“I don’t like this going from one lane to another business” Sister Mary muttered in a gravely voice. “Because. I just don’t know how to do it.”
We were driving through Guatemala City early Tuesday morning, trying to find our way to the immigration office. Rather than going through the expensive, extensive process of procuring a working visa for my stay here, we’re skirting the system a bit. I’ve got a tourist visa, which is valid for 90 days at a time. It can be renewed once at the immigration office in the city, and after that requires an overnight stay out of the country. Sadly, since I’ve missed so much school thanks to my little tryst with Pseudamonas, we decided I should do the quick in-and-out trip to Guatemala City this time.
Sister Mary, one of the two nuns living at the mission, agreed to drive me in. For some reason a policy exist which forbids volunteers to drive Diocesan vehicles. While that may seem like a rational idea, further reflection soon proves it to be without logic. You see, Mary and Anna (the other nun) are both in their 70’s. I can remember with clarity at least a baker’s dozen worth of newspaper articles about senior citizen drivers plowing into crowds of people, bakery windows and bodies of water through the past year. Following 16-year-olds and drunken people, I think they’re one of the most dangerous populations on the road. For example, how many of my SoCo readers remember when a motor home inexplicably fell off of the straight-stretch in front of the elementary school a few years ago? It ended its open-road wanderings flopped on its side, unceremoniously dumped into the blackberry patch down the bank. How is that even possible? Old people. Harrumph.
It wasn’t long into our trip before I learned that Sister Mary is no exception to this old-age = bad driver rule. Initially, I’ll admit to appreciating our speed. Loch Ness Monster-sized potholes and speed bumps which Sheila (literally) flies over were regarded with caution. We puttered along the rough mountain roads, easing over obstacles with an appropriate level of care. However, upon reaching much smoother highways, our velocity failed to adjust accordingly.
This is not a problem in and of itself. However, it was indicative of a larger concern in driving prowess. Upon reaching the bustle and congestion of the Guatemala’s only real city, I was quickly made aware of the danger posed by septuagenarian chauffeurs.
Had I found Mary’s opening statement regarding lane changes difficult to believe, she soon proved the point. We drifted through the congestion, our monolith Isuzu Trooper oblivious to the spatial constraints created by neighboring autos.
“Can I get over?” she’d ask, peering over a shoulder and simultaneously pulling the wheel, causing us to gently drift in the direction of her gaze.
“No.” I’d firmly reply, as she continued to merge us into the next lane. We generally only avoided the seemingly certain kissing of front quarter panels thanks to the dexterity of the unlucky Peugot drivers in adjacent lanes. When I did see an opening, I’d spit out – “Yes – but go quickly!” only to cringe as Mary e a s e d into the next lane, slowly cutting off the angry businessmen behind us.
Our antics elicited the expected cacophony of honks, all of which was utterly lost on Sister Mary. We breezed blissfully through the city streets, scraping our wheels on the curbs as we turned and disregarding the emphatic wavings of traffic policemen.
My heart found a comfortable place in my throat a few minutes into our excursion, and stayed there much of the morning. Every turn had me praying that this new street not be an opposite-flowing one-way. Luckily, that fear was only realized, at most, a half-dozen times. I eventually decided to stop providing my consult in merging and lane changes. I appeared to be obsolete anyways, and I didn’t want to risk blame for any collisions.
All of this terror did, at least, serve to stimulate my tired brain. As usual, I’d gone to sleep around midnight. However, I’d been awoken this particular day around 5:30. Geez – what’s with Guatemala and early mornings? My foggy mind cleared as we circled the city; Mary-stimulated adrenaline fired neurons with an abandon as reckless as my chauffer. We passed the same street-performer children and Pollo Camperos (the Guate equivalent of Micky D’s) nearly a dozen times. Mary’s mutterings narrated through it all, of course, explaining that the immigration office was maybe down that street we’d just passed, and that we’d now need to circle the block several times before having another shot at reaching our destination.
And then, unexpectedly, we were there. After having passed the building’s front side several times, I was surprised and disoriented when Mary stopped to let me out. Somehow, we’d pulled into a quiet side street along the office. No at all sad to be de-boarding, I hopped out of the Trooper and made my way to the office. There, after a half an hour’s worth of waiting for a person who never showed up to work, another thirty minutes of line waiting, and paying the requisite fees, I learned that my passport would need to be held hostage several days. Renewing a tourist visa, formerly a same-day task, now requires a minimum of three days. What does this mean for me, and for my blood pressure? Another trip to the city, and another opportunity to reach dangerous levels of cardiac stress. I wonder if I can find some Valium before my next ride in with the sister…
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Update on the Health Tally
Well, in case have wondered where I’ve been recently, the answer is simple: in bed. Much of that time, heavily medicated and on IV fluids.
This brings the official tally to:
Tropical diseases: 4
Jenna: still a big fat goose egg
Profile of the latest culprit? A particularly tenacious, aggressive little bacterial buddy commonly known as Pseudomonas sp., who found a comfortable habitat within the environment of my digestive tract. You may be interested in the general manifestation of this condition. While I could certainly provide the reader with detailed descriptions of fecal viscosity and the color palette of my vomitus, I’ll refrain.
Instead, perhaps I’ll give you a few of the more palatable features of my malady, and leave the rest to your imagination. Let’s start at the very beginning, “a very good place to start…”
Last Wednesday (August 13th) was the 25th anniversary of our Sololá bishop’s priesthood. In accordance with custom, a large celebratory mass was held in his honor. Since our bishop is a Jesuit, and the Jesuits are a particularly close-knit community with a heavy presence in Central America, the event was attended by somewhere around ninety priests. Thanks especially to their heavy involvement with the people during civil wars across the continent, many of these men are quite well known.
One of these Jesuits, a man named Ricardo Falla, is a friend of Sheila’s. He spent several years living with the Communities of Population in Resistance (actually, “Comunidades de la Populación en Resistencia, aka CPRs) during the 1980’s. These were non-violent groups of refugees who spent years hiding in the jungles. They suffered regular military attacks, bombing raids and massacres by the military. The government claimed that the CPRs were helping the guerillas, while they maintain that their only desire was to remain markedly Swiss in political involvement. I just finished one of Falla’s many books, “The Story of a Great Love,” which details his own personal experience with the “CPR’s” and how it affected him spiritually. It’s a great book, and I’m eager to read some of his other works. He’s mostly renowned as a sociologist, and has done a lot of research into how the war impacted the people of the country.
Falla is just one example of the fascinating, inspiring Jesuits who was at the Mass. In the world of liberation theology and Central American politics, many of these people are somewhat like spiritual celebrities. Knowing I’d be interested, Sheila invited me along. Wednesday morning, at the (ironically) ungodly hour of 4 am, we set out for Sololá, about three and a half hours away. (Why on earth it was a good idea to leave so early I have no idea, but it wasn’t up to me.)
I’d had an upset stomach the whole night before, enough that I wasn’t able to sleep, and the whole morning I felt pretty sick. However, I decided to blame it on the ridiculously early hour at which we’d began our day, and planned on feeling better once I woke up a bit more.
Sadly, my “plan” to feel better never materialized. By the time the Mass was starting at 10, I could barely stand to watch the impressively long, exaggeratedly slow procession of priests entering the cathedral. The crowded hot building, banging marimba music and thick copal incense had my head spinning, with my stomach following not far behind. Thoroughly embarrassed, I ran from the cathedral, barely finding a public restroom quickly enough to, as Nanc would say, “toss my cookies.”
Now, as you read this, you may be thinking “Boy, that doesn’t sound like any fun at all.” But unless you have first-hand experience with Latin American public toilets, I don’t think you have any idea how not fun it was. After paying my 1 Quetzal (15 cents) at the door (and, of course, receiving a receipt along with my several squares of tp), I hurried into the stall. As I shuffled into the baño green-faced and grimacing I was gawked at by three or four young men who apparently had little concern for the “Ladies Room” sign over the door. Wonderful. A captive audience.
They had no need to worry that the sounds of my efforts would be muffled; the tiny tin booth which housed my toilet provided excellent echo-chamber acoustics. The curious yet common phenomenon of an absent toilet seat applied to this bathroom, as did the equally ubiquitous overflowing toilet-tissue bucket. Flushing paper is, after all, unheard of in these parts.
You can hardly expect to have a can full of used t.p. to not house a burgeoning population of eager flies. So, of course, there was a multi-species element to my spectators. Sticky, filthy liquid of unknown composition coated the floor, papered with discarded bathroom receipts, and my door utterly refused to latch shut. All in all, I guess you could say it was a location conducive to feeling quite ill.
I spent the rest of the Mass prone, in the back seat of our jeep, developing fever aches and chills. The long drive home over impossibly pot-holed roads was nearly the end of me. I drifted in and out of awareness, no doubt moaning with every bump and bounce. By the time we arrived at the mission that night I felt like I’d survived war, or at least a demolition derby. I tried to go to bed early, only to find that lying down invariably incited angry abdominal spasms. I was quite sure, in my fevered delirium, that a young kangaroo was determined to escape from my pancreas, through my bellybutton.
Take a second. Reflect on that.
You’re probably not going to be surprised, then, when I tell you that the vomiting which ensued was more a reaction to pain than to nausea.
I spent the entire night suffering through periodical (in the trigonometric sense) bouts of pain, followed by trips to el baño, where my body spared no expense in ensuring my discomfort. I wondered, as I rose from my sweat-drenched bed every twenty minutes, what grave sin I was currently being punished for. Perhaps the bishop had called down God’s fury in response to my fleeing like a pagan from his celebratory Mass? I probably made a mental note to write him a letter of apology. The specifics of that pledge were lost in my haze of febrile hallucination.
In the early hours of the morning, my salvation arrived in the form of Anabella, a sweet Guatemalan doctor who happened to be sleeping in the dormitory next to my room. She’d heard my moaning, groaning and constant lavatory usage and came to investigate. Anabella was immediately concerned by the state which she found me in, and set into motion a battery of tests and treatments. Sheila came immediately, and has consistently played the role of concerned nurse-mother from that moment to the present.
Blood was drawn, fecal samples were taken, injections and pills and intravenous tubing and all-natural teas smelling of illicit drugs and tasting of pond scum were administered. I was visited by a dizzying rotation of doctors, nurses, cooks, pharmacy technicians and medicinal plants experts, each presenting treatments, advice and general concern. I was considered a candidate for hepatitis, Dengue Fever, kidney failure, gastric ulcers, and E. coli or Salmonella infections. Unable to force poo colonies to grow faster than their own volition, we had no choice but to wait several days until the fecal culture provided us with concrete evidence regarding the enemy.
I spent most of the next few days in a listless miasma (thanks, Microsoft Word synonym finder!). I’d begin to feel better until I ate, or moved, or thought about eating, or thought about moving, and then everything would spiral back downhill. As abdominal palpations continued to elicit tears into my fourth day of convalescence, an ultrasound was ordered.
This meant a forty minute drive over the bumpy roads to Mazatenango, where Sheila and I sat several hours in an overcrowded waiting room. To pass the time, we had more blood drawn, and found that my white count had actually risen after three days of steady intravenous antibiotics.
As the radiologist squirted ultrasound goo onto my bloated belly, I couldn’t help but think “Well, I suppose this could be worse…” Apparently thinking along the same lines, she peered at me over her glasses and stated in a quite matter-of-fact fashion:
“Pregnancy. You don’t have that problem, do you?”
It didn’t take her long to decide, however, that the offending article was not a baby, but my appendix. The first time I’d heard this possible diagnosis, images of emergency abdominal surgery in a third world country began dancing through my head. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
This little diagnostic imaging adventure, my first ultrasound to date, set in motion a somewhat scary cascade of reactionary events. The grayscale picture of my right lower abdomen crowded with inflamed tissues sparked several hours of intensive scrutiny regarding my condition. Was it appendicitis? We drove back to Santo Tomas, wondering, and by the time we’d arrived Sheila decided she’d better consult with a surgeon friend in Mazatenango. Describing the whole scenario to this doctor, he immediately drove all the way to Santo Tomas to examine me, concerned I may be somewhere near an emergency state.
