Wed. 1/28: We meet up at Pop-Wuj around 8am, six of us students plus two older volunteers who did this project last year, as well as Lara, the group leader who, coincidentally, happened to grow up outside of Roseburg. We´re going to a local indigenous village named Pacajcoj (even my instructor had a hard time pronouncing it) to deliver materials for safer, more efficient ovens than the open-air stoves they´ve been using. As my instructor broke it down for me, their current stoves are part of a chain of serious health problems the indigenous communities suffer including lung damage, eye damage, infant burns, death due to houses burning down, as well as local deforestation. The new, closed stoves, on the other hand, release smoke outside through a chimney and only require half the wood to heat the food.
We take a chicken bus on the way out of Xela. It takes two people (always young men) to operate the busses: one to drive; the other to collect fares, guide the driver around tough corners, and to jump on top of the bus for passengers´ luggage. At different stops along the way, vendors come aboard, two, three or four at a time touting their goods whether they be fruit, ice cream, cheap jewelry or other trinkets. They ride with us until satisfied they´ve exploited every potential customer, then get off at the next stop to jump abourd another bus going back the way we came.
Normally, we would actually be building the stoves, but today we´re only gathering and hauling the materials. We pick up the bricks, concrete blocks and cement in the of Momas, more populated and developed than Pacajcoj. On the short ride to Pocajcoj we all ride in the bag of a hauling truck, sitting on top of the materials. During the ride, EVERY local person we pass stares at all the gringos riding precariously in the back of this rickety, packed truck. Most just stare with bewildered faces, but many, especially the kids, laugh heartily. And they don´t stop staring until we´re completely out of sight.
The work is exhausting. We´re in the sun carrying thirty or forty pounds about 100 yards, over and over. After the third house, we brake for the meal a local family has made us - soup with noodles and vegetable and a chunk of either chicken or beef. I give my chunk of beef to my neighbor. Also, they make us a strawberry juice-drink that´s so good.
We do a load for one last house and call it good. We´re not taking the trunk back, but instead take a trail through the forrested hills. Despite the fast food wrappers and other plastic detritus, the scenery is beautiful. Village huts strewn about a hillside forrest that makes think of Oregon. After a half mile we make it to the main road where we wait for the bus.
Patricia, a fellow gringo/student/volunteer has to use the bathroom, so she heads a hundred-or-so yards up the road to what looks like a church. The rest of us wait where we are and, after a few minutes, hear what we think is a local girl laughing hysterically. But the laughing goes on and on and one of asks "is that screaming?" We get unnerved and start wandering towards the ambiguous laughing when Patricia stumbles from the side of the road, half crying/screaming and limping. We run to her side and she says a dog bit her in the leg.
"THERE IT IS!" she cries.
On the other side of the road is a vicious looking mutt, snarling and barking. I bring my foot back ready to kick the shit out of the son of a bitch (´cause he is), but he doesn´t move any closer and eventually wanders off.
Patricia calms down impressively and lets the older, female volunteer look at her wound behind a wall. The older woman says the dog just barely broke the skin and that there´s going to be a nasty bruise. In any case, Patricia´s gonna need rabies shots.
And then the bus arrives.
The kicker for me is that, at lunch, Patricia didn´t eat her meat either because she´s also a VEGETARIAN. What kind of fuck up dog...?
The next morning, I show up at Pop-Wuj and the secretary who only speaks Spanish asks me to take a call for her. It´s Patricia´s mom trying to get information. After I tell her the details and that, no, it´s not possible to find the dog and put it down she tells me Patricia had to be flown to Miami to get the proper shots. The upside, if you can look at it that way, is that she was going to leave for home on Saturday anyway.
sábado, 31 de enero de 2009
jueves, 29 de enero de 2009
My Host Family
My first day at Pop-Wuj, I´m met by the mother of my host family whose... name... I... just can´t friggin´ remember, godammit! And I don´t have the nerve to ask her again. She´s short, plump and has a slightly manic but pleasant manner.
