Shamanes and curanderos

I apparently haven't written about the use of shamen and healers in San Pedro la Laguna, Guatemala, which is a tradition very much alive and well even tho Evangelicism has a such a strong hold (Catholicism has embraced Mayan traditional activities much more than the Evangelical churches, who even generally supported the army in their war against the indigenous in the 80s.)

My friend Jose's wife Micaela broke her ankle the day before Christmas. The family immediately called a woman curandera, a bone-healer. You can read about them on the ArteMaya.com website, but usually they are known to be healers from birth but don't start working as a healer until they find their curing bone, which calls or reveals itself to them in one way or another at some point in their 20s or 30s.

So this woman rubs the bone on the affected area (which can be very painful) until the broken bones are aligned, rubs the area with a pomade (don't know what's in it) and wraps it. There is no burning of candles or incense during this treatment, which is not regarded as a ceremony in that sense.

In the case of an accident like this, or when their little niece fell in the street and couldn't sleep the next night, or when Jose's son Lucas hurt himself badly falling from a flag pole, a shaman will also be called for the Traida de la Alma ceremony (depicted in one of Jose's paintings....see www.paintmyfuture.org)
This person lights candles and incense, prays, and then taking his small whip, goes to the site of the accident, usually with one family member, in the middle of the night as the soul is thought to be sensitive and easily-distracted or disturbed by street traffic or passersby, and they want it to make its way back to the injured person. At the site of the accidnet the shaman will pray and talk to the soul, reminding it of all the things it misses in the life of the person, and encouraging it to return. The whip is then used to beat the path behind the soul as it returns to the person's home, where the injured person waits, often asleep. When they wake they are predictably thirsty, as the soul hasn't drunk water in a long time.

With that piece of the soul returned to the body, the person usually sleeps well, becomes less anxious, and the body recuperates more quickly.

On this occasion, a woman shaman did the ceremony in the house (I heard of this in the case of the litle girl who fell, as well) and she simply symbolized the route from the place where Micaela fell with a line of candles, and did the same action along the line of candles, bringing the soul home.

In this case, neither of these - treatment or ceremony - seemed to work....Micaela was still in a lot of pain, and couldn't sleep or tend her home (which was lucky for me because I got to become part of the family for a few days, preparing food, cooking, and cleaning,)

So yesterday a different bone healer was called, and when the medical doctor (family friend) came to visit in the evening he prounced the bone in place and beginning to heal. The family also had a male shaman come and he did the whole ceremony from the point of fall. Today she is remarkably better.

It was interesting to me to watch Jose take over many of her tasks --cooking, sweeping the floor, cleaning the bathroom and so on, even buying stuff in the mercado in the mornings with all the women lined up to select and bargain, When she's able I've rarely seen him do any of these things. However her mother and two sisters who live next door on either side also help. Wonderful for me to see the family cooperation and fun.

Unfortunately no fotos to add to this story.

Guate funeral

Seven children; 69 grand and great-grand children. Died in his home in the midst of his family at the age of 95. Carried to the church for the last time in the hands of his son and grandsons, and then to the cemetary.

There were a lot of Tz'utujil words about his life, (this grandfather of my friend Jose) but I only got that he was a farmer and businessman - he and his brothers had the first buses on the new highway from San Pedro la Laguna to Guatemala City in 1957.

The sign carried by the children in the front of the procession from the church to the cemetary, said: "Little Grandfather (Abuelito) your grandchildren and greatgrandchildren love you, we will remember you forever. and your example will serve us well.. May God hold you in his Glory."

Evidently the grandfather was an important figure in the community, and thus the 200 or so people in his funeral procession. He was originally a trader in produce, his own and others, I presume - walking from San Pedro to the coast to sell, in 1935. He had the very first "molino" or corn grinder in the pueblo (thus reducing the amount of work each woman had to do to make tortillas.) The family still has this grinder. As I said above, he was one of the brothers who began the Mendez transportation business (a lot of old US school buses, now called "chicken-buses" by the foreigners, but which provided connection between the pueblos and to the Capital.) He was also a "pillar" of his church.

Taa' Menchu - Taa' means "elder" and Menchu indicates that his family first came to San Pedro from Totonicapan.