By now, I was feeling much better than I’d been the past few days, and was pretty certain it was probably just a severe intestinal infection. The somewhat aggressive reaction on the part of Sheila and the doctors, however, did have me a little shaken.
It didn’t take Dr. Fidel from Mazate long to decide that I looked much too good to warrant a diagnosis of appendicitis, and my pain was probably a result of severe dehydration. At one point, after all, my blood pressure had dipped to 80/40. He prescribed several more bags of IV fluids, these ones enriched with potassium, and continued antibiotic treatment.
The fecal culture which had been returned earlier that day finally revealed the face of our enemy: villainous Mr. Pseudomonas aeruginosa. Everyone has been somewhat mystified regarding my contraction of this particular bug – it’s an opportunistic colonizer who usually shows up in hospital patients who’ve been on heavy doses of antibiotics, and is known for being remarkably drug resistant. How or why it’s in my belly is a mystery. The only thing we know for sure is that it must have come from food I ate at the school, which means I’m probably not safe to dine with the girls. I’d been carefully avoiding anything which wouldn’t have been boiled for extended periods of time, but apparently that’s not enough.
Now, nearly a week later, I’m mostly recovered. I don’t have much energy still, but I can hold down a full meal and drink enough tea to keep myself hydrated. I’ll probably be back at the school soon, and there will be some changes in my eating habits. The Tuesday before I got sick, I passed my bowl to the cook at lunch time. She returned it, a cow-hoof planted firmly in the middle of my soup. It won’t be so hard to say goodbye to her cooking, really.
This brings the official tally to:
Tropical diseases: 4
Jenna: still a big fat goose egg
Profile of the latest culprit? A particularly tenacious, aggressive little bacterial buddy commonly known as Pseudomonas sp., who found a comfortable habitat within the environment of my digestive tract. You may be interested in the general manifestation of this condition. While I could certainly provide the reader with detailed descriptions of fecal viscosity and the color palette of my vomitus, I’ll refrain.
Instead, perhaps I’ll give you a few of the more palatable features of my malady, and leave the rest to your imagination. Let’s start at the very beginning, “a very good place to start…”
Last Wednesday (August 13th) was the 25th anniversary of our Sololá bishop’s priesthood. In accordance with custom, a large celebratory mass was held in his honor. Since our bishop is a Jesuit, and the Jesuits are a particularly close-knit community with a heavy presence in Central America, the event was attended by somewhere around ninety priests. Thanks especially to their heavy involvement with the people during civil wars across the continent, many of these men are quite well known.
One of these Jesuits, a man named Ricardo Falla, is a friend of Sheila’s. He spent several years living with the Communities of Population in Resistance (actually, “Comunidades de la Populación en Resistencia, aka CPRs) during the 1980’s. These were non-violent groups of refugees who spent years hiding in the jungles. They suffered regular military attacks, bombing raids and massacres by the military. The government claimed that the CPRs were helping the guerillas, while they maintain that their only desire was to remain markedly Swiss in political involvement. I just finished one of Falla’s many books, “The Story of a Great Love,” which details his own personal experience with the “CPR’s” and how it affected him spiritually. It’s a great book, and I’m eager to read some of his other works. He’s mostly renowned as a sociologist, and has done a lot of research into how the war impacted the people of the country.
Falla is just one example of the fascinating, inspiring Jesuits who was at the Mass. In the world of liberation theology and Central American politics, many of these people are somewhat like spiritual celebrities. Knowing I’d be interested, Sheila invited me along. Wednesday morning, at the (ironically) ungodly hour of 4 am, we set out for Sololá, about three and a half hours away. (Why on earth it was a good idea to leave so early I have no idea, but it wasn’t up to me.)
I’d had an upset stomach the whole night before, enough that I wasn’t able to sleep, and the whole morning I felt pretty sick. However, I decided to blame it on the ridiculously early hour at which we’d began our day, and planned on feeling better once I woke up a bit more.
Sadly, my “plan” to feel better never materialized. By the time the Mass was starting at 10, I could barely stand to watch the impressively long, exaggeratedly slow procession of priests entering the cathedral. The crowded hot building, banging marimba music and thick copal incense had my head spinning, with my stomach following not far behind. Thoroughly embarrassed, I ran from the cathedral, barely finding a public restroom quickly enough to, as Nanc would say, “toss my cookies.”
Now, as you read this, you may be thinking “Boy, that doesn’t sound like any fun at all.” But unless you have first-hand experience with Latin American public toilets, I don’t think you have any idea how not fun it was. After paying my 1 Quetzal (15 cents) at the door (and, of course, receiving a receipt along with my several squares of tp), I hurried into the stall. As I shuffled into the baño green-faced and grimacing I was gawked at by three or four young men who apparently had little concern for the “Ladies Room” sign over the door. Wonderful. A captive audience.
They had no need to worry that the sounds of my efforts would be muffled; the tiny tin booth which housed my toilet provided excellent echo-chamber acoustics. The curious yet common phenomenon of an absent toilet seat applied to this bathroom, as did the equally ubiquitous overflowing toilet-tissue bucket. Flushing paper is, after all, unheard of in these parts.
You can hardly expect to have a can full of used t.p. to not house a burgeoning population of eager flies. So, of course, there was a multi-species element to my spectators. Sticky, filthy liquid of unknown composition coated the floor, papered with discarded bathroom receipts, and my door utterly refused to latch shut. All in all, I guess you could say it was a location conducive to feeling quite ill.
I spent the rest of the Mass prone, in the back seat of our jeep, developing fever aches and chills. The long drive home over impossibly pot-holed roads was nearly the end of me. I drifted in and out of awareness, no doubt moaning with every bump and bounce. By the time we arrived at the mission that night I felt like I’d survived war, or at least a demolition derby. I tried to go to bed early, only to find that lying down invariably incited angry abdominal spasms. I was quite sure, in my fevered delirium, that a young kangaroo was determined to escape from my pancreas, through my bellybutton.
Take a second. Reflect on that.
You’re probably not going to be surprised, then, when I tell you that the vomiting which ensued was more a reaction to pain than to nausea.
I spent the entire night suffering through periodical (in the trigonometric sense) bouts of pain, followed by trips to el baño, where my body spared no expense in ensuring my discomfort. I wondered, as I rose from my sweat-drenched bed every twenty minutes, what grave sin I was currently being punished for. Perhaps the bishop had called down God’s fury in response to my fleeing like a pagan from his celebratory Mass? I probably made a mental note to write him a letter of apology. The specifics of that pledge were lost in my haze of febrile hallucination.
In the early hours of the morning, my salvation arrived in the form of Anabella, a sweet Guatemalan doctor who happened to be sleeping in the dormitory next to my room. She’d heard my moaning, groaning and constant lavatory usage and came to investigate. Anabella was immediately concerned by the state which she found me in, and set into motion a battery of tests and treatments. Sheila came immediately, and has consistently played the role of concerned nurse-mother from that moment to the present.
Blood was drawn, fecal samples were taken, injections and pills and intravenous tubing and all-natural teas smelling of illicit drugs and tasting of pond scum were administered. I was visited by a dizzying rotation of doctors, nurses, cooks, pharmacy technicians and medicinal plants experts, each presenting treatments, advice and general concern. I was considered a candidate for hepatitis, Dengue Fever, kidney failure, gastric ulcers, and E. coli or Salmonella infections. Unable to force poo colonies to grow faster than their own volition, we had no choice but to wait several days until the fecal culture provided us with concrete evidence regarding the enemy.
I spent most of the next few days in a listless miasma (thanks, Microsoft Word synonym finder!). I’d begin to feel better until I ate, or moved, or thought about eating, or thought about moving, and then everything would spiral back downhill. As abdominal palpations continued to elicit tears into my fourth day of convalescence, an ultrasound was ordered.
This meant a forty minute drive over the bumpy roads to Mazatenango, where Sheila and I sat several hours in an overcrowded waiting room. To pass the time, we had more blood drawn, and found that my white count had actually risen after three days of steady intravenous antibiotics.
As the radiologist squirted ultrasound goo onto my bloated belly, I couldn’t help but think “Well, I suppose this could be worse…” Apparently thinking along the same lines, she peered at me over her glasses and stated in a quite matter-of-fact fashion:
“Pregnancy. You don’t have that problem, do you?”
It didn’t take her long to decide, however, that the offending article was not a baby, but my appendix. The first time I’d heard this possible diagnosis, images of emergency abdominal surgery in a third world country began dancing through my head. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
This little diagnostic imaging adventure, my first ultrasound to date, set in motion a somewhat scary cascade of reactionary events. The grayscale picture of my right lower abdomen crowded with inflamed tissues sparked several hours of intensive scrutiny regarding my condition. Was it appendicitis? We drove back to Santo Tomas, wondering, and by the time we’d arrived Sheila decided she’d better consult with a surgeon friend in Mazatenango. Describing the whole scenario to this doctor, he immediately drove all the way to Santo Tomas to examine me, concerned I may be somewhere near an emergency state.
By now, I was feeling much better than I’d been the past few days, and was pretty certain it was probably just a severe intestinal infection. The somewhat aggressive reaction on the part of Sheila and the doctors, however, did have me a little shaken.
It didn’t take Dr. Fidel from Mazate long to decide that I looked much too good to warrant a diagnosis of appendicitis, and my pain was probably a result of severe dehydration. At one point, after all, my blood pressure had dipped to 80/40. He prescribed several more bags of IV fluids, these ones enriched with potassium, and continued antibiotic treatment.
The fecal culture which had been returned earlier that day finally revealed the face of our enemy: villainous Mr. Pseudomonas aeruginosa. Everyone has been somewhat mystified regarding my contraction of this particular bug – it’s an opportunistic colonizer who usually shows up in hospital patients who’ve been on heavy doses of antibiotics, and is known for being remarkably drug resistant. How or why it’s in my belly is a mystery. The only thing we know for sure is that it must have come from food I ate at the school, which means I’m probably not safe to dine with the girls. I’d been carefully avoiding anything which wouldn’t have been boiled for extended periods of time, but apparently that’s not enough.
Now, nearly a week later, I’m mostly recovered. I don’t have much energy still, but I can hold down a full meal and drink enough tea to keep myself hydrated. I’ll probably be back at the school soon, and there will be some changes in my eating habits. The Tuesday before I got sick, I passed my bowl to the cook at lunch time. She returned it, a cow-hoof planted firmly in the middle of my soup. It won’t be so hard to say goodbye to her cooking, really.
Montana Catholic Article
This is the long version of the article I sent for publication in the Montana Catholic...although I'm sure what actually appeared is much shorter...
Vernor Muñoz, a United Nations education official, visited Guatemala this July. He toured the country, met with top officials and studied facts and figures pertaining to education. On July 29th, Muñoz issued a report of his findings, sharing the state of Guatemalan public education with the world.
His conclusions were dismal, and embarrassing. Nationally, Guatemala invests between 1.9 and 2% of its GDP on education, a number Muñoz unapologetically labeled “unacceptable.” He’s got cause for concern; that’s the lowest level of education investment in all of Latin America. The importance of this figure wasn’t lost on me as I read through a summary of the report, but it certainly didn’t reach at least 24% of the population. Nearly a quarter of all Guatemalans, after all, are illiterate. The percentage soars to 39% in the rural areas, where as many as half of all women have never been taught to read or write. This isn’t to say that they wouldn’t like to. However, when 54% of the country suffers from chronic malnutrition, I’d wager that they’re more occupied searching for food than studying school books.
Muñoz lamented the obvious structural racism which exists in the public schools, where native Mayans suffer from exclusion and discrimination on an impressive scale. He highlighted the utter lack of support for the rich, ancient Mayan culture, the dearth of bilingual teachers and a complete disregard for teaching the unique Mayan cosmovision. Of particular concern is the slow death of Mayan languages. In Guatemala, 23 indigenous idioms are spoken, but with unilingual Spanish education taking place in most schools, their preservation is seriously endangered.
Of course, when 1.5 million children are employed in child labor instead of sitting in classrooms, there is some hope that the “old ways” of poverty and subsistence living will survive a bit longer.