She leads me to her house less than ten minutes from the school where I meet her husband... whose name I also forget. Though he is friendly enough, his demeanor is much less outgoing than his wife´s and he makes no real attempt to be social with me. There are also two sons, Cesar who is roughly 16 and watches Simpsons in his closet-sized room before bed, and the other is a young man I´ve only met once in passing. When I asked her who else lives in the house, the mother said she lived with her husband and two sons, but the older son is never there. From discussion I´ve vaguely overheard, I think I´m using his (tiny, bare) room and he´s been staying in a hotel. I could be wrong.
The house itself is, to say the least, modest. The family is middle-class, but middle-class in Guatemala is the equivalent of a struggling working-class family in the States. There is a decent-sized main room that functions as both living room and office/study room. The laundry is done by hand in the kitchen. Cesar´s closet-sized room I think is technically a closet. My Spanish instructor tells my that many workers in Xela only make 1 American dollar a day, so I realize how signigicant it is that 70$ of the cost of my classes goes to my host family.
The meals are modest but sufficient - eggs, beans and tortillas or a soup with one chunk of chicken at the bottom - and after sleeping in close proximity with four other stinky backpackers on a thin mattress, it´s a great relief to have my own room and soft bed. I only wish I was able to overcome the language barrier and actually get to know these people, but it´s so difficult.
She leads me to her house less than ten minutes from the school where I meet her husband... whose name I also forget. Though he is friendly enough, his demeanor is much less outgoing than his wife´s and he makes no real attempt to be social with me. There are also two sons, Cesar who is roughly 16 and watches Simpsons in his closet-sized room before bed, and the other is a young man I´ve only met once in passing. When I asked her who else lives in the house, the mother said she lived with her husband and two sons, but the older son is never there. From discussion I´ve vaguely overheard, I think I´m using his (tiny, bare) room and he´s been staying in a hotel. I could be wrong.
The house itself is, to say the least, modest. The family is middle-class, but middle-class in Guatemala is the equivalent of a struggling working-class family in the States. There is a decent-sized main room that functions as both living room and office/study room. The laundry is done by hand in the kitchen. Cesar´s closet-sized room I think is technically a closet. My Spanish instructor tells my that many workers in Xela only make 1 American dollar a day, so I realize how signigicant it is that 70$ of the cost of my classes goes to my host family.
The meals are modest but sufficient - eggs, beans and tortillas or a soup with one chunk of chicken at the bottom - and after sleeping in close proximity with four other stinky backpackers on a thin mattress, it´s a great relief to have my own room and soft bed. I only wish I was able to overcome the language barrier and actually get to know these people, but it´s so difficult.
Pop-Wuj
I´ve lucked out again with my Spanish instructor at Pop-Wuj, one of several Spanish schools here that also incorporate volunteer/sociol work into their programs. She is a 38-year-old local woman with three boys and a husband. She is friendly and energetic and, despite how fast she talks, easy to follow. Like Antonio, she´s very concerned with the social/political/economic situation here in Guatemala about which we talk a lot. Somehow the topic of my sister comes up (she manages both her husband from whom she´s separated AND her boyfriend, and they all get along) and my instructor exclaims something along the line of "¡Hooray para feministas!" She tells me that if that situation were to occurr in Guatemala (it wouldn´t) my sister would most likely be killed.
Pop-Wuj in general has a pretty progressive agenda, though not overtly political. They specialize in language courses specifically for medical and social workers. Poster of Che Guevara and bumber stickers proclaim "War is not the answer" and "Give Peace a Chance" are pasted on the wall. I`m proud to be here, but get slightly envious when I here there´s another school here run by a former political radical with a bit more of a political agenda. Oh, well.
By the way, my first night at Pop-Wuj we watched a Spanish movie called Mar Adentro, or The Sea Inside. SO GOOD. Sad, but in a positive sort of way. I highly recommend it.
Pop-Wuj in general has a pretty progressive agenda, though not overtly political. They specialize in language courses specifically for medical and social workers. Poster of Che Guevara and bumber stickers proclaim "War is not the answer" and "Give Peace a Chance" are pasted on the wall. I`m proud to be here, but get slightly envious when I here there´s another school here run by a former political radical with a bit more of a political agenda. Oh, well.
By the way, my first night at Pop-Wuj we watched a Spanish movie called Mar Adentro, or The Sea Inside. SO GOOD. Sad, but in a positive sort of way. I highly recommend it.
martes, 27 de enero de 2009
Xela
Xela has given me more perspective on Antigua and Guatemala in general. Antigua was a small twon that functioned almost exclusively for the benefit (or more accurately, to benefit from) the turists that swarm there. It´s like every local there is a salesperson or beggar trying to get the gringos money.
