DAY THREE [images are of the lagoon and the amazing tree in the middle of the cemetary.]
I wake up to the sound of roosters and calling birds and then a lot of hooting and hollering in German from other hotel guests on their way to the bathroom, muy cerca our room. I think about people who travel from one place to another, as the Argentinian has done….meeting new people and telling old stories. And of course always telling the dream: I’m going to build a cantina, I’m going to marry the Hindu girl and we’ll move to Jamaica; I’m going to get on the cruiseship and work around the world; this girl’s going to take me with her to Mexico. It seems like at least for some it becomes an exercise in holding the dream out in front of one but never staying in one place long enough to achieve it, or to deal with not having achieved it. Or maybe the dream is just an excuse; and the living from day to day and telling stories IS the real life. Since it seems to me something of the alcoholic dynamic, it is interesting that it seems to be accompanied by a lot of drinking.
Last nite, the Argentinian introduced the group to some hootch made and sold behind the bar which smelled like gasoline and cloves. He swears that he came to Livingston very ill and was cured by drinking the stuff as medicine. I can’t even sniff it. He also mentions the Nonny juice – as a curative – that I ran into in Jamaica.
Then Elena wakes too, and decides to go with me to get some fresh oj for breakfast. We start out through the garden, but are waylaid – before 9 am – by a group of young people in the cupola performing – in Spanish – what seems to be a comic presentation, mimed and narrated, on the use of condoms. There are two young Hispanic actors – and the girl narrator in a big rasta cap. This event is being watched by four gringo adults and eventually ourselves. I can’t exactly figure out what is going on because of some of the comedic efforts, but decide it is like the skits used in projects in Africa for reaching out into the analfabetic (non-reading) communities to teach AIDS awareness and protection.
At the breakfast place we discover that there is a seminar on supporting and revitalizing Garifuna culture starting next door. So we leave and fall, instead, into the free breakfast – fried platinos and refried black beans (one of my favorites) with excellent scrambled eggs and a white bun. I ask for fresh squeezed oj and have a large glass brought to me for $1.30.
The introducer is a local Garif and the lst speaker a Hispanic anthropologist, I gather married to a Garifuna woman. He is an excellent speaker, very moving (even though I can understand only about 50%.) He mentions that the Garifuna anniversary date (of arrival) is a national Holiday in Belize (albeit a much smaller country) but barely recognized in Guate. He stresses that although the Garif are descended from the survivors of a slaveship-wreck (mixed with Caribs and the Arawak Indians from the coast from Venezuela to Guate) they never actually worked as slaves, and they fought off the British colonizers for many years. Slavery or no seems to be an issue, here. Several local people get up and put in their 25 cents about the value of the Garifuna people and Garifuna women in particular, (I am interested that these impromptu speakers are welcomed however long and rambling their speech) and then they take a break. I have been struggling with all that Spanish, so decide I can learn more later from the German girl who is writing her thesis on the Garifs, and elect to go home and change out of shorts and a tanktop, as the weather has turned cooler already.
I’m not sure what I will do next, as I am learning that what is planned doesn’t happen and I’m better off (perhaps everywhere but certainly here) just following my intuition/inclinations and see what happens.
I would still like to see some futbol and to find out where the community center I saw last time actually is, now that I know the town a little better. I would also like to spend some time with the Argentinian as I find him intriguing.
I go back to the seminar to see what is going on, but they have broken for lunch. I’m encouraged to eat there, but figure this isn’t very fair since I’ve hardly attended, so I eat at the restaurant upstairs, then come down to sit with the Peruvian/German couple while they talk to the anthropologist about the African origins of the Garifs, and a story the Peruvian has heard that there were supposed to be boatloads of Africans who came to the Orinoco R. area in Brazil long before. The anthropologist doesn’t know anything about this. They return to the seminar and I finish my lemonade while I look out at the boats coming into the harbor.
An older Garif. woman stops by my spot and starts talking familiarly to me….I simply must get braids in my hair, it would look so nice, blah blah. I had thought about it before coming but know I look dreadful half-bald, however pretty the braids and beads, but figure what the heck, so I tell her to do it. She says 10 braids for 2 Q each, which as she starts to work becomes 10 braids on each side. She engages a young woman and they start rapidly working on both sides of my head. There is the usual pulling of hair and too tight braids, and we negotiate (that is, I go “ow, ow!” and she says, “Okay, mama,” and loosens up slightly.) It never occurs to me that someone would offer to do this and not know what they are doing. A couple of young guys across from me are laughing at the spectacle; that should have been my first clue. As is the fact that she never looks at me from the front to see what effect we are having. Eventually she says she is done. I feel the back of my head, it is still unbraided! What? She makes a hasty retreat then comes back to tell me I have ten braids on each side, two quarters of my head are done………so I owe her 40Q (about $5.50.) I am angry and make it clear to all within hearing that I am disappointed, but pay up…….it is not much money. But the hairdo is rather ridiculous, not like some of the elaborate braiding I’ve seen – each of my “hairdressers” had different styles of dealing with these tiny 1/8 inch braids and the rubber bands and beads. I spend a little time evening things out, but eventually just figure “What the heck.”