My reactions to Muñoz’ findings were mixed. I’ve been teaching at Asunción for two months now, and I’ve started to get a feel for the school, students and surroundings. Working in a tiny, isolated mountain village, I’m living among the poverty which plagues 82% of rural Guatemala. Only 123 of our students board; the rest live in surrounding villages. Many of these kids return from school to homes empty of food, and wake in the morning with stomachs still growling. Xejuyup, the town where Asunción is located, is the incarnation of state statistics describing an impoverished population.
And yet, Asunción clearly exists outside of the Muñoz report. As a private institution unassociated with the national education system, we weren’t included in the tour or statistics. Had he visited this pretty little school, I think the reaction would have been delight. Here, tucked neatly between waterfalls and mountains, a truly quality education is changing lives.
Despite having only 558 students, Asunción boasts the best library in the entire Suchitepéquez state. Our students sang the national anthem in Ki’che’, accompanied by a band of flutes, at the regional “Teacher’s Day” conference this June. A Congressman from the state of Sololá who happened to be present was so impressed that he invited our choir to sing for Congress; we sent sixty students on August 8th..
Enthusiastic and dedicated teachers interact with their pupils both inside and outside of the classroom. They’re supported by fantastic administration whose approachability and interest have them constantly in contact with students and staff alike. On Father’s Day, for example, the boarding students insisted on putting on a variety show to honor the school’s male administrators and professors. Touched, they stayed for several hours before going home to their “real” families.
Most importantly, Muñoz’ observations about cultural suppression are the antithesis of Asunción. I’m one of the very few teachers who doesn’t speak Ki’che’, although I do occasionally surprise my students by asking “la utz awatch ut?” (“How are you?”) or responding to “Good afternoon teacher!” with “xeq’ij!” (“Good afternoon!”). Nearly all of our students are Ki’che’ Indians, wearing their native dress, eating traditional foods and nearly always speaking their indigenous language. Required classes of Mayan Mathematics, Ki’che’ Language and Guatemalan Cultures ensure that all of our students stay in touch with their native roots. Being Indian is seen as cause for pride and celebration. Miss Asunción, elected annually, must give a speech in Ki’che, wear and explain the significance of her region’s formal dress and perform a native dance or ceremony.
In short, I’ve been impressed by Asunción, and judging by the shortcomings which Muñoz found in Guatemalan education, he would have been too.
Of course, my experiences here haven’t exactly been a bed of roses. It’s been something more along the lines of a bed of pineapples, I’d say: sweet, but not always comfortable. Tackling classes of fifty-five teenagers, all eager to coax an outburst from the new teacher, is not an easy task. I had absolutely no formal training in education before stepping into my first classroom, and the learning curve has been steep. Our resources could most optimistically be described as “limited,” while my huge classes are, in a euphemistic sense, well beyond exuberant. The daily tropical downpour which beats on my tin-roofed classroom means I end most days exhausted and with a raspy voice.
However, frustration quickly dissolves when my students offer to guide me to a hidden waterfall tomorrow, or bring me fresh jalapeños from home. The kids adore teaching me Ki’che’, with its impossibly difficult words, and invest an impressive amount of time into trying to coach distinctive clicks, clacks and clucks out of my throat. The language sounds like a mixture of Arabic, German, and the African clicking bush language. Basically, there are lots of lilting, pretty sounding words, like “iliawakan” (toes: iyll-e-a-wal-kan), which are started, finished, or interrupted by guttural clicks and gurgles. Luckily, the kids are so animated in their teaching endeavors that I’ve yet to tire of making an effort. They assure me I’m a quick learner, although I have to wonder how much of that is genuine truth and how much of it is encouraging teachers talking.
Meal times can be especially fun, since I frequently turn into the focal point for my table as they collectively contribute to my vocabulary. Adding to the festive mood is their distinctive fashion of flamboyant oral jewelry. Most of the girls, and many adults, too, have several pieces of gold accent on their teeth. Sometimes it’s a whole golden tooth (I inquired; they’re actually just glued foil covers), other times it’s initials, stars or hearts. It’s quite a sight when a whole table of girls sparkles their metallic glee after I mispronounce “Ixquiactap” (it’s a last name.)
Speaking of mealtimes, perhaps I’ll take a few minutes to describe the general menu. Food at the school is consistent if nothing else; nearly every meal is beans. Occasionally they mix things up, adding rice, soft cheese or eggs, but generally it’s rotating varieties of legume, always accompanied by tortillas. Occasionally, the cooks really outdo themselves, whipping up delicacies unlike anything you’ll find at home. Today’s lunch is a fine example: I was served a watery pool of whole pinto beans garnished with a cow hoof. I turned down the hoof.
Most importantly, every meal is begun and ended with both an Our Father and a sung prayer asking for the blessing of our food. When we start and close a simple, two-ingredient meal with a prayer thanking God for abundance, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that this is actually abundance. Here, at La Asunción, we get three meals a day. At home, many of these girls would never have such plentiful food.
Living and working here is an opportunity for constant personal growth. My occasional frustration with giant, boisterous classes is well complemented by Monday night group Rosary. When I feel like I’m not making progress with my students, I’m able to devote some time to working on much-needed fundraising efforts. When I begin to miss my family and friends at home, I swing wide the door to my bedroom and am quickly visited by the cheerful talkative girls who want to know all about me. What I’m doing certainly isn’t easy, but there’s no doubt that it’s wonderful.
Generous donations from student sponsors, imperative to the continued success of our school, are giving Guatemala a chance. Our school and students rely on the support of our donors, especially through the sponsorship program. The beloved Padre Santiago (you probably know him as Father Hazelton; “Santiago” is one Spanish translation of James) will be traveling back to the states for a well-deserved break this month. However, characteristic to his hard-working spirit, it will be a working vacation. The padre’s annual Hazy Days celebration is one of our largest fundraisers, providing students with much-needed scholarships to continue their education at Asunción. At only $30 a month, it’s incredible the impact such a small contribution can have on the lives of these students and on the future of their country. If you don’t feel capable of supporting a student individually, I suggest sharing a sponsorship at work, Bible study, in your book club or simply with a few friends.
The education system which Muñoz criticized so heavily is a world apart from what we’ve got at Asunción. He’s right: there are major problems in Guatemala. While international organizations and a corrupt internal government try to sort it all out, institutions like our own will continue quietly educating future leaders. Only by creating a generation of educated, involved individuals will there ever be hope of overcoming the problems uncovered by Muñoz.
Statistics:
La Prensa Libre, Guatemala City, Guatemala. July 29, 2008.
Presentation by Dr. Hugo Icu, ASECSA Director (Guatemalan Association of Community Health Services). July 5, 2008.
Vernor Muñoz, a United Nations education official, visited Guatemala this July. He toured the country, met with top officials and studied facts and figures pertaining to education. On July 29th, Muñoz issued a report of his findings, sharing the state of Guatemalan public education with the world.
His conclusions were dismal, and embarrassing. Nationally, Guatemala invests between 1.9 and 2% of its GDP on education, a number Muñoz unapologetically labeled “unacceptable.” He’s got cause for concern; that’s the lowest level of education investment in all of Latin America. The importance of this figure wasn’t lost on me as I read through a summary of the report, but it certainly didn’t reach at least 24% of the population. Nearly a quarter of all Guatemalans, after all, are illiterate. The percentage soars to 39% in the rural areas, where as many as half of all women have never been taught to read or write. This isn’t to say that they wouldn’t like to. However, when 54% of the country suffers from chronic malnutrition, I’d wager that they’re more occupied searching for food than studying school books.
Muñoz lamented the obvious structural racism which exists in the public schools, where native Mayans suffer from exclusion and discrimination on an impressive scale. He highlighted the utter lack of support for the rich, ancient Mayan culture, the dearth of bilingual teachers and a complete disregard for teaching the unique Mayan cosmovision. Of particular concern is the slow death of Mayan languages. In Guatemala, 23 indigenous idioms are spoken, but with unilingual Spanish education taking place in most schools, their preservation is seriously endangered.
Of course, when 1.5 million children are employed in child labor instead of sitting in classrooms, there is some hope that the “old ways” of poverty and subsistence living will survive a bit longer.
My reactions to Muñoz’ findings were mixed. I’ve been teaching at Asunción for two months now, and I’ve started to get a feel for the school, students and surroundings. Working in a tiny, isolated mountain village, I’m living among the poverty which plagues 82% of rural Guatemala. Only 123 of our students board; the rest live in surrounding villages. Many of these kids return from school to homes empty of food, and wake in the morning with stomachs still growling. Xejuyup, the town where Asunción is located, is the incarnation of state statistics describing an impoverished population.
And yet, Asunción clearly exists outside of the Muñoz report. As a private institution unassociated with the national education system, we weren’t included in the tour or statistics. Had he visited this pretty little school, I think the reaction would have been delight. Here, tucked neatly between waterfalls and mountains, a truly quality education is changing lives.
Despite having only 558 students, Asunción boasts the best library in the entire Suchitepéquez state. Our students sang the national anthem in Ki’che’, accompanied by a band of flutes, at the regional “Teacher’s Day” conference this June. A Congressman from the state of Sololá who happened to be present was so impressed that he invited our choir to sing for Congress; we sent sixty students on August 8th..
Enthusiastic and dedicated teachers interact with their pupils both inside and outside of the classroom. They’re supported by fantastic administration whose approachability and interest have them constantly in contact with students and staff alike. On Father’s Day, for example, the boarding students insisted on putting on a variety show to honor the school’s male administrators and professors. Touched, they stayed for several hours before going home to their “real” families.
Most importantly, Muñoz’ observations about cultural suppression are the antithesis of Asunción. I’m one of the very few teachers who doesn’t speak Ki’che’, although I do occasionally surprise my students by asking “la utz awatch ut?” (“How are you?”) or responding to “Good afternoon teacher!” with “xeq’ij!” (“Good afternoon!”). Nearly all of our students are Ki’che’ Indians, wearing their native dress, eating traditional foods and nearly always speaking their indigenous language. Required classes of Mayan Mathematics, Ki’che’ Language and Guatemalan Cultures ensure that all of our students stay in touch with their native roots. Being Indian is seen as cause for pride and celebration. Miss Asunción, elected annually, must give a speech in Ki’che, wear and explain the significance of her region’s formal dress and perform a native dance or ceremony.
In short, I’ve been impressed by Asunción, and judging by the shortcomings which Muñoz found in Guatemalan education, he would have been too.
Of course, my experiences here haven’t exactly been a bed of roses. It’s been something more along the lines of a bed of pineapples, I’d say: sweet, but not always comfortable. Tackling classes of fifty-five teenagers, all eager to coax an outburst from the new teacher, is not an easy task. I had absolutely no formal training in education before stepping into my first classroom, and the learning curve has been steep. Our resources could most optimistically be described as “limited,” while my huge classes are, in a euphemistic sense, well beyond exuberant. The daily tropical downpour which beats on my tin-roofed classroom means I end most days exhausted and with a raspy voice.
However, frustration quickly dissolves when my students offer to guide me to a hidden waterfall tomorrow, or bring me fresh jalapeños from home. The kids adore teaching me Ki’che’, with its impossibly difficult words, and invest an impressive amount of time into trying to coach distinctive clicks, clacks and clucks out of my throat. The language sounds like a mixture of Arabic, German, and the African clicking bush language. Basically, there are lots of lilting, pretty sounding words, like “iliawakan” (toes: iyll-e-a-wal-kan), which are started, finished, or interrupted by guttural clicks and gurgles. Luckily, the kids are so animated in their teaching endeavors that I’ve yet to tire of making an effort. They assure me I’m a quick learner, although I have to wonder how much of that is genuine truth and how much of it is encouraging teachers talking.
Meal times can be especially fun, since I frequently turn into the focal point for my table as they collectively contribute to my vocabulary. Adding to the festive mood is their distinctive fashion of flamboyant oral jewelry. Most of the girls, and many adults, too, have several pieces of gold accent on their teeth. Sometimes it’s a whole golden tooth (I inquired; they’re actually just glued foil covers), other times it’s initials, stars or hearts. It’s quite a sight when a whole table of girls sparkles their metallic glee after I mispronounce “Ixquiactap” (it’s a last name.)