Xela, however, is a city largerly independent from the influence of the turists. In Antigua, the locals attention was fixed on the gringos, but here they glance at us with little regard.
Geographically, it´s very different as well. Antigua was flat, laid out on a simple grid. Xela evokes Portland, hilly with major boulevards crossing the smaller streets at angles, like Sandy or Foster.
Xela, however, is a city largerly independent from the influence of the turists. In Antigua, the locals attention was fixed on the gringos, but here they glance at us with little regard.
Geographically, it´s very different as well. Antigua was flat, laid out on a simple grid. Xela evokes Portland, hilly with major boulevards crossing the smaller streets at angles, like Sandy or Foster.
The ride to Xela
Leaving Antigua, my shuttle has two other passengers: a quiet German girl also heading to Xela, and a (young?) local man heading to Panajachel, the most populated town near Lago Atitlan.
His name is Gioranni. At first, I think he´s about my age. A pony tail hangs under his baseball cap and his beard is neatly trimmed. He wears a t-shirt and knee-holed jeans and carrys a guitar. His energy is boisterous and youthful. He jokes around with the driver who soon recognizes Gioranni as a member of a band he drove around on tour. Gioranni laughs at the realization. In good English, Gioranni tells me the story of his bands good-natured harrassment of the driver. The driver demanded that they not spoke pot in the van, but when they said the alternative would be to stop every 15 minutes for their habit, the driver acquiesced.
Gioranni and I talk music. He gets excited when I mention I´m from Portland (one of his favorite bands is Modest Mouse) and I suggest a few local bands for him to search.
Eventually, he takes of his hat. The top of his head is completely bald. "I moved to Pana from Guatemala City 20 years ago," he tells me, "after I saw how beautiful and laid-back it is." So that must put him in his late thirties in solar years. But his energy is so much younger than that.
Dropping him of in Panajachel, he gives me his number and tells me to call him if I come back through Pana. I plan to do both.
His name is Gioranni. At first, I think he´s about my age. A pony tail hangs under his baseball cap and his beard is neatly trimmed. He wears a t-shirt and knee-holed jeans and carrys a guitar. His energy is boisterous and youthful. He jokes around with the driver who soon recognizes Gioranni as a member of a band he drove around on tour. Gioranni laughs at the realization. In good English, Gioranni tells me the story of his bands good-natured harrassment of the driver. The driver demanded that they not spoke pot in the van, but when they said the alternative would be to stop every 15 minutes for their habit, the driver acquiesced.
Gioranni and I talk music. He gets excited when I mention I´m from Portland (one of his favorite bands is Modest Mouse) and I suggest a few local bands for him to search.
Eventually, he takes of his hat. The top of his head is completely bald. "I moved to Pana from Guatemala City 20 years ago," he tells me, "after I saw how beautiful and laid-back it is." So that must put him in his late thirties in solar years. But his energy is so much younger than that.
Dropping him of in Panajachel, he gives me his number and tells me to call him if I come back through Pana. I plan to do both.
A short conversation with and Israeli
My last night in Antigua, I shared my room with three Israelis, one guy and two girls. I had a short conversation with one of the girls - QUITE cute - about military service in Israel. I asked if many people requested conscientious objector status. She said for a person to avoid military service, unless for medical reason or if their deeply religious, it is considered taboo to avoid service, a sign of disloyalty or simple laziness.
My thought on this are mixed. I think much of American culture sacrifices communal solidarity for misapplied, materialistic individualism, and for that, I´m envious of Israelis. But the fact that this soloidarity is manifested in throught thier military is disconcerting. It seems like there could be more constructive ways of demonstrating solidarity than the willingness to die and kill for your country.
On a couple different occasions with different Israelis, when the topic of Gaza comes up they shrug it off, reluctant to indulge the topic. They´ve done their time in the military, they say. They don´t want to think about it anymore.
My thought on this are mixed. I think much of American culture sacrifices communal solidarity for misapplied, materialistic individualism, and for that, I´m envious of Israelis. But the fact that this soloidarity is manifested in throught thier military is disconcerting. It seems like there could be more constructive ways of demonstrating solidarity than the willingness to die and kill for your country.
