Day FIVE - Livingston

DAY FIVE - SUNDAY morning I wake about 5:30 but it is still dark. I can’t imagine any ceremonial boat landings are taking place at this hour. When it gets a little lighter I go out, and literally run into a parade of people hooting and hollering and dancing in the streets. I pick up the rhythm as I walk toward them, but then step aside to let them pass. Some rather drunk, rowdy woman grabs me and whirls me into the crowd and off we go dancing down the street, arm in arm. Eventually I disengage from the dizzying energy but another woman grabs me and propels me onward. We are on the way to the cemetery. One woman is carrying a large wreath. Others are carrying bottles of beer. We dance and hop and whirl and drum our ways up into the cemetery, and the drumming stops. People walk quietly. I start to ask a question of a nearby man in Spanish; he says, “You can speak English to me,” and I do, gratefully. He is a Garif, visiting from nearby English-speaking Belize. He says that people will place the wreath on one of the graves. The group passes the huge tree, familiar from my last trip, and convenes at one particular bier. I don’t learn the significance of this one. The woman places the wreath on the grave, the drumming starts again, and a woman “falls out” and starts keening and wailing, her body on the bier. Another woman begins crying loudly outside the circle around the grave. They are both supported by young men, presumably in their family. Other women hug them, several other people are tearful. I don’t know what’s going on, exactly, but I’ve seen this behavior at black churches in Oakland and among my first mother-in-law’s friends. It seems sometimes to be ploys for attention, but sometimes just overwhelming emotion, fully expressed. The trumpet player begins a dirge and I notice how he plays this group of people back into a more contained state of mind. How music hath charms…. Finally, the man I spoke to earlier gestures to me, “I’m going down to watch the landing,” and I follow him. Part way he excuses himself and stops off to talk to some women sitting along the road so I continue alone. I start to go toward the beach near my favorite restaurant, but someone says the landing will be on a different part of the beach. I go there and join five or six other people. We all express doubt about what exactly is supposed to happen and when, but we wait. I decide it’s just a beautiful morning to look at the water and it doesn’t really matter what else happens. We wait. Some people come; some get tired of it and leave. It is quiet and the calm bay stretched out in front of us mirrors the clear sky. I watch some fishermen in a small motorboat throw net out of the boat into the water in a long line. Since they don’t come back and open the circle of net, I can’t imagine how fish are going to get in, or, if this net DID fill, how they would get the weight of it back into the boat. But in 20 mins. or so they come back and throw it all back into the boat. I strain to see fish caught in the net, but cannot. Another mystery. Eventually some people with big stalks of coconut leaves come, and some man in a disheveled costume made of banana leaves, and then some drummers. They begin drumming and some of the assembled older women and then men begin dancing. I love this rhythm, and step off down the street with them, alternating between thinking I am NOT part of this group, thus moving over to the side, then feeling that I love the music and I have a right to step right along with them. I end up taking a place where I can hear the drums well, but am not in the center of the costumed dancers. We join the main street and move into the center of town. I catch a glimpse of the Argentinian taking photos. For some reason I didn’t bring my camera; what a shame. Lots of drumming, lots of dancing; different groups of drummers/dancers moving from one end of the street to the other, passing each other in the middle. Finally there is a candlelight ceremony in the center of the street, words by two of the men I’ve seen over and over in these events this week. A woman is carrying a large photo of what appears to be a gringo man, decked with leaves. I have no idea who he is, but he is treated with some reverence. I finally leave this scene and walk down the street in the direction of my hotel, stopped by a large group of people standing around listening to the music coming out of one funky restaurant. In front of it there are a few big women dancing, probably drunk, but not caring and just having a great time. A wizened old man starts to dance with one of them, pantomiming courtship, playing with it humorously. I love this so much; I’m tempted to join in but keep it to a little wiggling on the sidelines. On the way back to the hotel I see