire of sugar, incesnse, sweet wood, candles, chocolate, liquor. They chanted their prayers relentlessly as they added more and more treasures to the firest. They must have spent a fortune. We also noticed a large red chicken waiting in a crate, and we knew what was coming. Finally, it came his turn, and the father lifted the live chicken by the feet and passed it-- squacking-- up and down the bodies of his family members. Finally, with the help of his wife, he pulled the head off with his bare hands and laid its still wriggling, splurting body into the flames. Whatever they were asking must have been a big request. If they're lucky, it will result in another plaque on Maximon´s wall.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
The Site Visit
A picture I found of my village.So this week I saw the village where I´ll be spending the next two years of my life, for the first time.
On Tuesday, we had our counterpart day, where I met the director of one of the schools where I´ll be working and the superintendant of the elementary schools that will be managing me. It was an exhausting day of workshops and discussions where Peace Corps did its best to explain my role as a volunteer and the program and set us up for success. Mid-morning the next day, I left, with my counterparts and the two other girls going to Toto, to make the journey out to my site.
It wasn´t as long as expected, only 4 hours by pullman (the nicer style of bus, similar to a Greyhound)-- up into the mountains of the Western Highlands-- to arrive at Cuatro Caminos, a transportation hub of the main highways that take you all 4 directions in Guatemala. From there, it was only about a 20 minute ride by camioneta into my town. After a few miles, we left the Inter-American highway that runs all the way to Alaska, and turned onto a very bumpy dirt road that wound its way into the little valley where my village is nestled, up against a mountain ridge.
The town is surrounded by corn fields and farm lands. Plots of corn are scattered throughout the town center and the hills are smattered with the little houses of the farmers. The surrounding hills and mountains are blanketed with pine trees, a testament to the colder climate and higher altitude (no palm trees here!). It was a pretty town, secluded but very accesible (by Guatemalan standards), small but with sufficient resources to be comfortable (internet, many tiendas, even a small library). There are buses that run directly from my town to the city of Xela, a lively and developed city, which is central to where most of the volunteers in my group will be working. Yet, I am the first and only volunteer in my town. It will be "my town", and I'm excited to be their first exposure to the Peace Corps. Yet I will be able to escape easily when I need a break. It's truly ideal.
The director of the institute had already set up a living situation for me with one of the teachers and his family in a house right next to the town center. The teacher and his brothers had have worked in the States, and the difference in this house from the one I live in now was drastic. They were two 2-story houses alongside each other, connected to each other and to two stores (a hardware store and a traje fabric store). One of the houses is mostly vacant because the brother is currently working in the States, and in this house I will be living. My bedroom is upstairs. It has a queen size comfortable bed and a bay window surrounded by exposed brick. (Peace Corps or Posh Corps?) I will also have my own rooftop where I can look down on the whole surrounding town. There is a common living space and private bathroom on the same floor as the bedroom, but they´re currently being used for processing maiz to make the tamalitos they eat with every meal. The living room was filled with bundles of corn to be husked and the bathtub was full of corn stalks-- so for now I have to make the long journey down my stairs and up the family´s stairs to the bathroom. But rather than bucket baths in the temescal, I´ll have a hot shower (which felt amazing after 2 months without). This family clearly enjoys a different living standard than the one I live with now.
Still there are similarities. There are around 9 people living there-- the teacher and his pregnant wife and their daughter, his sister-in-law and her 2 year old daughter and infant baby, the mother, the father, and a couple people I have yet to identify. The women all wear traje very similar to the other family, and rather than tortillas they serve tamalitos (ground up maize molded into hot patties) with every meal (a nice change). They still do all the washing in the pila and most cooking with firewood, though their kitchen is much nicer with tile-lined walls and a brick chimey rather than rickety wooden walls and no chimney in the other and they even have a refrigerator.
I know I would have been fine with simpler conditions, as I have been fine for the past two months. But I will enjoy the higher comfort level, and especially the additional privacy. I will have a lot of space to myself and separation. I´ll be preparing my own breakfast and lunch, but I´ll take dinner with the family. I´m looking forward to having more control over my life.
Besides getting to know the family, my director took me around the first day meeting everyone and their brother-- the mayors, the health officials, the directors and teachers of all the schools, store owners, committee members, you name it. The next day I left my town and went to San Francisco, the larger town of which mine is an aldea, and met all the officials there, including the Catholic priest. I also visited the three other communities and the three other institutes where I´ll be working and met many of the students. One of the schools even hosted a surprise assembly, and I had to give an impromptu speech in front of all the students an teachers I hadn´t met yet.