On a couple different occasions with different Israelis, when the topic of Gaza comes up they shrug it off, reluctant to indulge the topic. They´ve done their time in the military, they say. They don´t want to think about it anymore.
Leaving Antigua Redux
I don´t like my last post. I really only wrote it because I haven´t been keeping up with this, and it was rushed because I was using a communal computer in a hostel. I´d rather write well than punctual. I should have just coppied from my written journal like I´ll do here:
Fri. 1/23: It´s my last day in Antigua and I´m excited. It feels like the end of the first phase of my trip. My first ending here. My first triumph?
Black Cat has been an interesting experience. I´ve had the chance to meet a cast of fellow, international wanderers, a couple of whom have become something of friends, such as Marie, a French-Canadian. But it´s a rotating cast of characters here with little consistencey of mood and atmosphere. At times, the behavior of my fell gringos (most of whom are Australian, Israeli, German, and a few N. Americans) is embarrasing with thier loud, boisterous partying in stark contrast to the conservative, traditional, local culture. But there is also much camaraderie, mutual adventurous spirits. Fellow fishes out of water. Fellow fish out of water.
And then there´s the locals. I wish I had a stronger impression of them. But what can I expect with such language and cultural barriers.
Fri. 1/23: It´s my last day in Antigua and I´m excited. It feels like the end of the first phase of my trip. My first ending here. My first triumph?
Black Cat has been an interesting experience. I´ve had the chance to meet a cast of fellow, international wanderers, a couple of whom have become something of friends, such as Marie, a French-Canadian. But it´s a rotating cast of characters here with little consistencey of mood and atmosphere. At times, the behavior of my fell gringos (most of whom are Australian, Israeli, German, and a few N. Americans) is embarrasing with thier loud, boisterous partying in stark contrast to the conservative, traditional, local culture. But there is also much camaraderie, mutual adventurous spirits. Fellow fishes out of water. Fellow fish out of water.
And then there´s the locals. I wish I had a stronger impression of them. But what can I expect with such language and cultural barriers.
domingo, 25 de enero de 2009
Leaving Antigua
Ending my stay in Antigua was momentous for me. The first few days I had been so tense. For the first three or four mornings, I would wake up with a tension in my gut, my anxiety creeping in the face of an alien environment. But soon enough I settled into the adventuring mood and went with it. Leaving Antigua was a subtley triumphant and liberating feeling. It was the first chapter of my trip, and I left feeling satisfied with the time I spent there, despite my lack of excitement for the town itself.
Two things stand out for me from my stay in Antigua. One is Antonio who I've already written about at some length, and look forward to seeing again on my way back to Guatemala City before I leave. The other is the Black Cat hostel. The description I've given of it so far was short in shallow. In truth, I'm grateful for the opportunity it gave me to interact with so many other young, international travelers. Of the gringos staying at the Black Cat, few were American. By far, most of them came from Israel and Australia, as well as a few from Canada, Germany and France. Apparently, it's common for young Israelis to travel for several months, or even a couple years, after their requisite time in the military.
The backpackers in Antigua, and throughout he country in general, share a common spirit of "we're all in this together." They're quick to start conversations with the closest fellow traveler, sharing travel stories and tips. It's new for me to be thrown in special circumstances like this where the openess to new friendships is so heightened. I spent a few days with a French-Canadian girl named Marie with whom I traipsed around town, and for whom I made a lame attempt to console after she sprained a few days before she was going to sky dive (fortunately, i later recieved word she was well enough to jump).
Two things stand out for me from my stay in Antigua. One is Antonio who I've already written about at some length, and look forward to seeing again on my way back to Guatemala City before I leave. The other is the Black Cat hostel. The description I've given of it so far was short in shallow. In truth, I'm grateful for the opportunity it gave me to interact with so many other young, international travelers. Of the gringos staying at the Black Cat, few were American. By far, most of them came from Israel and Australia, as well as a few from Canada, Germany and France. Apparently, it's common for young Israelis to travel for several months, or even a couple years, after their requisite time in the military.