Later in the day, I look for the Argentinian’s place but can’t find it, then run into him as I get back on the main street. He walks me back down the alley and spends the next two hours or so showing me all the stuff he’s building in his cantina, the mess the previous owner left in the yard, where he wants to build a “tiki” hut and then gets out a million photos and shows me other bars he’s built in Florida and elsewhere (all a little Floridian or a la Reno to my taste) and then a lot of photos he’s taken of women, when he was earning a living as a photographer. There are some beautiful photos and beautiful interesting women of every nationality. There are also some photos of him much younger – what a gorgeous guy! I ask what propels him from one city, state, and country to another. “Oh I’m ADD,” he says, “I can’t stand still.” He also tells me his story of betrayal by his girlfriend’s mother,who was his business partner, then robbed him, didn’t use the money he sent to get the licenses and so forth that he needs for the bar, and now wants to marry the girl off to some rich old man. The girl is of course culturally-bound to obey her mother, and on and on. I notice the scars on his hands and comment. Oh yeah, he’d been a boxer somewhere where bare-knuckle fighting was legal. Charismatic guy.
At some point I tell him my problem with not being able to get to some of the places I’d like to see at night, because I’m on my own (and I’ve been warned those areas around the discoteques are dangerous.) I ask if he’d be willing to “squire” me, and tell him I'd pay for his drinks, etc. “Like a bodyguard,” he says, and I say “un poco.” I leave with no clarity on this topic but a cheerful “See you!”
On the way “home,” down this street of stores, bars, restaurants, a big Catholic church, and abandoned buildings, I am startled to hear a grunt behind me, and turn to find a very large dirty pig ambling down the street. Noone else pays it any attention. I guess that puts the chickens in the yard of my hotel in perspective.
That evening I see neither hide nor hair of the Argentinian and Prince has to go to bed at 8 to work at the docks at 4 in the morning. I’m never quite clear what he does but it has something to do with loading something on a cruiseship. Since he doesn’t have the build of a stevedore, I presume he does checking or something. He does this one full day per week and lives on what he makes (I never heard what the hourly wage is.)
I go down to the usual restaurant for dinner by myself and we talk some more. She tells me Prince had a big crack problem in the past when that was rife here in Livingston (people in Guate City had told me there were no hard drugs in use in Guatemala – just alcohol and glue-sniffing) but he has cleaned up his act (except for drinking so much, I suppose, but I don’t say this.) She thinks he has a good heart, and having seen him interact with people when he’s not drunk, I’d agree. When he’s drunk he’s not mean, just a little morose and bitter.
I send some emails to family and friends, watch the street from my favorite perch on the Muni Bldg steps, look for a t-shirt for my younger daughter, and eventually head toward home. I run into two women I have met briefly. We all walk over to UBAFU and this evening there is music and dancing, or at least the drummers – even the big older woman drummer – get up from time to time to dance. When they take a break I walk over to ask the woman to show me the steps. She misunderstands me…is friendly and welcoming and then goes outside…..I think she thought I was complimenting her.
I sure wish I had a male friend to come to Livingston with, as there are so many fascinating places where I shouldn’t go by myself – like all the discos down the side streets, whose music I can hear blaring away enticingly as I walk past on the main street….”dance hall” music, it seems; my favorite. Or at least I’d like a dependable woman friend to sit in Ubafu with, having a coke and waiting for the music to start. All I’ve seen of dancing so far was a few minutes in Ubafu, and a few minutes after the kids presented the skit in the street….and then I couldn’t quite see their feet. This punta dance fascinates me, and I’d really like to learn how to do it.
Since the other folks have left, and the drummers are taking a long break, and I don’t have anyone to talk to, I head for home. A block from the hotel some short fat Hispanic man tries to convince me that he is un buen chico and una buena chica like me could do no better anywhere. I tell him I’m sure he’s right, but no thanks.
I reach the room, do a little writing and read the wonderful book I brought with me. Before I go to bed I sit outside on the lawn and listen to the crickets.