By the end of the third day, my head felt stuffed to the brim with jumbled up puzzle pieces of Spanish words of thanks and welcome and introductions. The last night, I spent a lonely 4th of July in a rather run-down hotel room in San Fran, but I appreciated the quiet. The visit was definitely exhausting, but overall I am pleased. For the first time, it really hit me that I am going to be on my own, without other volunteers, without PC staff hovering over me, without Americans. This is real. I´m a little scared, but ready.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
To Toto
So this morning they gave us our site assignments. Prior to this, the entire group was a nervous wreck, with lots of uncomfortable giggling, hugging, "oh my god"s. It was a long drawn-out process. They brought out a large map of Guatemala, and we each had to put a pushpin in one of the sites (just randomly). Then we each had to read a short description of each site. Then, FINALLY, they gave us our envelopes, and all at once we opened them up to see our destiny.
I am going to be serving in an aldea in the western highlands in the district of Totonicapan. It's a village high in the mountains, close to San Francisco El Alto, a larger town where the biggest market in Guatemala takes place. It is a largely indigenous site, populated by the Kiche Maya (but they also speak Spanish). It's in a cold climate. I will be the only volunteer in my site, as well as the first. Still, there are other volunteers in the area, and some not too far that are in my program and friends of mine. It's only 35 km to Queztaltenango, or Xela ("Shela), the 2nd biggest city in Guatemala, which is supposed to be awesome. I will also have access to the internet and there's a small library.
So far, I am very pleased. I wanted to be alone, in the mountains, in a smaller village, but I am also relieved that I will have easy access to the city and other volunteers in the area when I need it. And it's not as far as it could be to Guatemala City and the rest of the country.
There is still a lot more to find out. Is it beautiful there? Just how big exactly is it? How cold really? But next week I will go on my site visit where I'll see the schools, meet the directors, and try to find housing. More than anything, I'm just so happy to finally know.
I am going to be serving in an aldea in the western highlands in the district of Totonicapan. It's a village high in the mountains, close to San Francisco El Alto, a larger town where the biggest market in Guatemala takes place. It is a largely indigenous site, populated by the Kiche Maya (but they also speak Spanish). It's in a cold climate. I will be the only volunteer in my site, as well as the first. Still, there are other volunteers in the area, and some not too far that are in my program and friends of mine. It's only 35 km to Queztaltenango, or Xela ("Shela), the 2nd biggest city in Guatemala, which is supposed to be awesome. I will also have access to the internet and there's a small library.
So far, I am very pleased. I wanted to be alone, in the mountains, in a smaller village, but I am also relieved that I will have easy access to the city and other volunteers in the area when I need it. And it's not as far as it could be to Guatemala City and the rest of the country.
There is still a lot more to find out. Is it beautiful there? Just how big exactly is it? How cold really? But next week I will go on my site visit where I'll see the schools, meet the directors, and try to find housing. More than anything, I'm just so happy to finally know.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Volunteer Visit in Alta
This past week, me and three trainees went to the beautiful district of Alta Verapaz to visit a youth development volunteer at her site.
The trip couldn't have come at a better time since I was having a bit of tension with my family: I got home "very late" on Monday (as in 6:30 p.m.) to find them all panicking and upset because they were worried (...even though I always get home that late on Mondays b/c we go to the training center). Oh well. Regardless, very early the next morning I made the several hour journey with my two companeros on a pullman (a non-camioneta, greyhound-quality bus- luxury!) up to the city of Coban in Alta Verapaz where we met up with the volunteer we'd be spending the week with.
She is very nice, very laid-back, and very good at what she does, and we felt lucky to shadow her for the week. We got lunch at a Chinese restuarant (AMAZING), and that was only the beginning of a week of incredible food... at least to us, after 2 months of Guatemalan food (which isn't bad, but rather bland to American tastes... not spicey and flavorful like you'd expect).
After that, we took a short bus ride out to her town near Coban. It is a beautiful place, a larger town, and by far the loveliest I have seen yet in Guatemala. It is in a warmer climate, surrounded by hills blanketed in tropical forests. There was a lake nearby, and a natural park on an island called the "Petencito" (little Peten). Part of the town was on a large hill, at the very top of which was a beautiful old church and a little park, from which there were astonshing views of the valley and town below and the surrounding mountains.
The schedule for the week was much more relaxed than training, where every minute is scheduled, except for the evenings where you can't leave your house. In contrast, this week we slept in every day, started off with cups of good (not-instant coffee), did some prepping, and went to schools for only a couple of hours in the afternoon. Then we had the evening free to cook up some delicious food as we listened to good music, and then sit around having drinks and talking. I got to meet other volunteers with the Peace Corps and a couple of other foreigners volunteering in Guatemala through other agencies. On Friday night, we took a public van back into Coban where we met up with other volunteers in the area for delicious Cuban food, and afterwards some dancing.