that many people are standing in the doorways to the Catholic Church; apparently the Garifuna mass (misa) is still going on; I was afraid I’d missed it when I attended the non-boat-landing (which I later learn it did take place at 5:30 a.m.) I stand in the side door and watch as a long line of swaying women and a few men approach the altar, carrying fruit, eggs, and even salt & pepper shakers. The drums are beating, everyone is singing the same lines over and over (eventually I can join in.) As the people reach the slightly-swaying Hispanic priest at the altar, he blesses each item and hands it to his assistant. Then he begins the mass, (“hermanos y hermanas”,) which is punctuated at junctures by singing and drumming. The leader of the singing is a young man I met with the Garifuna group in Antigua; he is light-skinned and has cataracts making one eye milky blue. His singing in this context – hands raised in the air - is very beautiful, as is the solemnity yet joyfulness of this ceremony. I remain for an hour or less, swaying and singing, then politely leave when there is a shift in the mass. This “event” is very moving for me; I would like to live where this happens every Sunday. Even though I have many negative thoughts about the Catholic church in Central America, I am always touched by the deep devotion of the people in this country to their religion, especially poor people. I have the feeling that here I might be as close to Africa as I’m going to get (my original dream) but in the jungle rather than the majestic plain. For some reason the dirty streets as well as the hum of activity and the sounds of the Garif language make me think of videos I’ve seen of various small cities in Africa…….and are really appealing to me. After my response to the more conventional beauty of Antigua, this seems a little strange, but I definitely feel it. I amble back to my room and take a nap for an hour or less (because there is supposed to be a big dance to culminate the weekend, tonite, and I could use some rest,) then leave again, and wander through town. I am drawn by music up on the hill where the Garif center is, and follow the straggling crowd up in that direction. There is this huge in-process edifice up there – the future cultural center – an octagonal concrete block structure maybe 30 feet around with huge tree trunks for roof beams, held together with specially-made metal braces. A dream of the future. Under tent awnings, there are 100 or more people dancing….another 200 sit under smaller tent structures, eating and drinking, or standing around on the grass watching the dancers. I join the latter. There is one other white person in the crowd, a woman a little younger than me, her hair neatly braided; we catch each other’s eye with a pleasant look. The dancing is wonderful and amazing. Punta involves intense gyrations of the hips and “fanny,” while making fast small steps in time to the 8th-note-beat and keeping the rest of the body fairly still – except for sudden punctuations of the rhythm with quick movements of the whole body – especially by the men. I LOVE it. There is something so contained and yet intense about it. And the old women in this crowd are the ones who are best at it. (I love that, too!) They are mostly large women, with plenty to shake around, and they do. They pantomime sexy behavior with the old men; they are all laughing uproariously. And they are GOOD. There is also a tiny girl, maybe four; and her grandmother watches her with amazement as she does all the moves, too. A woman of maybe 80, thin and arthritic, does the littlest moves with the whole containment and humorously-mocking facial expressions going……….she also gets some encouraging whoops and hollers. I love this on several different levels. With this and the church event this morning – I can hardly contain myself with happiness. I don’t ever get into full-out dancing, but am shaking myself a bit on the edge of the group. 

Then the energy changes, the DJ quits and some Hispanic announcer on a nearby stage encourages everyone to watch a bunch of young girls in sporty/sexy outfits shake their behinds around in more typical MTV-type dancing. They can do it, but it’s interesting to see what a different energy this is. Then they start encouraging people to come up and make fools of themselves for give-away t-shirts. Some of this is playful and fun – the sort of thing I’ve seen twice at festivals around Antigua – but in general I think it sucks; more commercial, more sexy in a dumb way, and nowhere NEAR the dance expertise, even though they are good in an exercise-video sort of way. And of course the announcer just gets off on hearing himself talk. At any rate my interest drops to zer0 and I make my way back down the hill, determined to check back later. 