The backpackers in Antigua, and throughout he country in general, share a common spirit of "we're all in this together." They're quick to start conversations with the closest fellow traveler, sharing travel stories and tips. It's new for me to be thrown in special circumstances like this where the openess to new friendships is so heightened. I spent a few days with a French-Canadian girl named Marie with whom I traipsed around town, and for whom I made a lame attempt to console after she sprained a few days before she was going to sky dive (fortunately, i later recieved word she was well enough to jump).
jueves, 22 de enero de 2009
Antonio
I´m taken aback at just how progressive my Spanish instructors beliefs are, which, I assume, are pretty unconventional in Guatemala. This is an old fashioned, socially conservative country, for sure. You´re Christian and you go to church. You´re generally married with kids no later than your late 20s. If you´re a man, you control the household and society at large. If you´re a woman, well, you´re SOL. Antonio, however, doesn´t buy into any of this. He´s church-going, but he does it out of respect for his family and heritage, as well as the solidarity it creates in the community. He thinks Bush was disgusting, and has tempered hope for Obama, especially as far a immigration is concerned. He beleives children and, especially, woman need to be treated with more respect, equally, in his culture; that his government should spend more on education and healthcare. He´s visited Cuba and is a fan.
And yet... We meet at a table in the back corner of an open-air cafe everyday, me as student, him as instructor. I sit facing a back hallway, away from the cafe so I¨m not distracted. He faces the the opening of doorway, the entire cafe in view. This is so he can get a good look at all the chicas that come in. For all his unconventional progressiveness, he is as easily distracted by a pretty girl as anyone I´ve ever met. And I can´t help but chuckle and be completely charmed by him.
And yet... We meet at a table in the back corner of an open-air cafe everyday, me as student, him as instructor. I sit facing a back hallway, away from the cafe so I¨m not distracted. He faces the the opening of doorway, the entire cafe in view. This is so he can get a good look at all the chicas that come in. For all his unconventional progressiveness, he is as easily distracted by a pretty girl as anyone I´ve ever met. And I can´t help but chuckle and be completely charmed by him.
domingo, 18 de enero de 2009
The Hike up the Volcano Pacaya
Jan. 17: First, the bus I was originally going to take was full. Then the next bus was almost an hour late. Whatever, I´m patient. An older French couple, an even older British couple, a young American couple, and a thrirty-something S. African woman and I pack into the bus and leave. Little kids holding bundles of walking sticks greet us at the trail head to the top of the volcano. None of us buy one. Our mistake. The trail is initially pleasant, though steep, with pleasant views of Guatemala City and the volcanos Fuego and Agua far off. The topography of the mountain reminds me of parts of northern California wine country. After a couple miles we appear to depart from the main trail and clomp through denser forest. With our late departure in mind, I ask our guide, a youngish local, if the setting sun will be an issue for our descent. He smiles sheepishly and puts a finger to his lips. He was hoping no one would ask that.
"You have light?" he asks.
No, I sure don´t. The sheepish smile returns
With the sun touching the horizon, the trees finally open up to the base of the cone. It´s Mount fucking Doom. It´s all loose, black rock with some vague, very vage, suggestion of a trail. A vast majority of the people descending "trail" have sticks and utilize them liberally. Micro-landslides displace us and the sky darkens. It´s all so moody. As a group, we only as fast as the slowest person, and the British guy is struggling to the point that I´m both worried for him and annoyed at him. I want to reach the top it´s too dark to photograph the view. Alas, we´re too late and, even worse, the lava I wanted to photograph is all hardened.
Already exhausted with hands shredded from the volcanic rock, we descend. The older couples are audibly worried and frustrated, but I´m actually kind of excited for the trek back. Returning to the tree line, it begins to feel like we´re refugees escaping our repressive country through a secret mountain pass. Then I remember I´m in Guatemala and realize the locals might not share my naive appreciation for danger. And there´s also the fact we´re the last turist group to be leaving the park and there´s banditos to consider. The French couple get separated and lost for a short while, but we´re reunited and geet out safe and sound.
Back at The Black Cat, I eat a quick dinner, shower, then pass out.
"You have light?" he asks.