Speaking of mealtimes, perhaps I’ll take a few minutes to describe the general menu. Food at the school is consistent if nothing else; nearly every meal is beans. Occasionally they mix things up, adding rice, soft cheese or eggs, but generally it’s rotating varieties of legume, always accompanied by tortillas. Occasionally, the cooks really outdo themselves, whipping up delicacies unlike anything you’ll find at home. Today’s lunch is a fine example: I was served a watery pool of whole pinto beans garnished with a cow hoof. I turned down the hoof.
Most importantly, every meal is begun and ended with both an Our Father and a sung prayer asking for the blessing of our food. When we start and close a simple, two-ingredient meal with a prayer thanking God for abundance, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that this is actually abundance. Here, at La Asunción, we get three meals a day. At home, many of these girls would never have such plentiful food.
Living and working here is an opportunity for constant personal growth. My occasional frustration with giant, boisterous classes is well complemented by Monday night group Rosary. When I feel like I’m not making progress with my students, I’m able to devote some time to working on much-needed fundraising efforts. When I begin to miss my family and friends at home, I swing wide the door to my bedroom and am quickly visited by the cheerful talkative girls who want to know all about me. What I’m doing certainly isn’t easy, but there’s no doubt that it’s wonderful.
Generous donations from student sponsors, imperative to the continued success of our school, are giving Guatemala a chance. Our school and students rely on the support of our donors, especially through the sponsorship program. The beloved Padre Santiago (you probably know him as Father Hazelton; “Santiago” is one Spanish translation of James) will be traveling back to the states for a well-deserved break this month. However, characteristic to his hard-working spirit, it will be a working vacation. The padre’s annual Hazy Days celebration is one of our largest fundraisers, providing students with much-needed scholarships to continue their education at Asunción. At only $30 a month, it’s incredible the impact such a small contribution can have on the lives of these students and on the future of their country. If you don’t feel capable of supporting a student individually, I suggest sharing a sponsorship at work, Bible study, in your book club or simply with a few friends.
The education system which Muñoz criticized so heavily is a world apart from what we’ve got at Asunción. He’s right: there are major problems in Guatemala. While international organizations and a corrupt internal government try to sort it all out, institutions like our own will continue quietly educating future leaders. Only by creating a generation of educated, involved individuals will there ever be hope of overcoming the problems uncovered by Muñoz.
Statistics:
La Prensa Libre, Guatemala City, Guatemala. July 29, 2008.
Presentation by Dr. Hugo Icu, ASECSA Director (Guatemalan Association of Community Health Services). July 5, 2008.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Tortillear
As part of my employment by the Diocese of Helena, I’ve been given the assignment of writing a few articles for the Montana Catholic newspaper. Officially, I’m “sharing my personal experiences in mission work” and “providing our parishioners with an intimate perspective of what life is like at the mission.” Translation: remind the readership that the Diocese has a mission in a foreign country, so they’ll feel compelled to donate. I knew that I was expected to submit an article this August, with the 15th sticking in my head as a deadline. I’d begun contemplating potential article subjects over the last weekend, although I was yet to start anything. More than a week is plenty of time to whip up something, I thought.
That attitude changed on Monday, when, for no reason in particular, I decided to double-check the article due-date. Surprise! My article was due in 2 days – the paper is printed on the 15th.
The Diocese had specifically requested that I include pictures of myself doing very Guatemalan things; proof that someone sitting in an office isn’t surfing the internet for research and making it all up. Unfortunately, although I’ve taken plenty of pictures, I don’t tend to appear in them. I’m not particularly fond of saying “take a picture of me doing this! Now this! OK, another one, but this time standing over here!” It’s just a bit too outwardly self-centered for my tastes. This attitude, however, now presented a problem. Needing a quick fix, I decided that perhaps it was high time I learned to make tortillas, and photo document the event.
Monday night, I asked the cooks if I could come the next morning for lessons – would they teach me to tortillear? I inquired. The verb tortillear literally means to “to make tortillas.” This food staple is so engrained in their culture it warrants its own verb.
Every morning a different group of girls takes a shift waking at the crack of dawn to prepare the day’s batch of tortillas. With about 150 mouths to feed thrice daily, each probably averaging 4 tortillas, that’s a hefty load of 1800 tiny corn hot cakes. I hadn’t done the math before deciding to contribute my own unskilled hands. Had I thought thing through, I wouldn’t have been surprised when the cooks said “Sure thing! See you a 4:30!”
Crap. That’s no fun.
Luckily, one of the cooks was observant enough to notice the quick flash of terror across my face, and wise enough to realize that my inexperience would probably be more of a hindrance than a help.
“Uh, you can go ahead and come down at 5:30” she reassured me.
Hmm. Somewhat like a stay of execution: should be good news, but you’re still on death row.
I pulled my sleep-heavy body out of bed as my alarm went off the next morning, already hating myself for thinking this was a good idea. Progress was well underway when I arrived downstairs. I stepped into the crowd circling the wood stove, and, taking a cue from those around me, pulled a ball of masa (dough made from just ground corn and a touch of water) off of the heap on the counter. I began forming it into a ball. The next step appeared to be simply clapping it back and forth, until it reached a suitable thinness. Certainly not rocket science. I began briskly slapping my hands together, watching the girls around me to make sure I wasn’t missing something.
Much to my dismay, the ball of dough wasted no time in sticking to my hands and tearing apart. Hmm. That’s not right. I re-rolled, and tried again. Two claps later, I was once again staring at chunks of torn dough smashed into either hand. Well, maybe I need to take it a bit slower. I started over, this time slowly and carefully patting my dough down. It patted right into my hand, and stayed there, smashing into indistinguishable chunks when I tried to remove it. I began to get annoyed. I watched the girls around me more closely, but their actions seemed genuinely straightforward. Roll the dough, pat the dough. Voila, perfect tortilla in seconds. Throw it on the stove for cooking and move on. I tried again, convinced I’d get it this time. I was wrong. My annoyance increased.
Frustration at that early hour quickly turned into irritation, then, unsurprisingly, anger. I continued to attempt various techniques of flattening my poor overworked lump of masa, to no avail. A necessity to maintain some level of professional decorum in front of my students was the only thing which kept me from exploding (in a manner which my parents and siblings would have surely found familiar), throwing the sticky ground corn dough against the wall and storming out. The girls, trained in the art of tortilleando from a young age, chuckled good naturedly at my failed attempts. At 5:45 am, good natured chuckles are indistinguishable from malice. My mood soured further.
I think I need to take up yoga. Or Buddhist meditation. Perhaps the breathing and concentration techniques taught in Lamaze classes would even be beneficial. Cooling myself down from a stewing temper tantrum can be a Herculean feat, although I think I can claim to have improved (since my toddler days.) I took a deep breath, rolled my dough into a new beginning ball, and concentrated.
I tried to be positive. “This is for fun, Jenna, remember that. They’ve been doing this for years. Do you think they could make pretty, fluffy buttermilk biscuits on their first try? Chill out.”
I never did succeed at making a truly good tortilla, although I did keep myself from freaking out in an embarrassing fashion. As the girls around me busily churned out dozens of perfectly round, even disks, I struggled with my little well-handled goo ball. In all, I think I produced three tortillas worth cooking. I am somewhat suspicious that they were mercifully discarded of when I wasn’t looking, sparing some unlucky diner the disappointment of a sub-par tortilla. My little contribution was hardly a drop in the literal bucket on the kitchen floor. It overflowed with hundreds of steaming little cakes by 6:15.
Relieved to finally be done with this Tortilleando Torture (it ranks up there with water boarding), I happily accepted the cooks’ offer to an early breakfast. Apparently skipping the long meal line is a well-deserved perk for the early-riser tortilla makers. I was delighted to see that this morning’s red beans had been cooked with shrimp (camarones) – what a treat! “Le gusta los camarones?” the cook asked me as she filled my bowl. I responded with enthusiastic affirmation, eager to taste what was shaping up to be a Cajun-style morning meal. The cooks regard me with a sort of doting affection, always being sure to offer me oversized portions, spare chicken feet and heaping piles of (cooked-caterpillar garnished) leafy greens. This morning, I watched as she enthusiastically fished through the vat of beans and shellfish, making sure to dish me up a greater-than-average quantity of shrimp.
My glee was premature, and short-lived. In the markets I’ve seen giant, fly-swarmed buckets of odiferous whole dried shrimp, fish, and tiny crabs. I’ve often wondered who in their right mind would purchase such an unappealing and clearly unsanitary form of seafood. Taking the musing one step further, I’ve also been perplexed as to how they could possibly be prepared. It seems improbable that they could ever be appetizing.
Already in a somewhat grumpy mood, I quickly learned that our own cooks, in fact, purchase these desiccated crustaceans. Sadly, my suspicions regarding potential edibility were correct. This form of seafood is far beyond culinary salvation, and even went so far as to ruin the rest of dish they were thrown into. Every bite of my beans had a distinctive oceanic taste. I would guess the best approximation to be the smell which emanates from tide pools at low tide. On a hot day. A very, very hot day. The pungent, alkaline bite of decaying vegetation and sea life permeated every spoonful. If I thought I’d exercised restraint earlier in the morning, I was doing so tenfold now. I couldn’t possibly push the dish away and refuse to eat it; the cook had made a special effort to give me the cream of the shrimpy crop, and would have been offended and perhaps angry had I done so.
The bright pink creatures swimming in my beans seemed to wave there antenna at me in mockery; they knew I didn’t want to eat them, and they clearly found joy in tormenting me from my bowl. The fully-shelled bodies crunched with each bite, spewing beany, rotten-ocean flavored shrimp juice into my mouth. Their legs and tails stuck in my teeth, provoking a gag reflex which manners forced me to suppress.
I choked the concoction down, drowning the flavor in twice my normal consumption of tortillas. Their bland palate-cleansing starch was a welcome reprieve from salty brine, and I was sure to save one to eat plain after finishing my beans.
Early-morning ordeal survived, I returned to my room, overwhelmed. I climbed back into bed, unsure of what else to do with myself, and fell into a fitful half sleep, dreaming of failure, salt and the smells of watery decaying death.
That attitude changed on Monday, when, for no reason in particular, I decided to double-check the article due-date. Surprise! My article was due in 2 days – the paper is printed on the 15th.
The Diocese had specifically requested that I include pictures of myself doing very Guatemalan things; proof that someone sitting in an office isn’t surfing the internet for research and making it all up. Unfortunately, although I’ve taken plenty of pictures, I don’t tend to appear in them. I’m not particularly fond of saying “take a picture of me doing this! Now this! OK, another one, but this time standing over here!” It’s just a bit too outwardly self-centered for my tastes. This attitude, however, now presented a problem. Needing a quick fix, I decided that perhaps it was high time I learned to make tortillas, and photo document the event.
Monday night, I asked the cooks if I could come the next morning for lessons – would they teach me to tortillear? I inquired. The verb tortillear literally means to “to make tortillas.” This food staple is so engrained in their culture it warrants its own verb.
Every morning a different group of girls takes a shift waking at the crack of dawn to prepare the day’s batch of tortillas. With about 150 mouths to feed thrice daily, each probably averaging 4 tortillas, that’s a hefty load of 1800 tiny corn hot cakes. I hadn’t done the math before deciding to contribute my own unskilled hands. Had I thought thing through, I wouldn’t have been surprised when the cooks said “Sure thing! See you a 4:30!”
Crap. That’s no fun.
Luckily, one of the cooks was observant enough to notice the quick flash of terror across my face, and wise enough to realize that my inexperience would probably be more of a hindrance than a help.
“Uh, you can go ahead and come down at 5:30” she reassured me.
Hmm. Somewhat like a stay of execution: should be good news, but you’re still on death row.
I pulled my sleep-heavy body out of bed as my alarm went off the next morning, already hating myself for thinking this was a good idea. Progress was well underway when I arrived downstairs. I stepped into the crowd circling the wood stove, and, taking a cue from those around me, pulled a ball of masa (dough made from just ground corn and a touch of water) off of the heap on the counter. I began forming it into a ball. The next step appeared to be simply clapping it back and forth, until it reached a suitable thinness. Certainly not rocket science. I began briskly slapping my hands together, watching the girls around me to make sure I wasn’t missing something.
