To Panajachel again

We are going up to San Pedro, on Lago Atitlan, for a training in the Brain Gym – Pedagogia Basica – materials. The bus finally leaves at 7:15. We pick up two young Guatemalan women in Chimaltenango; along with the young man, Carlos, they will be our teachers. If I decide to volunteer with this project, I will assist them.
One of the girls settles next to me and I try to make conversation, but beyond “Como estas?” I don’t get anywhere. I notice that she is praying. She crosses herself when she is done. Wow, is this act that dangerous?
We ride without talking.
At a construction site on the highway, I watch the roadside vendors. A man stands beside the bus with a table heaped high with homemade sweets. They look very enticing, but I know Guatemalan dulces are REALLY sweet, and I haven’t eaten this morning. When he sees there are no buyers on this bus, he lifts the tray of sweets, folds the legs that were under it, tucks them over his arm and moves on down the road. A woman boards the bus with a basket of warm chile rellenos and tortillas; she moves down the aisle. I am tempted but don’t buy, and few others do. Another woman with an identical basket boards, announces her wares, then leaves. Only a young boy remains by the bus. He has a basket of commercial potato chips and other snacks. He looks about six, but is probably eight or so. He pulls a small wad of cash out of his pocket and counts it, then puts it back.
We finally arrive in Pana after 10 am. These young Guatemalans have never been to Pana before, though they live only 2 hours away. But they walk directly past all the enticing stalls full of market goods and look for the launch which will take us to San Pedro.
The girl I was riding next to, with whom I have exchanged only a few words, suddenly clasps me vigorously and laughingly says she is terrified of the lancha. The other girl says she thinks she will be sick. None of the three has been on a boat before; two of them (like me) cannot swim. They are giggling, but obviously nervous. But suddenly I am the “pro.” I reassure them all, suggesting that they breathe and that the girl relax her stomach and think of the boat as “dancing” (all this in stitled spanish.) I point to the lifevests overhead (which reassures me too) and off we go.
This smaller boat goes around the lake, instead of directly across, and I get to view the dozens of great homes around the lake as well as smaller houses clustered together, many of them rising almost vertically up the mountainsides.
San Pedro is not especially attractive. It is also very hilly. We wait near the dock for the project director. Lots of foreigners walk by; one a young man in dreads with a large tattoo on his arm. My companions don’t seem to notice. The director arrives in the typical indigenous outfit: woven falda and embroidered huipile, which the two young girls are also wearing.. She takes us through this rabbit-warren of streets and alleys, passing the restaurant where she explains we will eat (paid for by the project) and then we arrive at our hotel. The grounds are lovely with lawns, flowers, and big banana trees, but the rooms are minimal, though spacious enough. There is no Tv and not even a reading light. The man and I will each get a single room and the girls room together. 35Q – about $4.50 per night.
The four of us go out for our first afternoon in the town. They are all very accommodating to me; asking me which direction to take at each intersection, where would I like to go next, etc. I’m not sure why this is, but at first don’t think about it, just take charge. The young man is especially gentlemanly to me. They are all in their early 20s.
We look for a Mercado (market), which is prevalent in the two other Lake towns I’ve been in, but the outdoor stalls here hold only CDs, toys and other mostly plastic, commercial items. We finally end up walking out the road where we have been told there is a beach. We can see the lake below us, sometimes with people bathing and washing clothes there; in one or two places, small boats are tied up. I am thinking there might at least be a restaurante out this way, with cokes and a deck looking out over the lake. We walk and walk, AND walk and walk, on the dusty road, but no restaurant. At some point I stop to take photos of a beautiful finca with land stretching down to the lake. This lakefront area would cost a million per acre in Sausalito. No wonder extranjeros have built homes here and there. One of them captures my heart; white stucco with tile roofs, as is the style here, not too big, with a small balcony on the second floor looking out toward the lake, and wonderful vegetable gardens running down to the lake's edge.
I sit down on the unfinished upper floor of a house next to the road, my legs dangling, and look at that house and dream. I could have chickens, and a garden, maybe even a goat, though there don’t seem to be hungry children here as there were in Jamaica. But I’d have to sell my house in California - where my younger daughter is living - and possibly the land is too expensive even then.  But "that's MY house!" I say to the three teachers.   [And strangely, 2 years later it is!]