The classes we saw were also very impressive. One day, school had been canceled, but the volunteer had asked her students to come for her class regardless and had asked one of the teachers several times to come unlock the door to the classroom. Well, the students showed up, but the teacher never did. Me and the other trainees led a couple of dinamicas (games) on the outdoor field, and then it began to rain. The volunteer ended up giving her lesson under the awning in front of the classroom in the pouring rain. It was a very inspirational lesson on gender, where the students had to discuss the differences between what opportunities they have within the culture because of their gender. The schools are notorious for being inconsistent, and school is cancelled about half the time for the smallest of reasons. We'll have to show her same kind of creativity and flexibility.
We also got to help out in Peace Corps' incredible HIV/AIDS taller (workshop) one of the days with the students. A volunteer came from her site on the other side of the country to help facilitate the taller, and me and the other trainees got to lead parts of it. It is several hours long and involves a lot of games and interactions. I've learned about it in training, but experiencing it with the students was an amazing experience.
More than anything, this week was an enormous relief to me. As trainees, we have to spend every evening at home with a family, we're not allowed to leave apart from day trips, we follow a very tight rigid schedule, meals are given to us, and we basically have no control over our lives. In contrast, the life of a volunteer involves a lot more independence-- with what you eat, your schedule, your work, your free time. I will be able to be much more myself, and I can't wait. July 18 can't come quickly enough.
The trip couldn't have come at a better time since I was having a bit of tension with my family: I got home "very late" on Monday (as in 6:30 p.m.) to find them all panicking and upset because they were worried (...even though I always get home that late on Mondays b/c we go to the training center). Oh well. Regardless, very early the next morning I made the several hour journey with my two companeros on a pullman (a non-camioneta, greyhound-quality bus- luxury!) up to the city of Coban in Alta Verapaz where we met up with the volunteer we'd be spending the week with.
She is very nice, very laid-back, and very good at what she does, and we felt lucky to shadow her for the week. We got lunch at a Chinese restuarant (AMAZING), and that was only the beginning of a week of incredible food... at least to us, after 2 months of Guatemalan food (which isn't bad, but rather bland to American tastes... not spicey and flavorful like you'd expect).
After that, we took a short bus ride out to her town near Coban. It is a beautiful place, a larger town, and by far the loveliest I have seen yet in Guatemala. It is in a warmer climate, surrounded by hills blanketed in tropical forests. There was a lake nearby, and a natural park on an island called the "Petencito" (little Peten). Part of the town was on a large hill, at the very top of which was a beautiful old church and a little park, from which there were astonshing views of the valley and town below and the surrounding mountains.
The schedule for the week was much more relaxed than training, where every minute is scheduled, except for the evenings where you can't leave your house. In contrast, this week we slept in every day, started off with cups of good (not-instant coffee), did some prepping, and went to schools for only a couple of hours in the afternoon. Then we had the evening free to cook up some delicious food as we listened to good music, and then sit around having drinks and talking. I got to meet other volunteers with the Peace Corps and a couple of other foreigners volunteering in Guatemala through other agencies. On Friday night, we took a public van back into Coban where we met up with other volunteers in the area for delicious Cuban food, and afterwards some dancing.
The classes we saw were also very impressive. One day, school had been canceled, but the volunteer had asked her students to come for her class regardless and had asked one of the teachers several times to come unlock the door to the classroom. Well, the students showed up, but the teacher never did. Me and the other trainees led a couple of dinamicas (games) on the outdoor field, and then it began to rain. The volunteer ended up giving her lesson under the awning in front of the classroom in the pouring rain. It was a very inspirational lesson on gender, where the students had to discuss the differences between what opportunities they have within the culture because of their gender. The schools are notorious for being inconsistent, and school is cancelled about half the time for the smallest of reasons. We'll have to show her same kind of creativity and flexibility.
We also got to help out in Peace Corps' incredible HIV/AIDS taller (workshop) one of the days with the students. A volunteer came from her site on the other side of the country to help facilitate the taller, and me and the other trainees got to lead parts of it. It is several hours long and involves a lot of games and interactions. I've learned about it in training, but experiencing it with the students was an amazing experience.
More than anything, this week was an enormous relief to me. As trainees, we have to spend every evening at home with a family, we're not allowed to leave apart from day trips, we follow a very tight rigid schedule, meals are given to us, and we basically have no control over our lives. In contrast, the life of a volunteer involves a lot more independence-- with what you eat, your schedule, your work, your free time. I will be able to be much more myself, and I can't wait. July 18 can't come quickly enough.
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