Much to my dismay, the ball of dough wasted no time in sticking to my hands and tearing apart. Hmm. That’s not right. I re-rolled, and tried again. Two claps later, I was once again staring at chunks of torn dough smashed into either hand. Well, maybe I need to take it a bit slower. I started over, this time slowly and carefully patting my dough down. It patted right into my hand, and stayed there, smashing into indistinguishable chunks when I tried to remove it. I began to get annoyed. I watched the girls around me more closely, but their actions seemed genuinely straightforward. Roll the dough, pat the dough. Voila, perfect tortilla in seconds. Throw it on the stove for cooking and move on. I tried again, convinced I’d get it this time. I was wrong. My annoyance increased.
Frustration at that early hour quickly turned into irritation, then, unsurprisingly, anger. I continued to attempt various techniques of flattening my poor overworked lump of masa, to no avail. A necessity to maintain some level of professional decorum in front of my students was the only thing which kept me from exploding (in a manner which my parents and siblings would have surely found familiar), throwing the sticky ground corn dough against the wall and storming out. The girls, trained in the art of tortilleando from a young age, chuckled good naturedly at my failed attempts. At 5:45 am, good natured chuckles are indistinguishable from malice. My mood soured further.
I think I need to take up yoga. Or Buddhist meditation. Perhaps the breathing and concentration techniques taught in Lamaze classes would even be beneficial. Cooling myself down from a stewing temper tantrum can be a Herculean feat, although I think I can claim to have improved (since my toddler days.) I took a deep breath, rolled my dough into a new beginning ball, and concentrated.
I tried to be positive. “This is for fun, Jenna, remember that. They’ve been doing this for years. Do you think they could make pretty, fluffy buttermilk biscuits on their first try? Chill out.”
I never did succeed at making a truly good tortilla, although I did keep myself from freaking out in an embarrassing fashion. As the girls around me busily churned out dozens of perfectly round, even disks, I struggled with my little well-handled goo ball. In all, I think I produced three tortillas worth cooking. I am somewhat suspicious that they were mercifully discarded of when I wasn’t looking, sparing some unlucky diner the disappointment of a sub-par tortilla. My little contribution was hardly a drop in the literal bucket on the kitchen floor. It overflowed with hundreds of steaming little cakes by 6:15.
Relieved to finally be done with this Tortilleando Torture (it ranks up there with water boarding), I happily accepted the cooks’ offer to an early breakfast. Apparently skipping the long meal line is a well-deserved perk for the early-riser tortilla makers. I was delighted to see that this morning’s red beans had been cooked with shrimp (camarones) – what a treat! “Le gusta los camarones?” the cook asked me as she filled my bowl. I responded with enthusiastic affirmation, eager to taste what was shaping up to be a Cajun-style morning meal. The cooks regard me with a sort of doting affection, always being sure to offer me oversized portions, spare chicken feet and heaping piles of (cooked-caterpillar garnished) leafy greens. This morning, I watched as she enthusiastically fished through the vat of beans and shellfish, making sure to dish me up a greater-than-average quantity of shrimp.
My glee was premature, and short-lived. In the markets I’ve seen giant, fly-swarmed buckets of odiferous whole dried shrimp, fish, and tiny crabs. I’ve often wondered who in their right mind would purchase such an unappealing and clearly unsanitary form of seafood. Taking the musing one step further, I’ve also been perplexed as to how they could possibly be prepared. It seems improbable that they could ever be appetizing.
Already in a somewhat grumpy mood, I quickly learned that our own cooks, in fact, purchase these desiccated crustaceans. Sadly, my suspicions regarding potential edibility were correct. This form of seafood is far beyond culinary salvation, and even went so far as to ruin the rest of dish they were thrown into. Every bite of my beans had a distinctive oceanic taste. I would guess the best approximation to be the smell which emanates from tide pools at low tide. On a hot day. A very, very hot day. The pungent, alkaline bite of decaying vegetation and sea life permeated every spoonful. If I thought I’d exercised restraint earlier in the morning, I was doing so tenfold now. I couldn’t possibly push the dish away and refuse to eat it; the cook had made a special effort to give me the cream of the shrimpy crop, and would have been offended and perhaps angry had I done so.
The bright pink creatures swimming in my beans seemed to wave there antenna at me in mockery; they knew I didn’t want to eat them, and they clearly found joy in tormenting me from my bowl. The fully-shelled bodies crunched with each bite, spewing beany, rotten-ocean flavored shrimp juice into my mouth. Their legs and tails stuck in my teeth, provoking a gag reflex which manners forced me to suppress.
I choked the concoction down, drowning the flavor in twice my normal consumption of tortillas. Their bland palate-cleansing starch was a welcome reprieve from salty brine, and I was sure to save one to eat plain after finishing my beans.
Early-morning ordeal survived, I returned to my room, overwhelmed. I climbed back into bed, unsure of what else to do with myself, and fell into a fitful half sleep, dreaming of failure, salt and the smells of watery decaying death.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Progress progress
I’ve decided that perhaps rainy Latin American nights are good breakthrough nights for me. “Breakthrough” is a bit sensationalistic, really, but I’m currently unable to generate a suitable synonym, so we’ll go with breakthrough for now.
I’ll probably never forget the first time that I decided to venture out into Santiago (Chile – flash back two years) without a sufficiently adept guide. It was within the first month of my arrival, just days after meeting KellyAnne. The two of us, so far just barely acquaintances, decided we’d meet somewhere and find an adventure together. We began our city walkabout speaking to one another only in Spanish, and the two of us were equally unfamiliar with the metropolis which we were exploring. Places such as Bellavista, La Plaza de las Armas, Calle Huerfanos, and La Plaza Nuñoa, areas which are now forever emblazoned in a map of memories on my heart and mind, were totally foreign that afternoon. Having just come from the western hemisphere summer, the two of us were still surprised by a nightfall which came at 6 pm. We ambled aimlessly through the city, generally clueless of our location, being gently rained upon, and somehow adhering strictly to non-English communication.
Eventually, we recognized our own hunger and frustration at lack of entertainment, and decided to search for a restaurant. It took at least an hour before we found a Chilean diner which catered to her vegetarian whims and our price range. Only after we sat down in a restaurant, tired, cold, damp and generally overwhelmed, did we begin speaking in English. Considering how recently we’d arrived, and the language skills we had yet to develop, the fact that we maintained Spanish conversation for so long indicates two things: one, we were working pretty hard at just communicating, and two, we didn’t exactly have much casual conversation.
Our close friendship, I would attest, didn’t develop until after we broke down and began speaking in English. At the time, it felt a bit like defeat. Now I understand that it was foolish to expect myself to convey a personality with such little communicative ability. Jeez, it’s still tough sometimes, after all of the work I’ve done since to improve!
That night, the two of us tackled Santiago together, getting lost and found on the busy downtown streets numerous times. We used the terribly complicated and unpredictable city bus system, turned our maps upside down and inside out, and eventually formed a bond which still exists. When I got home that night, I sat upstairs explaining our adventures to Felipe while rainwater continued to drip from my hair. His response, when I finished telling all about what we’d done, was simply “This has been a good night for you. You went out by yourself, you were even the guide instead of the guided at times, and you had a chance to do something independent of help from one of us.”
He was right; it was my first chance venturing out without an assigned shepherd, and it turned out well. Finally, I was getting a chance to be my normal independent self, instead of being treated as the incapacitated, mute gringa.
Recently, I had a similar night in Guatemala. Last week, while trying to give my midterm test to 150 first-year students all at the same time (who in the hell thought this was a good idea? REALLY?) one of the other teachers came over to help me. I’d crammed two classes into one tiny, unbearably hot room, and lined the rest out in their desks in the hallway. My impossible task was to monitor everyone for cheating. I honestly have no idea why anyone ever thought this would work, but they were wrong. When I asked the other teachers what they do, they insisted it’s not a problem at all for them. I don’t think I’m capable of believing that.
Pablo, the shop teacher, could see I was struggling with maintaining any semblance of control, and came over to help patrol the students. Since this was my second test to administer that day, and the first had been equally painful, I was exhausted, frustrated, angry and desperate. I gladly accepted his help, but was incredibly irritated when he hung around afterwards and tried to make small talk. Honestly, all I wanted to do was go to my room and cry out some of my frustration. I don’t care what they say, that really can make things better.
Instead, I was stuck talking to this schmuck who kept correcting my Spanish grammar and giving me advice on classroom management. He really hit a nerve, though, when he said I seemed more distant than the other gringas who’ve been here. The truth is, I do spend a lot of time entertaining myself in my room, but more than anything it’s because I don’t know how to incorporate better with the school atmosphere. Rather than dealing with the discomfort of new, awkward social situations, I’ve taken on learning to play the guitar, reading a lot, and going to Santo Tomas to hang out at the clinic every weekend. Clearly not the best way to assimilate, but undoubtedly the path of least resistance for myself. He was right, I knew it, and it bothered me that I’ve become a notable recluse.
So, when he suggested we go have a drink after classes earlier this week, I felt compelled to accept. What better way to meet people than accept a direct invitation, right? I rode on the back of his motorcycle down to Santo Tomas, where we ate dinner and had a drink. As a side note, I’ve noticed that drinking in moderation is not a concept which exists here.
I’m sure that last line raised a few eyebrows. Allow me to explain. That statement does not exactly imply that drinking in excess is the only thing which occurs. Instead, it’s one extreme or the other. Pablo explained to me that we hadn’t stayed in Xejuyup because he didn’t want anyone to see him drinking, and then ordered juice instead of beer when we sat down. Only after being told they were all out of juice did he order, and very slowly savor, one single beer throughout the course of our entire, rather long meal. As a general rule of etiquette, I usually try to eat and drink at the same pace as the people or person I’m with. Sadly, this resulted in sipping a lukewarm beer for two hours that night. Hardly worth the effort. There are, apparently, major problems with alcoholism in the poverty-stricken areas. Either people here are life-ruining drunks, or they act as if they’re afraid of the stuff. It’s interesting.
Anyhow, although there was nothing particularly notable about what we did that night, it was a good experience for me to simply converse with a Guatemalan adult for awhile. In the same way that I’d enjoyed passing time with Ruth, spending a few hours with Pablo turned out to be a good chance to finally have a personality in Spanish. In the classroom, I have to adopt a character which doesn’t really correspond with who I am. Firstly, I’m a teacher, which is about as unfamiliar of a concept as Ki’che’. Additionally, I have to be firm, even mean. It’s just not who I like to be. Finally, I’m getting some opportunities to behave like myself with peers, instead of only taking charge of a classroom of kids.
Beyond that, it was nice to see that not only did Pablo recognize that I hadn’t exactly been socializing with the other teachers, but he made a point to keep it from staying that way. Already later this week I was invited for a snack at recess with several of the other staff members. That first step in socializing is usually the hardest for me, and now I’ve both made it with one person and have started with the rest. Definitely good for me.
Kristin, the previous English teacher, also a young American volunteer, had left me some notes about what to expect. Among other things, she’d said that Pablo was always a good partner in crime whenever she’d come up with ideas for projects or activities. Already he and I are planning on doing some coffee roasting, as tons of coffee is produced here and the school has an unused wood-burning roaster. He also has planted and manages the school’s garden, and offered to plant jalapeños for pickling and salsa making after he saw me pouring hot pepper salsa on my beans.
As we rode back up to the school on his motorcycle that night, rain soaking through my jeans and slicing into my eyes, I couldn’t help but remember that night in Chile. Although the weather may not be ideal, I’d had a good night. A night of progress, I guess.
If only I didn’t still have to finish correcting my 300 tests, I’d have been able to stay in a good mood. Bummer.
I’ll probably never forget the first time that I decided to venture out into Santiago (Chile – flash back two years) without a sufficiently adept guide. It was within the first month of my arrival, just days after meeting KellyAnne. The two of us, so far just barely acquaintances, decided we’d meet somewhere and find an adventure together. We began our city walkabout speaking to one another only in Spanish, and the two of us were equally unfamiliar with the metropolis which we were exploring. Places such as Bellavista, La Plaza de las Armas, Calle Huerfanos, and La Plaza Nuñoa, areas which are now forever emblazoned in a map of memories on my heart and mind, were totally foreign that afternoon. Having just come from the western hemisphere summer, the two of us were still surprised by a nightfall which came at 6 pm. We ambled aimlessly through the city, generally clueless of our location, being gently rained upon, and somehow adhering strictly to non-English communication.
