I think the primary thing I’m “suffering from” here is the lack of passionate work. I have the idea in my head of going to volunteer in Livingston, eventually, perhaps, after I’ve learned more Spanish. I had the idea that these babies at the hospital might need me to not only hold them, but to teach people about infant depression, bonding, need for touch and stimulation. Now I hear they have psychologists and etc etc. there. Of course those could be psychologists who aren’t applying what they’ve learned, or they haven’t learned about this. At any rate I will do the tour on Thursday and we will see what we will see. But that would be very satisfying – even just holding the babies. One other thing that struck me, in all of this looking at living/working in another country, is the impression I got from both the ex-pat women I’ve dealt with: loneliness. My friend was so eager to talk and talk – in part because what we were talking about was rejuvenating her dream, which has gotten buried in the mountain of work to do to realize it, but in part because she has noone to talk to. And when I made a date for tonight with another woman, she said “Oh that will be something to look forward to.” I recognize both those states of mind, at least as I perceive them: something, something to fill the lonely days…..something to remind one of what in the hell you came here for in the first place.
“Wherever you go, there you are…..” A phrase I’ve thought of for years; one of the concepts I used to justify why I never traveled (besides no money, children to care for, and goats to milk.). And here I am, so far from home, and guess who I find! The same person – a little too isolated, yet rejecting of anyone that doesn’t fit just right (not that that is necessarily a bad thing;) connecting with kids and parents in the calles, at least through understanding glances and smiles – especially when their child does something cute and both the parent and you see it…..and catch each other’s eyes and smile. That's pretty sweet. I run into Beth, from Camino Seguro, on the street. She hails me down by name, as I only recognize “someone familiar.” We talk for half an hour, about volunteering at C.S., about my “god-son” Denilson, who attends that project, and who I’ve been supporting since last July. I fantasize taking him to a futbol game, which she thinks is possible, and we talk about learning Spanish. She says she’s been here 9 months and still doesn’t speak it well; we commiserate about how inadequate it makes us feel, but she says she’s just decided to be perfectly fine being a poor Spanish speaker. At the time this makes me feel better; on the other hand she has a volunteer job (or possibly a paying job) at C.S. where Spanish isn’t necessary. Hmm.
October 15. I finally make it to Cerro de la Cruz – that spot on the hill with the big cross that I see all the way across town. I show up for the tour at the policia tourista office in the center of town. I am early, so I grab a local tourist publication and read about the activities of a doctor who worked for the United Fruit Company in the early 1900s. The author acknowledges the dreadful things the UFC did by the way it influenced politics in its favor, but says that UFC made habitable 50,000 acres of “virtually uninhabited” jungle/swampland where yellow fever, dysentery, snake bites and malaria were rife, and provided its employees with services from the hospital that it created. This article also states that UFC “paid the highest wages, sold food at subsidized prices to its workers and families, [and] provided housing and education.” But what did UFC do to the area to make it malaria free – spray poison every where? And what does “virtually uninhabited” mean – that just indigenous Mayans lived there? The book I read on Rigoberta Manchu suggests that the struggle with UFC that caused such genocide in the Mayan highlands was precisely over low wages, and “owing your soul to the company store.” It will take more research to resolve this unending debate.
Then another person arrives for the tour, and she and I chat. She loves the night life in Antigua and wonders why she is signed up to go up to Xela, where it’s colder. She will study Spanish there, too, and volunteer with some project, she’s not sure what. She tells me about various places she’s been to in Guatemala. Three other girls and a guy arrive; one of the girls is talking about having been to Tikal so I swing in step with her to ask her impressions. She loved it; BIG bugs and scorpions, a huge tarantula on her pillow at nite, but “it was worth it.” She is from Israel, and has been traveling thru the US and Mexico. She works for an Israeli tech company with an office in San Francisco, so she has been there. She says she has very little Spanish; that it seems hard to learn. I comment that at least she has already learned one language (she speaks English very well) but she says that in Israel English is everywhere, especially on TV, so it’s really easy to pick it up. We start the climb up to the Cross. In 15 minutes I am starting to pant and puff, and my legs start to hurt – this abuse added to my new salsa class last Friday. I start dropping behind, a little embarrassed. My partner starts to lag with me then sees I’m really behind and goes on ahead with all the other youngsters. Fortunately there is a policia bringing up the rear; they must be used to this. I suddenly realize that I did not come here to race to the top, anyway. I wanted a walk through the woods. So I am happy to slow down. I notice the tiny columbines in the heavy undergrowth, and the purple morning glories, but can’t identify the rest of the plants, except that we are in a huge eucalyptus grove. Eucalyptus was brought from Australia to California intentionally, as a lumber tree, which didn’t work out. But who and what brought it here? Finally I reach the top and there is Antigua, spread out below us. I can see the arch I used to walk under every day, Central Park, and think I identify Iglesia San Francisco, though there’s no sign of my rooftop or the taller one at Sky Café around the corner. I wish I had brought binoculars. There is a huge red building, a square around an open center. A query of a nearby family brings the information that is an escuela for “monjas”….nuns. I have seen them walking around town, quiet and virginal. There is a good looking curly-haired young man with the group, but for some reason he and the four girls are not talking. I go over to where he is and ask, “So why and how long are YOU in Antigua?” He says he’s just traveling through. He is from a farming area in France, where he worked with autistic kids on a farm dedicated to principles somewhat like Montessori school. He started in Montreal, then came through the US on a bus, stopping briefly in NY, Philly, and Atlanta. We share delighted views on NYC, which I also love. He then went through Mexico and he also loves the town of San Cristobal de las Casas, where I’ve been advised to go. He likes Mexico better than Guatemala, but can’t say exactly why. He wants to get out in the country. He really liked the Panajachel area; I tell him my impressions of San Andres Sematabaj. The group then starts down the hill again. This way is easy. I pick up a little of the trash thrown around the area of the Cross, and dump it in a trash can on the way down. The rest of the group goes ahead and I walk with the other policia. He asks me how long I’m here; the usual questions. He seems interested that I want to become “fluida” in Spanish, and starts asking me questions to get me to practice. I ask if he is a teacher, he says he was for seven years, but now “Soy policia.” We stop at a stand, I look for a moment at a group playing “futbol,” some old men, some boys in the group – a real “pickup” game. Someone else has bought slices of pina in a plastic bag; I do the same – wonderful rich-flavored juicy pineapple, no sourness to it. I rejoin the young man and ask what he will do from here. “I don’t know,” he says. “You don’t know??” I respond, some-what incredulous. It is fascinating to me that some people can just go from one place to another without much pre-planning. He mentions an “earth lodge” somewhere on the side of Volcan Agua that he wants to check out. He wants to get out in the country. He walks away from me across the street, and I think, “well….okay,” and I begin to move along. Out of the side of my eye I see that he has just dropped some trash in a can and is headed back over, but by the time I turn he has seen me ahead and switched back. “Adios!” I call out, but he doesn’t hear me.
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