Then there are three days (not four as we’d first thought) of trainings each morning in an open air shed off a main street, reached through a tin gate. The trainers are the project director – a 30s-ish attractive, slim, light-skinned woman – and a rather short, lythe, Mayan man in his late 20s with long curls and one day, a Che t-shirt. He was also featured in the video, practicing the exercises with some children; at one point barefoot.
After the first day, I had realized these young people can’t understand my Spanish at all, even when I take time and care. So the first morning, I hunt for a Spanish teacher. I also want the chance to compare another teacher’s style with my teacher’s, which I think has been part of my learning problem. She does SO much of the talking! Two schools are very attractive and fully booked. Each has a lovely room to work in which overlooks the lake. I pass up several which are also laundries or tiendas, and find one which can give me a teacher that afternoon. I ask for three days, but have to cut it to two when we decide to return home on the afternoon of the third day. They are very accommodating and I like the teacher who is assigned to me very much. He tells me, among many other things, that the land that I was looking at is not THAT expensive….maybe 100 thousand quetzales.
The trainings are grueling for me, but I can understand 90% of the man’s Spanish as he speaks clearly. He also watches my face a lot while he’s talking, perhaps because I am the most raptly attentive in the group of 15 or so, perhaps to gauge my comprehension. He seems to be a lovely person, very caring about the kids’ challenges in learning here, due to the constrictions of their early environment as far as development of left/right hemisphere coordination (what this training is about.) Children are often on their mothers’ backs for a good bit of the day (I have seen 4 year olds being carried in a sling while their mother walks some distance.) They don’t crawl much on the bare ground of the campo or the dirt floors of their homes. I have only seen one tricycle since I’ve been here.
The grueling part is the constant attention it takes for me to understand all the Spanish, and my desire to respond to this material with which I have some experience and much interest. I am a little panicked on the first day when we all have to introduce ourselves and say why we are here, but I get through this with some of the words I learned to describe my job in Spanish back in California. A few times I attempt to ask a question or respond in some way, but as I usually meet uncomprehending looks, I stop.
The second morning I talk to the trainer for a few moments during the break, giving him some feedback about his giving mostly corrective responses – no positives – to each young teacher who volunteers to learn during the day, and then ask, “Me comprendes?” He says (in Spanish), “well I do, because I’ve been a teacher of Spanish in the past; I don’t know about the others.” It has never dawned on me that that might be the difference in the response I get from one person to another in Antigua – the level of familiarity with foreigners’ accents and speaking-styles.
The other trainer speaks much more rapidly. As modern as she looks, she draws a complete blank when I speak, but the third morning I talk to her about the similar exercises I used when I taught neurologically-handicapped children 30 years ago. She seems to understand but because I now think she won’t, I am nervous and stumble over and swallow a lot of words, compounding the problem. Ah well.
But I love the exercises, the focus of them, and the accepting philosophy behind this program.
I take the 3-hour training in the morning after breakfast with my companions, where I notice, again, that both the girls pray and cross themselves before eating. We also eat lunch together in this restaurant where noone else ever goes. The food is really minimal in taste, and a little dry, in general, for me; but it only costs $3.50 per meal. (20-25Q.) However, my companions and I are warming up to each other; the girls dare to ask me questions, and I ask about their families and their schooling. These three are high-school graduates, ready to teach children, but one of the girls is taking additional classes at the college in Guate City. Two have already had their own class, as practicantes. I ask about behavior problems. The man (20, but dressed in clean sport-shirt and slacks, with a long key-chain from his belt) says he had them at first, but not later. I can imagine he takes charge in class, as he does with his harem of three women – arranging food for us, conducting our decision-making about food or where to go, except when he defers to me, graciously.
I learn that two of these three responsible young people (19,20 and 23) are eldest children, the other is the eldest at home now, with five younger siblings. I am also an eldest.
They do something else while I am in my Spanish class, trying to figure out why my Spanish is incomprehensible. In the evening after dinner, on the first nite after training, the young man and I talk about music and listen to his. He loves what he calls Trance and I call Dance Hall, though I can’t keep up with the names. It is my favorite, too. We end up dancing on our narrow terrace that runs outside the rooms and overlooks the gardens.