Eventually, we recognized our own hunger and frustration at lack of entertainment, and decided to search for a restaurant. It took at least an hour before we found a Chilean diner which catered to her vegetarian whims and our price range. Only after we sat down in a restaurant, tired, cold, damp and generally overwhelmed, did we begin speaking in English. Considering how recently we’d arrived, and the language skills we had yet to develop, the fact that we maintained Spanish conversation for so long indicates two things: one, we were working pretty hard at just communicating, and two, we didn’t exactly have much casual conversation.
Our close friendship, I would attest, didn’t develop until after we broke down and began speaking in English. At the time, it felt a bit like defeat. Now I understand that it was foolish to expect myself to convey a personality with such little communicative ability. Jeez, it’s still tough sometimes, after all of the work I’ve done since to improve!
That night, the two of us tackled Santiago together, getting lost and found on the busy downtown streets numerous times. We used the terribly complicated and unpredictable city bus system, turned our maps upside down and inside out, and eventually formed a bond which still exists. When I got home that night, I sat upstairs explaining our adventures to Felipe while rainwater continued to drip from my hair. His response, when I finished telling all about what we’d done, was simply “This has been a good night for you. You went out by yourself, you were even the guide instead of the guided at times, and you had a chance to do something independent of help from one of us.”
He was right; it was my first chance venturing out without an assigned shepherd, and it turned out well. Finally, I was getting a chance to be my normal independent self, instead of being treated as the incapacitated, mute gringa.
Recently, I had a similar night in Guatemala. Last week, while trying to give my midterm test to 150 first-year students all at the same time (who in the hell thought this was a good idea? REALLY?) one of the other teachers came over to help me. I’d crammed two classes into one tiny, unbearably hot room, and lined the rest out in their desks in the hallway. My impossible task was to monitor everyone for cheating. I honestly have no idea why anyone ever thought this would work, but they were wrong. When I asked the other teachers what they do, they insisted it’s not a problem at all for them. I don’t think I’m capable of believing that.
Pablo, the shop teacher, could see I was struggling with maintaining any semblance of control, and came over to help patrol the students. Since this was my second test to administer that day, and the first had been equally painful, I was exhausted, frustrated, angry and desperate. I gladly accepted his help, but was incredibly irritated when he hung around afterwards and tried to make small talk. Honestly, all I wanted to do was go to my room and cry out some of my frustration. I don’t care what they say, that really can make things better.
Instead, I was stuck talking to this schmuck who kept correcting my Spanish grammar and giving me advice on classroom management. He really hit a nerve, though, when he said I seemed more distant than the other gringas who’ve been here. The truth is, I do spend a lot of time entertaining myself in my room, but more than anything it’s because I don’t know how to incorporate better with the school atmosphere. Rather than dealing with the discomfort of new, awkward social situations, I’ve taken on learning to play the guitar, reading a lot, and going to Santo Tomas to hang out at the clinic every weekend. Clearly not the best way to assimilate, but undoubtedly the path of least resistance for myself. He was right, I knew it, and it bothered me that I’ve become a notable recluse.
So, when he suggested we go have a drink after classes earlier this week, I felt compelled to accept. What better way to meet people than accept a direct invitation, right? I rode on the back of his motorcycle down to Santo Tomas, where we ate dinner and had a drink. As a side note, I’ve noticed that drinking in moderation is not a concept which exists here.
I’m sure that last line raised a few eyebrows. Allow me to explain. That statement does not exactly imply that drinking in excess is the only thing which occurs. Instead, it’s one extreme or the other. Pablo explained to me that we hadn’t stayed in Xejuyup because he didn’t want anyone to see him drinking, and then ordered juice instead of beer when we sat down. Only after being told they were all out of juice did he order, and very slowly savor, one single beer throughout the course of our entire, rather long meal. As a general rule of etiquette, I usually try to eat and drink at the same pace as the people or person I’m with. Sadly, this resulted in sipping a lukewarm beer for two hours that night. Hardly worth the effort. There are, apparently, major problems with alcoholism in the poverty-stricken areas. Either people here are life-ruining drunks, or they act as if they’re afraid of the stuff. It’s interesting.
Anyhow, although there was nothing particularly notable about what we did that night, it was a good experience for me to simply converse with a Guatemalan adult for awhile. In the same way that I’d enjoyed passing time with Ruth, spending a few hours with Pablo turned out to be a good chance to finally have a personality in Spanish. In the classroom, I have to adopt a character which doesn’t really correspond with who I am. Firstly, I’m a teacher, which is about as unfamiliar of a concept as Ki’che’. Additionally, I have to be firm, even mean. It’s just not who I like to be. Finally, I’m getting some opportunities to behave like myself with peers, instead of only taking charge of a classroom of kids.
Beyond that, it was nice to see that not only did Pablo recognize that I hadn’t exactly been socializing with the other teachers, but he made a point to keep it from staying that way. Already later this week I was invited for a snack at recess with several of the other staff members. That first step in socializing is usually the hardest for me, and now I’ve both made it with one person and have started with the rest. Definitely good for me.
Kristin, the previous English teacher, also a young American volunteer, had left me some notes about what to expect. Among other things, she’d said that Pablo was always a good partner in crime whenever she’d come up with ideas for projects or activities. Already he and I are planning on doing some coffee roasting, as tons of coffee is produced here and the school has an unused wood-burning roaster. He also has planted and manages the school’s garden, and offered to plant jalapeños for pickling and salsa making after he saw me pouring hot pepper salsa on my beans.
As we rode back up to the school on his motorcycle that night, rain soaking through my jeans and slicing into my eyes, I couldn’t help but remember that night in Chile. Although the weather may not be ideal, I’d had a good night. A night of progress, I guess.
If only I didn’t still have to finish correcting my 300 tests, I’d have been able to stay in a good mood. Bummer.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Travels with Caleb...and company
Well, I’m back home in The-Middle-Of-Nowhere-Ville, after enjoying nearly a solid week of running around the Guatemalan countryside. The serendipitous placement of mid-terms allowed for me to leave the school for 6 days without the slightest misgiving, and I had a wonderful time. I got up around 3:30 am on Friday to catch the first of several buses which eventually delivered me to Antigua, where I met up with Caleb and his two amigas.
Traveling can be a tricky thing, especially in groups. If personalities don’t fit together just right, it’s easy for the unpredictability, unfamiliarity and general stress of trip-taking to result in problems. By the grace of God (and probably Caleb’s impressive consistency in friend picking), we combined seamlessly into a fantastic foursome, steering pleasantly clear of pitfalls. Brady, a college friend of Caleb’s, just finished an around-the-world, year-long mission trip, and will be beginning a new job in mission work upon returning to the US. Celia is an aspiring writer, who Caleb met since moving to Seattle. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead (if you’ve had the good fortune to meet my Montana roommates, you’ll understand that this is a recurring theme in my life), we all represented friendships forged at distinct stages in Caleb’s life. Once we got the jokes out of our system, it was quickly obvious that he’s got good taste in buddies. I genuinely enjoyed everyone’s company the entire time we were together, and I really hope we stay in touch.
We didn’t actually meet up in Antigua on Friday until mid-afternoon, although I’d arrived around 8 am. They spent most of the day bussing down from Coban. In the meantime, I wandered around the very tourist-ified town, wearing my backpack and for once looking natural. Where I live, the only logical place to carry heavy loads is precariously balanced atop one’s head. Now that I was in, as Caleb calls it, “The Travel River,” the circuit of tourist hot-spots which is constantly fluxing with young travelers, Guatemala had an entirely different feel. To be honest, I found myself somewhat disgusted at first. Antigua is clean, it has no smells, I felt entirely safe and secure wandering in a clearly aimless fashion everywhere I went, the businesses have proper storefronts and very few individuals missing limbs and/or eyes populate the corners with battered cups and baskets. Just as I’d thought the first time I went to Panahachel, if this is the version of the country tourists see, they’re coming up short of reality.
Of course, despite these observations regarding the town’s gentrification, it wasn’t exactly difficult to enjoy it. Antigua was the original capitol of Guatemala, founded in the early 1500s. Dozens of stone churches and universities were built all over the city across several centuries, despite Pachamama’s irksome habit of rocking the area with earthquakes on a regular basis. (Pachamama, by the way, is “Mother Earth” in Mapudungun, a Chilean native language. I’ve always liked it. If I felt like running off on a tangent right now, I’d tell you all about Mapudungun, since it’s a fascinating language, but I fear I’d never find my way back on track.) Finally, after a particularly bad terremoto (Spanish for earthquake…another good word) in the 1700’s, they gave up and moved the whole show to the new Guatemala City. (Hence the name “Antigua,” it’s literally “Old Guatemala City.)
I only ended up spending about an hour alone, before running into a very nice Israeli girl, Hadas, with whom I explored the city for the rest of the morning and afternoon. We walked to the town of Jocotenango nearby, where there’s an excellent 3-in-1 museum complex with sections on Guatemalan music, textiles, and coffee production. The museum also had a beautiful garden with masses of native flowers and fruits. We ate fresh passion fruit picked while walking through the trellises, and enjoyed complimentary cups of coffee at the end of our tour. In all, we were there for several hours, paying a grand total of $4.50. Ahh, the benefits of a terribly depressed economy.
Finally I heard from Caleb, Celia and Brady that afternoon, and we spent the rest of the long weekend exploring together. Most of the time I was with GuaTeam 08 (as I so dorkily dubbed us) was spent simply walking through the city, checking out ruined buildings, artisanal markets and bookstores. However, the Saturday after meeting up we adventured out on a hike up the Volcán Pacaya.
Located about an hour’s drive from Antigua, right outside of Guatemala City, Pacaya is one of the volcanoes which I described upon first arriving, puffing whiffs of pretty smoke from its picture-perfect cone. It’s one of the most active of several live volcanoes in the country, and the popular tourist hike up its steep sides pays off with direct access to live lava flows. Cool? Totally.
In order to make our bus that morning we had to wake up around 5:30 am and stumble our sleepy way into the street. A tired looking American school bus waited outside of our hostel, clearly working harder in “retirement” than it had ever done while employed stateside. Our foursome piled in, along with dozens of other American and European gringos equally eager to check out real live lava firsthand.
Antigua had been downright hot the day before, so we carried nothing more than water bottles and a small sack lunch.
Our bus took off across Antigua’s bumpy streets, but not before a brief welcome from our guide, Paulo. His speech consisted of a few quick words of explanation, mostly just requesting that we not take any pictures of him. As a man of strong Mayan faith, Paulo explained, he didn’t trust cameras. No photography was a tall order, considering Paulo’s interesting appearance. Strapped to his back, in the normal fashion for such equipment, was a backpack. Casually thrust into the large central pocket, mostly protruding uncovered, was a large shotgun. Paulo didn’t bother mentioning why he felt it was a necessary item to bring along, and it took a while for anyone to muster the courage to ask.
Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer, and cheerfully inquired:
“Paulo – ¿usted tiene planes de cazar mientras nosotros subimos el volcán?”
“Are you planning on going hunting while we hike up the volcano?”
He smiled, then explained to the group in broken English “En all mi time as guide, we have no problem. No problem. Da gun, da gun es precaución, no mas. Solo precaucion.”
He didn’t mention what it may be a precaution against.
As we neared the volcano, fat raindrops began to find their way to the windshield of our big yellow coach, and ugly dark clouds loomed above. With no possible recourse, we were stuck simply shrugging at one another, annoyed but generally unconcerned with our lack of preparation.
