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.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
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.
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