Both my roommates are in the room, ready to take a nap, as am I. Since the second girl has come, Elena has not said two words to me, and seems irritated when I speak to her. Someone else commented on that about her, so I don’t take it personally, tho it is a little odd to be around. Her friend is friendly enough, though I make a mistake with her that I often do with people; criticizing something when I barely know them. She joined a group of drummers here at the hotel with her guitar (first asking permission.) They agreed but she is just a beginner, AND her guitar is out of tune. After a few minutes the drummers excuse themselves and leave her. When she comes in our room, I eschew saying something about her inappropriateness, but suggest perhaps bluntly that the guitar needs tuning. Between us we get it in good order, but still I’ve done it again, as I did to the restaurant owner when – trying to be helpful – I suggest that her hand-lettered sign out front needed work in order to be more attractive to customers (you could barely read it.) When she says defensively that she gets people here all the time, I realize I had done it again. But a day later she suggested that if I were to come here to live she would pay me to do some menus or signs or something on my computer. Still I need to recognize this proclivity to critique BEFORE I do it rather than after. 

My last evening. I want a bowl of Tapado and decide to invite my two erstwhile friends, the Argentinian and the Swiss jewelery-maker, to have dinner with me at my friend’s restaurant, thus killing several birds with one stone (what a dreadful analogy!) On the way I run into Prince. He is in his low mood (his girlfriend was here yesterday and dissed him one more time, even handing off some of his clothing to another guy) and looks unsure of his welcome with me, but I am delighted to see him….I’m actually rather fond of him. However this creates a dilemma; I can’t pay for everyone, and I know all these guys are too poor for a 50Q dinner. I decide to walk down with Prince to the restaurant to get him ensconced in her motherly atmosphere. When he’s on a chair on her deck I tell him I’m going to go check w/ a friend and I’ll be back. The two guys I’m looking for are together in the vendor’s favorite spot again and I sit down and tell them I’d like to invite them to have dinner with me at the restaurant. The Argentinian says she once fed him bloody chicken and wouldn’t take it back so he won’t eat there. The Swiss man has another scathing story….they are punching each other’s shoulders and laughing and I realize they are both shit-faced at 4 in the afternoon. I am still joking with them and take two photos of them together. The Argentinian is being charming with every young girl who passes by (and he is handsome and good at it, drunk or no) and accosts an uncomprehending Yugoslav guy about his grandfather from Russia and other somewhat incomprehensible stories but after the guy makes his getaway, he tells us he’s trying to get some investors for his cantina. People don’t realize the opportunity here, etc. I can see an evening with these two is not going to be the nice farewell party I’d imagined, so I tell them how much fun it’s been to get to know them, etc., and head back for the restaurant. Prince has obviously given up on my returning, probably used to that sort of thing from the visitors he attaches himself to, and is down on the beach in the dark, but emerges quickly when he sees me coming. He has a couple of little kids with him, and he takes their leave really sweetly. For all his faults he seems like a heartful man. I ask if he’d like to share a bowl of Tapado with me and he says, “yeah” but hushes to a whisper and says there are better Tapado cooks than this woman. Even he is a little shocked at his faithlessness, and says “with all due respect….” etc, “there are better Tapado cooks.” I expect we will head for some Garifuna place, but he stops at a brightly-lit place run by some Chinese. We order, get some lemonade (he asks if he can have a Pina Colada) and are joined by Elena and her French erstwhile boyfriend. Lots of talk in Spanish, which I follow well enough. I watch the two of them demolish one piece of fish on a plate between them, picking every scrap of meat off the skeleton. The conference couple comes and we talk about not being able to get together here to talk, but she says she will be in Antigua in a few days and perhaps we can meet then. I really like both of them, but I think they look a little askance at the rowdier members of my group. When I turn back to the table, Elena and her friend are gone, replaced by the two women from last nite, Jennie and Kim. The talk flows on. Then they leave and Prince gets into his “can’t sit still” thing. He excuses himself gracefully each time, but runs to talk to someone, runs to get cigarettes, etc. It’s true that the only real connection between us is his sad love-life, and I think he doesn’t want to talk about that tonite, particularly since I’d been right in the advice I had given him earlier in the week. I watch the activity in the street…..families, foreigners, kids in small groups with play guns. Jennie