Upon arriving at the trailhead, we unloaded from the bus into a gentle drizzle. Initially, the fresh wetness was a welcome addition to the hike. Volcanoes are, after all, characteristically steep, and we had a fair distance to trek. We proceeded up the trail, a loose crowd of mostly American missionary groups and young European backpackers, marching through the forest surrounding the mountain. The rain which fell on us was a comfortable, Cape-Kiwanda-in-late-April sort of precipitation. It softly blanketed everything in a cool, soothing way – wetting us slowly and without attracting much attention. Not until we neared the mountain’s top and emerged from the protection of jungle canopy did the weather become a problem. There, we encountered a stiff breeze which transformed the mist from an inert, general thickening of air into an insistent blustery rain. We were quickly and unapologetically soaked. The little crowd of fire-eager gringos jostled towards the edge of the dead lava flow, unsure if we should expect the exciting danger of molten rock to be within reach. Peering down into the pit of jagged broken lava below, we encountered an entirely unremarkable sight. A vast expanse of black extended before us, ending where thick mist obscured everything to an indistinguishable uniform grey. Ready to see the promised fiery pits of hell which we’d come for, and beginning to develop a condition best labeled “misery” thanks to the wind pummeling us with stinging flecks of water, we pushed farther up the trail. The group preceding us had already reached the edge of the lava field, and was now picking their way through the rough boulders. We followed their lead, stumbling across the heaps of pumice and shivering with a mixture of cold and dread for the damp return bus trip to Antigua.
As we progressed through the rocks, I marveled at the tenacious stupidity of the Southern Baptist church wives in front of me. They tripped along the rough terrain, clinging to billowy flowered umbrellas in one hand and Nikon behemoth cameras in the other. The rain which attacked us now was exactly the sort of rain which had convinced me for twenty years that umbrellas are a silly, useless fashion accessory. More along the lines of our same beloved Cape Kiwanda in November, for example. It swirled around in the wind, tiny droplets flying in all directions at once. It renders useless the ignorant umbrella, capable of nothing more than a single-front, vertical battle in the war against water.
We trudged along, silent but for whines from young, tired, wet little brats who bemoaned every step. Undoubtedly they belonged to one of the dozens of missionary groups visiting Guatemala – probably PSP2 addicted suburbanites whose parents were striving to give them a cultural experience, converting them to soldiers in the army of the Lord. I don’t intend to give the impression that I sustain some level of annoyance or disdain for said missionary groups; quite the contrary, actually. I’ve met dozens of people here doing awesome things in the names of their church groups – I just think that no different than when they’re at home, some of them lack common sense abroad.
My favorite exchange occurred between a young teenager and her mother. Complaining loudly and annoyingly about a rock in her shoe, the girl was quite perturbed by the motherly response “Well, you should have worn real socks, instead of those stupid ankle things. Less fashionable, more practical.” I cringed at the familiarity of the line, and didn’t bother suppressing my chuckle a few moments later when the mother complained to a friend “My sandals don’t have any traction!”
Our trek though the lava wasteland seemed to be occurring independent of time’s passing. The heavy fog obscured our vision beyond a few hundred feet. It was a great enough distance to give the impression of a never ending Tolkien-esque expanse of unbroken, serrated black landscape. As Caleb, ever the beloved dork commented “Man, I really feel for Sam and Frodo right now!”
Eventually, hope of ever seeing real lava flows began to wane, and my imagination began to play with alternate explanations for Paulo’s shotgun. Surely these American tourists had padded their seats on the bus ride with pockets full of greenbacks…and no one would ever be stupid enough to hike this distance in order to stumble upon our abandoned bodies…
Finally, slowly, gatherings of people became visible through the thick, wet air. Moving towards them, a gentle heat became detectable – too much so to be attributable to their collective human warmth. As we got closer, excitement became equally palpable. We had arrived at the active zone of the volcano. Gazing across the rocks which spread before us, one could hear a constant sizzle formed by raindrops pelting the hot stone. Steam rose from patches of lava, whisked away quickly by the swirling wind.
We approach “the hot zone,” excitement mingling with apprehension in our minds. Certainly unlike any US style national part, Pacaya’s deadly lava flows were far from fenced in. There were no safety railings, no warning signs, no uniformed walkie-talkie toting troopers ensuring our survival. Anyone with grandiose ideas about suicide would have been free and welcome to run right up and jump into the oozing molten rock. Unevenly distributed heat resulted in pockets of activity, where the strange liquid-solid lugubriously wandered towards us. The mass of people all wanting the best view possible, and luxuriating in the radiant heat, resulted in a somewhat precarious setup. Young and old jostled around one another, hopping from rock to rock, perching above piles of steaming glowing stones which would surely prove deadly with a slip or misstep. Those unfortunate enough to pick a spot which was hotter than they’d predicted were left hopping from foot to foot, scanning the crowd for rock patches which wouldn’t continue melting the soles of their shoes.
Several young men, unable to resist the primordial urge to poke at lava with a stick, did exactly that. They found themselves jumping back in defense with the volcano responded by unexpectedly quickening the pace for its oozing, menacing guts.
We’d brought along a sack of Guatemalan marshmallows, distinctive from our snowy American version thanks to copious amounts of creative food coloring decoration. I found a coat hanger wrapped around a pole, evidently left by a like-minded individual. We enjoyed the photo op provided by roasting ‘mallows with the volcano’s prehistoric heat. Then, sensing the potential for cross-application of the principle, we roasted ourselves. My jeans, which had been sopping wet, to the point that I’d needed to tighten my belt in order to keep their heavy drooping mass cinched to my body, were not immune to the heat. Without noticing, I’d already begun the process of drying out. The rain had slowed back to a slow drizzle, and then stopped, unmissed as we marveled over the impressive natural radiance in front of us. I stepped away from the more exciting moving, flaming flows and found a nice chunk of hot rock to warm myself on, amused at my reptilian behavior. The warmth came from the stones below me, and was dispersed by the wind before reaching all the way up my body. As a result, my heavy jeans were dried while my t-shirt remained sopping wet.
Unwilling to withstand a soggy trip back to Antigua, it didn’t take a volcanologist to recognize the potential for progress here. It did, however, require a modicum of immodesty. Thankfully, I’ve got that, so I whipped off my shirt, rung it out heartily, and hung it over the rocks in front of me. Although they were way too hot to stand on, a borrowed walking stick provided the necessary tool to get the job done. As I stood drying my clothes, I was passed by a host of other tourists similarly miserably wet. An older British woman was the only one who seemed to recognize the logic in my plan, and instead of scoffing like the rest of the offended missionaries, she joined right in. We stood there, topless and proud of our creative problem solving skills, while everyone else uncomfortably averted their gazes. Whatever, squares.
Our guide began to get antsy, and was ready to hit the trail. He gathered our group with an insistent tooting of his whistle, and began shepherding us towards the makeshift path back across the lava field.
What happened next can only be described as shocking. We had barely begun our long trek back across the rocky wasteland when a thunderous roar and crackle of falling rocks came from behind us. A large cliff rose above the lava flow which we’d been watching, literally moments before, towering up into the mist and in indeterminable height and stability. Right after we’d stepped away and begun down the trail, it had let loose a giant slide of boulders and general volcanic debris. We stood, agape, as man-sized chunks of rock barreled down the cliff and smashed into the platform upon which I’d been toasting my clothes. A lone straggler from our group hopped and sprinted from the area, narrowly escaping an unpleasant death of combined crushing and incineration. It was, really and truly, one of those moments which remind a person of God’s existence. There had been no warning that it would occur, our guide was just getting hungry and wanted to go down to lunch. Had we fiddle-faddled with picture taking and lava-poking for less than five minutes longer, there would have surely been multiple deaths. You couldn’t help but think “Thanks, Big Guy.” Or, as Caleb put it “Blog about THAT!”
We turned around, a bit shaken, and continued on down the hill. Unbelievably, the rain which had tormented our trip up the mountain appeared to have worn itself out with the effort. It was now nowhere to be seen. Undisturbed by inclement weather, and comfortably dry, the hike back down and subsequent bus ride were perfectly pleasant.
I would consider that story to be the most interesting of our adventures together. We stayed in Antigua a few more days, meeting up with Caleb’s missionary aunt Jacquie on a particularly rainy day, and trying to find ways to entertain ourselves while also staying dry. Mostly we relaxed, eventually taking a confusing chicken-bus route to Panajachel for the last several days of our trip. We rode a boat trip across the lake to Santiago Atitlan, home of the beautifully embroidered cowboy pirate, and tried to sneak candid shots of their silly clothes. We found a bratty vagrant street kid who showed us to the temple of Maximon for the hefty sum of 1 Quetzal per person (nearly 15 cents). I made him promise he’d go to school next week before paying, although I sincerely doubt he had any intention of following through.
Maximon, the idol to which our urchin guided us, is a local syncretism deity who personifies characteristics of both Mayan gods and Catholic saints. He lives in an interesting, rotating temple of incense, candles, elaborate kitschy decorations and passionately supplicating followers who offer him harsh homebrew rum, smokes and cash. All of this while plunky marimba music buzzes out of a boom box with a broken speaker. It’s the sort of thing you’d expect to find in Butte.
Celia performed a little ceremony for him while I swung the incense dish enthusiastically, and then we stumbled out of the dark, somewhat demonic feeling lair back into Santiago’s dirty streets.
Panajachel proved to be just as laid-back this time as it had been the last, full of tasty cheap restaurants, interesting-the-first-time-around artisan shops and great multilingual bookstores. We spent a few days exploring before it was time to part ways, with the original threesome going to Chimaltenango for one last evening with Jacquie and me returning to Santo Tomas. Somewhat to my surprise, it felt like home when I got back.
Traveling can be a tricky thing, especially in groups. If personalities don’t fit together just right, it’s easy for the unpredictability, unfamiliarity and general stress of trip-taking to result in problems. By the grace of God (and probably Caleb’s impressive consistency in friend picking), we combined seamlessly into a fantastic foursome, steering pleasantly clear of pitfalls. Brady, a college friend of Caleb’s, just finished an around-the-world, year-long mission trip, and will be beginning a new job in mission work upon returning to the US. Celia is an aspiring writer, who Caleb met since moving to Seattle. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead (if you’ve had the good fortune to meet my Montana roommates, you’ll understand that this is a recurring theme in my life), we all represented friendships forged at distinct stages in Caleb’s life. Once we got the jokes out of our system, it was quickly obvious that he’s got good taste in buddies. I genuinely enjoyed everyone’s company the entire time we were together, and I really hope we stay in touch.
We didn’t actually meet up in Antigua on Friday until mid-afternoon, although I’d arrived around 8 am. They spent most of the day bussing down from Coban. In the meantime, I wandered around the very tourist-ified town, wearing my backpack and for once looking natural. Where I live, the only logical place to carry heavy loads is precariously balanced atop one’s head. Now that I was in, as Caleb calls it, “The Travel River,” the circuit of tourist hot-spots which is constantly fluxing with young travelers, Guatemala had an entirely different feel. To be honest, I found myself somewhat disgusted at first. Antigua is clean, it has no smells, I felt entirely safe and secure wandering in a clearly aimless fashion everywhere I went, the businesses have proper storefronts and very few individuals missing limbs and/or eyes populate the corners with battered cups and baskets. Just as I’d thought the first time I went to Panahachel, if this is the version of the country tourists see, they’re coming up short of reality.
Of course, despite these observations regarding the town’s gentrification, it wasn’t exactly difficult to enjoy it. Antigua was the original capitol of Guatemala, founded in the early 1500s. Dozens of stone churches and universities were built all over the city across several centuries, despite Pachamama’s irksome habit of rocking the area with earthquakes on a regular basis. (Pachamama, by the way, is “Mother Earth” in Mapudungun, a Chilean native language. I’ve always liked it. If I felt like running off on a tangent right now, I’d tell you all about Mapudungun, since it’s a fascinating language, but I fear I’d never find my way back on track.) Finally, after a particularly bad terremoto (Spanish for earthquake…another good word) in the 1700’s, they gave up and moved the whole show to the new Guatemala City. (Hence the name “Antigua,” it’s literally “Old Guatemala City.)
I only ended up spending about an hour alone, before running into a very nice Israeli girl, Hadas, with whom I explored the city for the rest of the morning and afternoon. We walked to the town of Jocotenango nearby, where there’s an excellent 3-in-1 museum complex with sections on Guatemalan music, textiles, and coffee production. The museum also had a beautiful garden with masses of native flowers and fruits. We ate fresh passion fruit picked while walking through the trellises, and enjoyed complimentary cups of coffee at the end of our tour. In all, we were there for several hours, paying a grand total of $4.50. Ahh, the benefits of a terribly depressed economy.