No, I sure don´t. The sheepish smile returns
With the sun touching the horizon, the trees finally open up to the base of the cone. It´s Mount fucking Doom. It´s all loose, black rock with some vague, very vage, suggestion of a trail. A vast majority of the people descending "trail" have sticks and utilize them liberally. Micro-landslides displace us and the sky darkens. It´s all so moody. As a group, we only as fast as the slowest person, and the British guy is struggling to the point that I´m both worried for him and annoyed at him. I want to reach the top it´s too dark to photograph the view. Alas, we´re too late and, even worse, the lava I wanted to photograph is all hardened.
Already exhausted with hands shredded from the volcanic rock, we descend. The older couples are audibly worried and frustrated, but I´m actually kind of excited for the trek back. Returning to the tree line, it begins to feel like we´re refugees escaping our repressive country through a secret mountain pass. Then I remember I´m in Guatemala and realize the locals might not share my naive appreciation for danger. And there´s also the fact we´re the last turist group to be leaving the park and there´s banditos to consider. The French couple get separated and lost for a short while, but we´re reunited and geet out safe and sound.
Back at The Black Cat, I eat a quick dinner, shower, then pass out.
Settling in Antigua
Jan. 16: After successfully getting Quetzals, the local currency, from a cooperative ATM, I have breakfast in a quiet cafe with a view of the central park. Afterward, in the park, I scan my Lonely Planet for something to do in the city before I leave the next day. While reading, a cordial, local man asks me the time. We get to talking and I eventually reveal I´ll be studying Spanish in Quetzeltenango. He asks me why there since there are so many great castellano programs in Antigua?. Turns out, he´s a Spanish intstructor and does a great job of sweet talking me into staying here for a week and studying under his tutelage. He´s Antonio, a middle aged bachelor and native of Antigua.
That night, I hang out in The Black Cat bar with some other guests including a bunkmate, Amanda, a very sweet and friendly young mom from Kansas city. It´s a fun athmosphere but turning into more and more of party scene, which is not why I´m here, so I head to bed.
That night, I hang out in The Black Cat bar with some other guests including a bunkmate, Amanda, a very sweet and friendly young mom from Kansas city. It´s a fun athmosphere but turning into more and more of party scene, which is not why I´m here, so I head to bed.
Arrival
First of all, I should have started this thing BEFORE I left the states so I wouldn´t have had to struggle with setting it up in Spannish (or `Castellano´ as it´s call here. Why didn´t I know that?).
Jan. 15: On arrival, Guatemala City is warm and muggy, but pleasant, like Oregon in late spring. My shuttle ride to Antigua costs twice as much as it should because the driver says he needs at least two passengers to cover the trip, but no one else is heading to Antigua. I´m already in the van and I´m a sucker so I say "Esta bien." The rolling, green hills on the way out of the city make for a beautiful view, despite the decrepit houses and trash on the side of the road.
Pulling into Antigua, the narrow roads turn to cobblestone and there are no traffic lights. The small city is surrounded by the same rolling hills, as well as three great volcanos in the distance. My hostel, The Black Cat, caters to a young, international hippy/hip crowd... if they were hip in the late 90s. Bands like Incubus and early Radiohead are played constantly in the cramped bar that serves as the entry for The Black Cat. My dorm has bunk beds for 5 guests. I get the top bunk. My debit card doesn´t work in the two closest ATMs and I´m exhausted from only getting 2 hours sleep on my flight, so I get to bed early, reading myself to sleep.
Jan. 15: On arrival, Guatemala City is warm and muggy, but pleasant, like Oregon in late spring. My shuttle ride to Antigua costs twice as much as it should because the driver says he needs at least two passengers to cover the trip, but no one else is heading to Antigua. I´m already in the van and I´m a sucker so I say "Esta bien." The rolling, green hills on the way out of the city make for a beautiful view, despite the decrepit houses and trash on the side of the road.
Pulling into Antigua, the narrow roads turn to cobblestone and there are no traffic lights. The small city is surrounded by the same rolling hills, as well as three great volcanos in the distance. My hostel, The Black Cat, caters to a young, international hippy/hip crowd... if they were hip in the late 90s. Bands like Incubus and early Radiohead are played constantly in the cramped bar that serves as the entry for The Black Cat. My dorm has bunk beds for 5 guests. I get the top bunk. My debit card doesn´t work in the two closest ATMs and I´m exhausted from only getting 2 hours sleep on my flight, so I get to bed early, reading myself to sleep.
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