I wake up to the sound of roosters and calling birds and then a lot of hooting and hollering in German from other hotel guests on their way to the bathroom, muy cerca our room. I think about people who travel from one place to another, as the Argentinian has done….meeting new people and telling old stories. And of course always telling the dream: I’m going to build a cantina, I’m going to marry the Hindu girl and we’ll move to Jamaica; I’m going to get on the cruiseship and work around the world; this girl’s going to take me with her to Mexico. It seems like at least for some it becomes an exercise in holding the dream out in front of one but never staying in one place long enough to achieve it, or to deal with not having achieved it. Or maybe the dream is just an excuse; and the living from day to day and telling stories IS the real life. Since it seems to me something of the alcoholic dynamic, it is interesting that it seems to be accompanied by a lot of drinking.
Last nite, the Argentinian introduced the group to some hootch made and sold behind the bar which smelled like gasoline and cloves. He swears that he came to Livingston very ill and was cured by drinking the stuff as medicine. I can’t even sniff it. He also mentions the Nonny juice – as a curative – that I ran into in Jamaica.
Then Elena wakes too, and decides to go with me to get some fresh oj for breakfast. We start out through the garden, but are waylaid – before 9 am – by a group of young people in the cupola performing – in Spanish – what seems to be a comic presentation, mimed and narrated, on the use of condoms. There are two young Hispanic actors – and the girl narrator in a big rasta cap. This event is being watched by four gringo adults and eventually ourselves. I can’t exactly figure out what is going on because of some of the comedic efforts, but decide it is like the skits used in projects in Africa for reaching out into the analfabetic (non-reading) communities to teach AIDS awareness and protection.
At the breakfast place we discover that there is a seminar on supporting and revitalizing Garifuna culture starting next door. So we leave and fall, instead, into the free breakfast – fried platinos and refried black beans (one of my favorites) with excellent scrambled eggs and a white bun. I ask for fresh squeezed oj and have a large glass brought to me for $1.30.
The introducer is a local Garif and the lst speaker a Hispanic anthropologist, I gather married to a Garifuna woman. He is an excellent speaker, very moving (even though I can understand only about 50%.) He mentions that the Garifuna anniversary date (of arrival) is a national Holiday in Belize (albeit a much smaller country) but barely recognized in Guate. He stresses that although the Garif are descended from the survivors of a slaveship-wreck (mixed with Caribs and the Arawak Indians from the coast from Venezuela to Guate) they never actually worked as slaves, and they fought off the British colonizers for many years. Slavery or no seems to be an issue, here. Several local people get up and put in their 25 cents about the value of the Garifuna people and Garifuna women in particular, (I am interested that these impromptu speakers are welcomed however long and rambling their speech) and then they take a break. I have been struggling with all that Spanish, so decide I can learn more later from the German girl who is writing her thesis on the Garifs, and elect to go home and change out of shorts and a tanktop, as the weather has turned cooler already.
I’m not sure what I will do next, as I am learning that what is planned doesn’t happen and I’m better off (perhaps everywhere but certainly here) just following my intuition/inclinations and see what happens.
I would still like to see some futbol and to find out where the community center I saw last time actually is, now that I know the town a little better. I would also like to spend some time with the Argentinian as I find him intriguing.
I go back to the seminar to see what is going on, but they have broken for lunch. I’m encouraged to eat there, but figure this isn’t very fair since I’ve hardly attended, so I eat at the restaurant upstairs, then come down to sit with the Peruvian/German couple while they talk to the anthropologist about the African origins of the Garifs, and a story the Peruvian has heard that there were supposed to be boatloads of Africans who came to the Orinoco R. area in Brazil long before. The anthropologist doesn’t know anything about this. They return to the seminar and I finish my lemonade while I look out at the boats coming into the harbor.
An older Garif. woman stops by my spot and starts talking familiarly to me….I simply must get braids in my hair, it would look so nice, blah blah. I had thought about it before coming but know I look dreadful half-bald, however pretty the braids and beads, but figure what the heck, so I tell her to do it. She says 10 braids for 2 Q each, which as she starts to work becomes 10 braids on each side. She engages a young woman and they start rapidly working on both sides of my head. There is the usual pulling of hair and too tight braids, and we negotiate (that is, I go “ow, ow!” and she says, “Okay, mama,” and loosens up slightly.) It never occurs to me that someone would offer to do this and not know what they are doing. A couple of young guys across from me are laughing at the spectacle; that should have been my first clue. As is the fact that she never looks at me from the front to see what effect we are having. Eventually she says she is done. I feel the back of my head, it is still unbraided! What? She makes a hasty retreat then comes back to tell me I have ten braids on each side, two quarters of my head are done………so I owe her 40Q (about $5.50.) I am angry and make it clear to all within hearing that I am disappointed, but pay up…….it is not much money. But the hairdo is rather ridiculous, not like some of the elaborate braiding I’ve seen – each of my “hairdressers” had different styles of dealing with these tiny 1/8 inch braids and the rubber bands and beads. I spend a little time evening things out, but eventually just figure “What the heck.”