It is a heavenly night. There is a strong wind coming from the lake, but it is just cool, and rather intoxicating as it rustles the big leaves of the banana trees and blows my hair. The stars are out. The girls arrive home and sit on the benches, watching us. We finally get one girl up to learn to dance Cumbia from the guy. We have a pretty good time.
The next nite is too cool to be outside. They elect to visit in my room – the guy brings his boombox in to play music, and I get out the pack of cards I just bought to avoid going to bed early, as I did the night we arrived. The young man spends the rest of the evening entertaining all of us with card tricks, jokes, stories, and various games. I want to suggest Hang Man, and it’s the next one he comes up with. We are all finally on a teasing level with each other, and have a pretty good time together.
The trip back on the third day is delayed when the girls want to go see the woman trainer’s house. Decisions are being made in rapid Spanish around me; I have no idea what’s going on, but just go with the flow. Eventually they are back and we walk up the steep hill to where we’ll meet a camioneta to go back to Antigua. The lake is evidently too choppy for a lancha. Although it does remind me of San Francisco Bay on the Oakland side, it doesn’t look that bad to me. But we reach the top of the hill and a bus is waiting at the corner. After we hop on I remember that camioneta is the local name for chicken-bus, which I have promised myself NEVER to ride back from Pana, since I’ve heard such horror-stories from my Spanish teacher about bus carcases over the side of the roads. The driver gets on. He is dark, young, lanky, and wild-haired. He looks as though his day-job is running drugs, and as though he could be on them at the moment, but he turns out to be a reasonably careful driver, and cautious with his bus. We drive around the lake and go through San Juan, which is really beautiful. I would like to come back here to explore this town.
The driver gets out to open the hood and put water in at the bottom of the climb to Solola. Once again, he stops while we are in the middle of the climb uphill, and his assistant jumps out to add a bucket of water to the steaming engine. I have always been afraid of cliffs, so I keep my attention assiduously to the landward side of the climb. At one point I can’t avoid noticing there are some steep drop-offs to the left, and there – God testing me on this fear, too – when we approach a sharp turn, which requires the bus to move to the outside of the grade, a huge concrete truck meets us coming around the turn. We have to stop right when I wish we could get out of this area - the cliff seems so close and nothing to stop us careening off -  and then back up enough to allow the truck to make a turn on the Inside of the hill. We then have to approach the turn, and once again back up toward the edge of the cliff to make the hairpin. It is truly grueling for me, my stomach is in a painful knot, but I just keep breathing and look at the hillside, and eventually we are through it.
I am always enchanted with the job of the bus assistants, who hop off at corners to see if people are headed down the street for the bus, and swing back on while the bus is moving. They also help people with their packages, take money, somehow remember on these packed buses who has paid and who has newly arrived, and generally keep things moving and let the driver pay attention to driving. I like that a lot. But I am amazed, when a woman gets up while the bus is moving and walks toward to front to get out at the next stop that this assistant opens the door of the bus and climbs the ladder to get her parcel from the top, while the bus is going at least 30 mph. She gets off, the bus starts up again, and the assistant emerges from the back of the bus where he’s gotten down the ladder and through the door at the back.
We are often three-to-a-seat on this chickenbus; at one point the dirtiest man I’ve ever seen gets on and sits next to me. He begins a conversation with me in very clear Spanish. Where have I been, where am I going. I talk with him the best I can until he starts asking where my husband is. At this point the young teacher I’m traveling with whispers to me “Don’t talk to him.” I am never rude, but diminish the conversation. Eventually he gets off.
And eventually, three hours later, we arrive in Chimaltenango. The girls get off and go their separate ways, with hugs all around. The young man and I walk for blocks and then hop the bus to Antigua, as my Spanish teacher and I did a few weeks before, arriving at the back of the Mercado (and a bathroom) at about 6:30 p.m.. We part company after we agree I will NOT try to help him prepare materials for the next training in Antigua tomorrow, and instead get ready for my quick trip to California for a family funeral.
I buy a few things at the Bodegona, mochilera still on my back, and then opt for a tuk tuk home. This private if bumpy lift costs me more, to go ten blocks, than a 20 mile trip on the crowded bus.