had commented how mean these kids are with each other; very like Jamaica. Eventually Prince returns, and I wonder aloud what has happened to our dinner….they could have caught the fish personally in the time we’ve been waiting. He graciously goes to see where our order is, and returns to say he had to order all over again; the girl had forgotten. He asks for a second Pina Colada and I agree, and get another lemonade although I’m going to be floating before long. I’m a bit worried he will be, too, as I’m hoping to see some night-life with him, but figure the food will help. Then it arrives. I only saw the finished (literally) project before…this soup is more than I can handle. A complete baked fish, head and eyes intact; squid, the same. I love squid but don’t even like to see the tentacles much less the face. At times in my life, I have had my hands inside some still-warm turkeys and a goat, but this is too much for me. I also find, once again, that I don’t like boiled bananas. So I pick at what I can eat and hand over the rest. What I like most is the broth and bread, but this bread is just little round hamburger buns, no garlic toast, like at the other restaurant. I am annoyed that I didn’t follow my own inclinations. But he eats heartily, heads and all…….. though we give the eyes and other bits to a starving dog who is watching us. The dog has such a sweet demeanor that it’s hard for me not to rush out and buy dog food, but I don’t know where I would find it. I briefly think of buying him a hamburger, but then what about tomorrow? He ends up getting quite a bit from our table. I finally get the check: Q112….Or about $14.50. I am a little shocked, food is relatively cheap but drinks are not. There is supposed to be a big “closing” dance at 8 pm, but although the lights of the gimnasio are on and the speakers are blaring, there are only a dozen or so people lining the bleachers and none on the floor. I delight in finding an open floor in Chico, but not here….and I don’t think Prince is ready for that, either. We go off to UBAFU, and the drummers are playing. I tell him one more beer is the end of my budget and we sit and watch the drumming. Somehow I want more than this tonite, so eventually we end up walking over to the gimnasio again. And again just a few people and no dancing. He shows me a tiny disco on a side street…..a bar, really, with a tiny floor and a tiny screen showing a dance competition somewhere. We stand outside for a bit and then I sidle in, lured by the screen and the good music. He evidently can’t come in yet…..when I inquire why he shows me his can of tomato juice. Wow, I love tomato juice…I take a sip, not really noticing his wry look. Good gravy it also contains alcohol of some wretched sort. I spit it in the street. I go on in and dance a bit in the first, nearly empty, room. Then he comes in with me and we go in the inner room where people are gyrating wildly, bumping into each other. I opt for a little floor space, and he tells me he’ll be back in a minute. Some guy wants to dance with me, but insists on getting close. I tell him to back up and give me some space and he doesn’t get it, so I back him up physically. He still doesn’t get the message, so he pulls in a friend to dance with me. We step down and have some fun for awhile. Then Prince is back. I like his movements well enough, and match him, but he is more interested in talking to a friend, banging knuckles and all that greeting stuff. [They have a lovely greeting ritual here – besides the cheek-kissing, which everyone does. The young men do the mutual palm-slide and knuckle banging that I saw in Jamaica but then the fist touches the heart.] We dance for awhile, and then he says he’s going to step outside with his friend. They do and start walking off down the street. I run outside and whistle loudly. He runs back to say, “We’re not leaving you – you can come if you want, or I’ll be right back.” The friend is now pissing in the bushes (a common sight in Guatemala) so I think maybe that’s what they’re up to, so I go back in. Half an hour later he is still not back, and the room has become so crowded and hot that I am out dancing in the cool street. So I decide I have had enough of being “squired” and head off for home through the cool night. They are drumming in UBAFU, but the music from the speakers outside is drowning them out. I go out to see what’s going on, and it’s rap and hip hop. I am delighted, assuming I will see some great dancing, but no. Noone is doing anything interesting. I finally head for home. It is only 11:30 so I decide to pack my bags so I can leave early in the morning. I can still hear the pounding of the speakers in the distance, but suddenly the music stops abruptly and the lights go out everywhere. The available electricity in this small city has been completely overwhelmed. Elena comes in just as I’m getting to sleep. I turn my flashlight on for her and she asks me to wake her in the morning. I thought she was going on to Honduras with her friend the next day, but somehow the friend is staying here another day, Elena is returning to Antigua to meet another friend, and then they are going off somewhere.