GOING HOME again

GOING HOME We wake in the morning, get off without event, and take the launch to Puerto Barrios….only 60Q instead of 100 and not the long river trip, however beautiful. The trip is across the river and then along the East coast, with the usual view of homes near the water, grand and simple. The waves are easy, the ride is good; it is a beautiful morning. Puerto Barrios is a bigger town, actually a port with large ships in the harbor. We get off the boat and walk up the street to the Itelgua bus office, following a group of Christian volunteers who work in Guatemala City. When I hear this, I catch up with the guy and ask what the project is. They work with adults and families in the area near the dump, not far from Camino Seguro. I ask about programs for adult drug and alcohol users, but he’s unsure of any. They provide food and medical help. I ask how they handle the security issues in G. City. “We pray a lot,” he says in a superior tone. I don’t care much for him so I move on. They are taking the 100Q bus in an hour, we will take the 50Q in about 20 minutes. I sprint across the street while Elena watches my bags and pick up some not very good, too-cool fried potatoes, and some excellent orange juice, squeezed in front of me, the juice poured into a plastic bag with a straw, for “carryout.” She buys some fruit. The bus ride is completely uneventful because I read my book all the way, after slowly picking out all my braids. We are then at the station in Guatemala City. My Spanish teacher had told me to call the shuttle office from Rio Dulce to get a shuttle to pick me up in G. C. Elena said she wants to take the cheaper chicken bus. I have always been told that is too dangerous except in a group; Elena poo-poo’s this. Okay, I’ll give it a try. Cheaper by 112.5Q or $14.50. But where do we find the buses? My Spanish is evidently inadequate for finding this information. It takes us both several tries before we learn there are no chicken buses coming to this station or anywhere around here. We are in Zone 1 (supposedly the most dangerous in G.C.) and the buses come to Zone 3. What to do? The taxi driver offers us a ride for $4. She talks him down to $3.50 (25 Q) for the two of us. He takes us right to the chicken bus station! I had no idea there was one. A bus for Antigua is waiting right there and we hop on. It leaves in about ten minutes, with her huge bag up on top. My smaller one is in my arms. I have heard so much about the danger on these buses (some one was killed for not giving up his money soon after I arrived, and a day after I had ridden that bus with a group,) but I check the faces of each person who gets on. Hard-working simple people. There is one lovely very tall Mayan man (an anomaly,) whose face is so beautifully lined; his wife is shorter and plump. He puts his arm around her when they finally get to sit. I’m certainly not frightened of any of these folks! When the bus reaches Antigua, I am always concerned because there is a place I can get off which is only three or four blocks from my house, but it’s still hard to recognize the corner (I’ve only taken this bus maybe five times.) I realize we’ve passed it and will go all the way around Antigua, coming to rest in the Mercado, a mile away. But for some reason the bus starts up a street I think I recognize as going to Jocotenango. I tell Elena we’re going the wrong way and she stands up and moves to the front. A gringo I hadn’t noticed behind me tells me that some of these buses make a swing thru Jocotenango before going back through Antigua, so we are fine. Elena has said she really needs to go to the bathroom, so she is still standing in front. We pull in behind the Mercado, slowing down, and she suddenly jumps off. The bus pulls to a stop 200 ft away and everyone gets out. The guy gets her huge bag off the roof of the bus. What now? She’s nowhere to be seen. A jovial man explains to me that she ran into the bathroom, he makes gestures like cleaning her pants. He is joking with another man next to me and three others behind another bus. She doesn’t come and doesn’t come. I feel responsible for her pack even tho the jovial one is holding it. This man introduces me to all his friends, giving them silly nicknames. All is laughter and fun, but I would like to get home. I also am not crazy about the slight edge of sexual joking that is inherent in all this, although it’s just what they consider fun. Eventually she emerges, evidently she has diarrhea. I wave heartily to all and sundry and take off. 

I look for a bus going up my street, but the bus signs are incomprehensible and the one bus I try is going down my street but only taking passengers for G. City. So I start walking, and end up walking all the way home. It is really good to open my gate and be back in my little private holdings. 

So. What have I learned in all this? I feel as though Antigua, with its ambience, is like – say – Boston in the 1900s and Livingston is like Cheyenne, Wyoming. There are both good and bad things about each of these. I like the energy and the ugliness and need of Livingston. I like chickens in the yards and pigs in the alleys. I like the river, the warmth in the winter. I don’t know how I would take steady heat and humidity in the summer, but if my house caught a cool breeze, and I had a fan it might be tolerable. I’d like to have a real garden. Who would I know there? These folks I hung out with this week, the local Hispanics, seem by and large undependable, tho more or less well-meaning. I think I could pay any of them to help me do things, but couldn’t get much from a friendship with them, except occasional conversation, which is nice enough. It is possible that if I became involved with the ONEGUA group, besides being frustrated if I actually wanted to see things accomplished, I could possibly find some friends. I think something I might be able to do is mentor a family or two, as well as whatever help I could do in their school, whatever that might be.

In Antigua, possible friends are the volunteers and the expats at the writers’ workshops…..few of whom are really good friends, although there are a couple of folks whose lives I would like to know more about. But still I expect there is more possibility of what might be called a “social life.” And I wouldn’t mind that. All told, I think Livingston is still attractive, but questionable. I can of course go there another weekend in a few months to talk to the ONEGUA folks. This trip only cost me $63 plus food. What would I lose if I moved there? My Salsa class, pastry shops on the corner, cobblestones, the sound of “Guate, Guate!” the babies, the privacy of this house, my Spanish teacher – who is a pretty good friend. What would I gain? Warmth, the river, kids to play with in my neighborhood, a more reasonable rent (probably $150 max.) and I think the very interesting experience of seeing how I could possibly become some part of that community and have any effect whatsoever, and learning about all the factors which would make that more or less possible. It’s not unlike the experience I have had all these years going into the homes of clients…how to make myself a part of their lives, yet not overstep or violate their privacy or confidentiality…that intricate dance of boundary-finding, boundary-establishing. It’s still a toss-up, but at least I have more information. I also have diarrhea and Elena’s cold.