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.

Day Three - Livingston

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.

El Dia de Los Muertos

EL DIA DE LOS MUERTOS I realized this community takes this day seriously when my Spanish teacher told me there would be no class today because she was going to the cemetery to take flowers to her child who died eight years ago as a baby. When I think how some people in my family give my granddaughter grief for continuing to go the grave of her six- year-old child, after five years, the difference in attitude of the two cultures is more obvious.
Hardly anyone in the calle; no one in the park. That is unprecedented. No one hundred or more people in line for the clinic at the hospital, when I go to volunteer. As a matter of fact, hardly anyone there at all. For the first time, today, I had to change two dirty diapers. I’m guessing that they were short of nurses, so that some of the staff could go to honor their dead.
After working, I passed some people in the street selling the beautifully-colored kites that are used on this day to commemorate the dead. I know there are huge ones somewhere, but these were small. I felt an urge to buy one but thought “…but I have no dead to commemorate.” Maybe I was thinking about dead children of my own, which thankfully I don’t have, but there are my parents, two of my husbands and a best friend….and a great-grandchild. Nonetheless I didn’t buy a kite because the rain clouds were heavy overhead and I could imagine them drowning in the rain.
As I walked up to the Spanish school to take their bus to Santiago Sematapeq, where I had heard they would be flying the big kites in earnest, I was surprised to find that most of the stores I know were closed for the day. A Spanish student from Germany and I chat while we wait for the bus to leave. We drive for miles out of town and into the country. We start to drive down a long winding dirt road to the town, but the police said there are no parking spaces for miles. So we get out and walk…….for miles; down one hill and up another to Santiago. There we came upon throngs of people, thousands of people milling up and down the streets. One hoard is on its way uphill to see the big kites and the other returning; Guatemalan men, women, children, and a few gringos here and there among them. All along the route people were selling everything imaginable, especially food and textiles. Everything drew my attention, especially the food since I hadn’t had anything for lunch, but our leader was moving strongly through the packed crowd, and I didn’t want to lose track of him. Finally we reached the top of the hill. There was a bandstand and a band, but as usual at these “fiestas” there was more giving away of prizes (T-shirts, hats) than music. This seemed to hold the attention of the 500 or so people assembled. We passed through that area quickly; ahead was the cemetery where the kites were.

The cemetery covers nearly five acres of this hillside. Almost every tomb, either those that are cement and above ground, or the simple mounds of mustard-colored earth, are graced with flowers; red, yellow, orange, blue and purple everywhere. A few tombs were covered completely with marigold petals. The multitude of flowers were witness to the number of visitors to the tombs this morning, and the care given to the dead. But now the graves were being walked over and trashed by the crowd assembled to see the kites. The woman I was walking with kept saying, “Lo siento; lo siento,” (I’m sorry) as she walked over them.
There were ten or so kites propped up on the perimeter fence which were at least 40 feet across…..brightly colored, with beautiful designs, traditional and modern, and covered with sayings of all kinds, mostly religious. The messages on one huge kite were about Justice; it had many drawings with sayings like “No more assassinations,” “No drug trafficking,” “No victimization.” Another adjured the readers to respect the traditions, and remember the language. These were not flown, though tears in the fabric – seen against the sky – suggested flights in the past. In the air were 20-30 small kites but at least five of the large ones 10-15’ across were flying. These heavy birds are constructed with bamboo poles crisscrossed to hold the octagonal fabric; if they didn’t make it aloft and were to come crashing down on the crowd, which they did two or three times while I was there, they could cause some damage but definitely caused a lot of excitement and laughter. The place was packed with people flying kites, eating and drinking, and watching the sky. Kids ran around with toys which buzzed and whistled. The helado (ice cream) sellers rang their bells to attract customers. These sounds added to and enriched the fabric of the day.
Red and yellow and white against the blue sky, flags flying, the sight of these enormous kites in the air could almost make you believe they could enable souls to soar aloft on their way to Heaven.