Finally I heard from Caleb, Celia and Brady that afternoon, and we spent the rest of the long weekend exploring together. Most of the time I was with GuaTeam 08 (as I so dorkily dubbed us) was spent simply walking through the city, checking out ruined buildings, artisanal markets and bookstores. However, the Saturday after meeting up we adventured out on a hike up the Volcán Pacaya.
Located about an hour’s drive from Antigua, right outside of Guatemala City, Pacaya is one of the volcanoes which I described upon first arriving, puffing whiffs of pretty smoke from its picture-perfect cone. It’s one of the most active of several live volcanoes in the country, and the popular tourist hike up its steep sides pays off with direct access to live lava flows. Cool? Totally.
In order to make our bus that morning we had to wake up around 5:30 am and stumble our sleepy way into the street. A tired looking American school bus waited outside of our hostel, clearly working harder in “retirement” than it had ever done while employed stateside. Our foursome piled in, along with dozens of other American and European gringos equally eager to check out real live lava firsthand.
Antigua had been downright hot the day before, so we carried nothing more than water bottles and a small sack lunch.
Our bus took off across Antigua’s bumpy streets, but not before a brief welcome from our guide, Paulo. His speech consisted of a few quick words of explanation, mostly just requesting that we not take any pictures of him. As a man of strong Mayan faith, Paulo explained, he didn’t trust cameras. No photography was a tall order, considering Paulo’s interesting appearance. Strapped to his back, in the normal fashion for such equipment, was a backpack. Casually thrust into the large central pocket, mostly protruding uncovered, was a large shotgun. Paulo didn’t bother mentioning why he felt it was a necessary item to bring along, and it took a while for anyone to muster the courage to ask.
Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer, and cheerfully inquired:
“Paulo – ¿usted tiene planes de cazar mientras nosotros subimos el volcán?”
“Are you planning on going hunting while we hike up the volcano?”
He smiled, then explained to the group in broken English “En all mi time as guide, we have no problem. No problem. Da gun, da gun es precaución, no mas. Solo precaucion.”
He didn’t mention what it may be a precaution against.
As we neared the volcano, fat raindrops began to find their way to the windshield of our big yellow coach, and ugly dark clouds loomed above. With no possible recourse, we were stuck simply shrugging at one another, annoyed but generally unconcerned with our lack of preparation.
Upon arriving at the trailhead, we unloaded from the bus into a gentle drizzle. Initially, the fresh wetness was a welcome addition to the hike. Volcanoes are, after all, characteristically steep, and we had a fair distance to trek. We proceeded up the trail, a loose crowd of mostly American missionary groups and young European backpackers, marching through the forest surrounding the mountain. The rain which fell on us was a comfortable, Cape-Kiwanda-in-late-April sort of precipitation. It softly blanketed everything in a cool, soothing way – wetting us slowly and without attracting much attention. Not until we neared the mountain’s top and emerged from the protection of jungle canopy did the weather become a problem. There, we encountered a stiff breeze which transformed the mist from an inert, general thickening of air into an insistent blustery rain. We were quickly and unapologetically soaked. The little crowd of fire-eager gringos jostled towards the edge of the dead lava flow, unsure if we should expect the exciting danger of molten rock to be within reach. Peering down into the pit of jagged broken lava below, we encountered an entirely unremarkable sight. A vast expanse of black extended before us, ending where thick mist obscured everything to an indistinguishable uniform grey. Ready to see the promised fiery pits of hell which we’d come for, and beginning to develop a condition best labeled “misery” thanks to the wind pummeling us with stinging flecks of water, we pushed farther up the trail. The group preceding us had already reached the edge of the lava field, and was now picking their way through the rough boulders. We followed their lead, stumbling across the heaps of pumice and shivering with a mixture of cold and dread for the damp return bus trip to Antigua.
As we progressed through the rocks, I marveled at the tenacious stupidity of the Southern Baptist church wives in front of me. They tripped along the rough terrain, clinging to billowy flowered umbrellas in one hand and Nikon behemoth cameras in the other. The rain which attacked us now was exactly the sort of rain which had convinced me for twenty years that umbrellas are a silly, useless fashion accessory. More along the lines of our same beloved Cape Kiwanda in November, for example. It swirled around in the wind, tiny droplets flying in all directions at once. It renders useless the ignorant umbrella, capable of nothing more than a single-front, vertical battle in the war against water.
We trudged along, silent but for whines from young, tired, wet little brats who bemoaned every step. Undoubtedly they belonged to one of the dozens of missionary groups visiting Guatemala – probably PSP2 addicted suburbanites whose parents were striving to give them a cultural experience, converting them to soldiers in the army of the Lord. I don’t intend to give the impression that I sustain some level of annoyance or disdain for said missionary groups; quite the contrary, actually. I’ve met dozens of people here doing awesome things in the names of their church groups – I just think that no different than when they’re at home, some of them lack common sense abroad.
My favorite exchange occurred between a young teenager and her mother. Complaining loudly and annoyingly about a rock in her shoe, the girl was quite perturbed by the motherly response “Well, you should have worn real socks, instead of those stupid ankle things. Less fashionable, more practical.” I cringed at the familiarity of the line, and didn’t bother suppressing my chuckle a few moments later when the mother complained to a friend “My sandals don’t have any traction!”
Our trek though the lava wasteland seemed to be occurring independent of time’s passing. The heavy fog obscured our vision beyond a few hundred feet. It was a great enough distance to give the impression of a never ending Tolkien-esque expanse of unbroken, serrated black landscape. As Caleb, ever the beloved dork commented “Man, I really feel for Sam and Frodo right now!”
Eventually, hope of ever seeing real lava flows began to wane, and my imagination began to play with alternate explanations for Paulo’s shotgun. Surely these American tourists had padded their seats on the bus ride with pockets full of greenbacks…and no one would ever be stupid enough to hike this distance in order to stumble upon our abandoned bodies…
Finally, slowly, gatherings of people became visible through the thick, wet air. Moving towards them, a gentle heat became detectable – too much so to be attributable to their collective human warmth. As we got closer, excitement became equally palpable. We had arrived at the active zone of the volcano. Gazing across the rocks which spread before us, one could hear a constant sizzle formed by raindrops pelting the hot stone. Steam rose from patches of lava, whisked away quickly by the swirling wind.
We approach “the hot zone,” excitement mingling with apprehension in our minds. Certainly unlike any US style national part, Pacaya’s deadly lava flows were far from fenced in. There were no safety railings, no warning signs, no uniformed walkie-talkie toting troopers ensuring our survival. Anyone with grandiose ideas about suicide would have been free and welcome to run right up and jump into the oozing molten rock. Unevenly distributed heat resulted in pockets of activity, where the strange liquid-solid lugubriously wandered towards us. The mass of people all wanting the best view possible, and luxuriating in the radiant heat, resulted in a somewhat precarious setup. Young and old jostled around one another, hopping from rock to rock, perching above piles of steaming glowing stones which would surely prove deadly with a slip or misstep. Those unfortunate enough to pick a spot which was hotter than they’d predicted were left hopping from foot to foot, scanning the crowd for rock patches which wouldn’t continue melting the soles of their shoes.
Several young men, unable to resist the primordial urge to poke at lava with a stick, did exactly that. They found themselves jumping back in defense with the volcano responded by unexpectedly quickening the pace for its oozing, menacing guts.
We’d brought along a sack of Guatemalan marshmallows, distinctive from our snowy American version thanks to copious amounts of creative food coloring decoration. I found a coat hanger wrapped around a pole, evidently left by a like-minded individual. We enjoyed the photo op provided by roasting ‘mallows with the volcano’s prehistoric heat. Then, sensing the potential for cross-application of the principle, we roasted ourselves. My jeans, which had been sopping wet, to the point that I’d needed to tighten my belt in order to keep their heavy drooping mass cinched to my body, were not immune to the heat. Without noticing, I’d already begun the process of drying out. The rain had slowed back to a slow drizzle, and then stopped, unmissed as we marveled over the impressive natural radiance in front of us. I stepped away from the more exciting moving, flaming flows and found a nice chunk of hot rock to warm myself on, amused at my reptilian behavior. The warmth came from the stones below me, and was dispersed by the wind before reaching all the way up my body. As a result, my heavy jeans were dried while my t-shirt remained sopping wet.
Unwilling to withstand a soggy trip back to Antigua, it didn’t take a volcanologist to recognize the potential for progress here. It did, however, require a modicum of immodesty. Thankfully, I’ve got that, so I whipped off my shirt, rung it out heartily, and hung it over the rocks in front of me. Although they were way too hot to stand on, a borrowed walking stick provided the necessary tool to get the job done. As I stood drying my clothes, I was passed by a host of other tourists similarly miserably wet. An older British woman was the only one who seemed to recognize the logic in my plan, and instead of scoffing like the rest of the offended missionaries, she joined right in. We stood there, topless and proud of our creative problem solving skills, while everyone else uncomfortably averted their gazes. Whatever, squares.
Our guide began to get antsy, and was ready to hit the trail. He gathered our group with an insistent tooting of his whistle, and began shepherding us towards the makeshift path back across the lava field.
What happened next can only be described as shocking. We had barely begun our long trek back across the rocky wasteland when a thunderous roar and crackle of falling rocks came from behind us. A large cliff rose above the lava flow which we’d been watching, literally moments before, towering up into the mist and in indeterminable height and stability. Right after we’d stepped away and begun down the trail, it had let loose a giant slide of boulders and general volcanic debris. We stood, agape, as man-sized chunks of rock barreled down the cliff and smashed into the platform upon which I’d been toasting my clothes. A lone straggler from our group hopped and sprinted from the area, narrowly escaping an unpleasant death of combined crushing and incineration. It was, really and truly, one of those moments which remind a person of God’s existence. There had been no warning that it would occur, our guide was just getting hungry and wanted to go down to lunch. Had we fiddle-faddled with picture taking and lava-poking for less than five minutes longer, there would have surely been multiple deaths. You couldn’t help but think “Thanks, Big Guy.” Or, as Caleb put it “Blog about THAT!”
We turned around, a bit shaken, and continued on down the hill. Unbelievably, the rain which had tormented our trip up the mountain appeared to have worn itself out with the effort. It was now nowhere to be seen. Undisturbed by inclement weather, and comfortably dry, the hike back down and subsequent bus ride were perfectly pleasant.
I would consider that story to be the most interesting of our adventures together. We stayed in Antigua a few more days, meeting up with Caleb’s missionary aunt Jacquie on a particularly rainy day, and trying to find ways to entertain ourselves while also staying dry. Mostly we relaxed, eventually taking a confusing chicken-bus route to Panajachel for the last several days of our trip. We rode a boat trip across the lake to Santiago Atitlan, home of the beautifully embroidered cowboy pirate, and tried to sneak candid shots of their silly clothes. We found a bratty vagrant street kid who showed us to the temple of Maximon for the hefty sum of 1 Quetzal per person (nearly 15 cents). I made him promise he’d go to school next week before paying, although I sincerely doubt he had any intention of following through.
Maximon, the idol to which our urchin guided us, is a local syncretism deity who personifies characteristics of both Mayan gods and Catholic saints. He lives in an interesting, rotating temple of incense, candles, elaborate kitschy decorations and passionately supplicating followers who offer him harsh homebrew rum, smokes and cash. All of this while plunky marimba music buzzes out of a boom box with a broken speaker. It’s the sort of thing you’d expect to find in Butte.
Celia performed a little ceremony for him while I swung the incense dish enthusiastically, and then we stumbled out of the dark, somewhat demonic feeling lair back into Santiago’s dirty streets.
Panajachel proved to be just as laid-back this time as it had been the last, full of tasty cheap restaurants, interesting-the-first-time-around artisan shops and great multilingual bookstores. We spent a few days exploring before it was time to part ways, with the original threesome going to Chimaltenango for one last evening with Jacquie and me returning to Santo Tomas. Somewhat to my surprise, it felt like home when I got back.
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