Later in the day, I look for the Argentinian’s place but can’t find it, then run into him as I get back on the main street. He walks me back down the alley and spends the next two hours or so showing me all the stuff he’s building in his cantina, the mess the previous owner left in the yard, where he wants to build a “tiki” hut and then gets out a million photos and shows me other bars he’s built in Florida and elsewhere (all a little Floridian or a la Reno to my taste) and then a lot of photos he’s taken of women, when he was earning a living as a photographer. There are some beautiful photos and beautiful interesting women of every nationality. There are also some photos of him much younger – what a gorgeous guy! I ask what propels him from one city, state, and country to another. “Oh I’m ADD,” he says, “I can’t stand still.” He also tells me his story of betrayal by his girlfriend’s mother,who was his business partner, then robbed him, didn’t use the money he sent to get the licenses and so forth that he needs for the bar, and now wants to marry the girl off to some rich old man. The girl is of course culturally-bound to obey her mother, and on and on. I notice the scars on his hands and comment. Oh yeah, he’d been a boxer somewhere where bare-knuckle fighting was legal. Charismatic guy.
At some point I tell him my problem with not being able to get to some of the places I’d like to see at night, because I’m on my own (and I’ve been warned those areas around the discoteques are dangerous.) I ask if he’d be willing to “squire” me, and tell him I'd pay for his drinks, etc. “Like a bodyguard,” he says, and I say “un poco.” I leave with no clarity on this topic but a cheerful “See you!”
On the way “home,” down this street of stores, bars, restaurants, a big Catholic church, and abandoned buildings, I am startled to hear a grunt behind me, and turn to find a very large dirty pig ambling down the street. Noone else pays it any attention. I guess that puts the chickens in the yard of my hotel in perspective.
That evening I see neither hide nor hair of the Argentinian and Prince has to go to bed at 8 to work at the docks at 4 in the morning. I’m never quite clear what he does but it has something to do with loading something on a cruiseship. Since he doesn’t have the build of a stevedore, I presume he does checking or something. He does this one full day per week and lives on what he makes (I never heard what the hourly wage is.)
I go down to the usual restaurant for dinner by myself and we talk some more. She tells me Prince had a big crack problem in the past when that was rife here in Livingston (people in Guate City had told me there were no hard drugs in use in Guatemala – just alcohol and glue-sniffing) but he has cleaned up his act (except for drinking so much, I suppose, but I don’t say this.) She thinks he has a good heart, and having seen him interact with people when he’s not drunk, I’d agree. When he’s drunk he’s not mean, just a little morose and bitter.
I send some emails to family and friends, watch the street from my favorite perch on the Muni Bldg steps, look for a t-shirt for my younger daughter, and eventually head toward home. I run into two women I have met briefly. We all walk over to UBAFU and this evening there is music and dancing, or at least the drummers – even the big older woman drummer – get up from time to time to dance. When they take a break I walk over to ask the woman to show me the steps. She misunderstands me…is friendly and welcoming and then goes outside…..I think she thought I was complimenting her.
I sure wish I had a male friend to come to Livingston with, as there are so many fascinating places where I shouldn’t go by myself – like all the discos down the side streets, whose music I can hear blaring away enticingly as I walk past on the main street….”dance hall” music, it seems; my favorite. Or at least I’d like a dependable woman friend to sit in Ubafu with, having a coke and waiting for the music to start. All I’ve seen of dancing so far was a few minutes in Ubafu, and a few minutes after the kids presented the skit in the street….and then I couldn’t quite see their feet. This punta dance fascinates me, and I’d really like to learn how to do it.
Since the other folks have left, and the drummers are taking a long break, and I don’t have anyone to talk to, I head for home. A block from the hotel some short fat Hispanic man tries to convince me that he is un buen chico and una buena chica like me could do no better anywhere. I tell him I’m sure he’s right, but no thanks.
I reach the room, do a little writing and read the wonderful book I brought with me. Before I go to bed I sit outside on the lawn and listen to the crickets.
No comments:
Post a Comment