The family then observed the traditional (in this area) novenario, 9 days of mourning, serving some 200 people a day with a meal, and on the 9th day 1000 people.
Jose had to go pick up 300 live chickens to take to the 35 women of the family whom together will produce this meal.
Then the family continues for the next 40 days to spend a lot of meals with the bereaved grandmother.
I am impressed. SO much work and money spent, so much time together to help this close family through the transition.

Children of Guatemala

THE CHILDREN OF GUATEMALA
As I sat in the park in Antigua Guatemala, my first week as a Spanish student there, a boy of perhaps six came up to me with a shy expression and a wooden box to put my shoe on so he could shine it. He said something I didn’t understand and gestured at my shoes…I shook my head and indicated that they weren’t made to be shined. He looked at them dubiously for a moment and then wandered away, eyeing the shoes of each person sitting on the stone benches (old men, family groups, couples, and the occasional single person like me) as he passed.
A young boy about his age caught his eye. This boy was dressed in suit-pants and a white buttoned shirt; his hair combed back. He was with his family, and his father was blowing bubbles for him from a small bottle in his hand. The boy was shouting with delight and rushing back and forth to chase each new bubble. The shoe-shine boy paused for 4-5 minutes--watching the boy’s pleasure, perhaps; noting the interaction between father and child. Then he hitched the strap of his box up higher on his shoulder, as if suddenly remembering his responsibilities, and moved on down the path.
This was one of the first things that struck me about Guatemala: the old people working—firewood or bags of rocks strapped to their backs; pushing huge vending carts up the cobblestone streets, and children working--selling newspapers, fountain pens with your name on them, and picture cards, or shining shoes. Some of these children are working with or for their mothers, vending textiles, or begging with a bowl on one side of the street while mom sits on the other. But many are by themselves at 5, 6, 7 years old in a reasonably big city.
Children working became even more evident when I moved to a rural pueblo at the side of Lake Atitlan. But here it was more often with the family and not necessarily for money (though at the dock in Santiago you will be set upon by dozens of children vending bracelets, key rings, and other crafts items...and occasionally begging.) In both San Pedro, where I’ve lived for three years, and San Pablo, where I volunteer in the school, the children work for family – carrying corn to be ground, food purchases from the store, holding balls of yarn while mama winds them, or holding the homemade tool which twists the maguey twine made in San Pablo while mom plaits the plant fibre into the rope from her position five yards up the street. In San Pablo I saw two boys, perhaps 8 and 10, pulling a huge bull on a rope to tether him in another grassy spot. In slightly more sophisticated San Pedro, I often see a 13 year old carrying a man-size bundle of firewood strapped to his back via the mecapal across his forehead, and know well a 14 year old who helps his father get a pig on a table to slit its throat. The families I know think nothing of asking their children of all ages to drop what they’re doing and run to the store for them, and I never hear a “thank you” for their efforts. It is simply accepted that children help their parents as part of being in a family…just as their parents once did.
Another immediately-notable thing about Guatemalan children is the respect and affection they evidence for their parents and their elders in general. Fifteen-year-old young men walk with their arms around the shoulders of their much smaller mothers. And when I first arrived in San Pedro, I noticed a line of 3-4 adolescent boys lined up to kiss the hand of an old man, an elder, sitting on the side of the street. There is also enormous familial affection, evidenced everywhere: young brothers and sisters walk holding hands; a teen-age boy cares for his much younger brother, holding him on his shoulders, or by the hand. All of this is almost too common to mention, but not so common in the U.S. Perhaps this caring is part of the net that makes working with family not only tolerable but enjoyable.
Guatemalan children, especially the poor ones I know, share a bed with brothers and sisters and sometimes parents. Hand-me-downs from older sibs is the norm. Few have toys, certainly not more than one or two, and these are also shared. If you give a poor child some food, they will invariably tuck a part of it in some crevice in their clothing for their brother or sister.

In most other respects, of course, they are like children everywhere: curious, inventive, full of energy, fun, and teasing.
I asked a young man of 20--who told me he worked side-by-side with his father in the fields, hoeing corn and whatever else needed doing, from the time he was six or so—how that felt. Was it like drudgery? Did he resent it? Was it in any way fun? (showing my bias by my questions, of course.) He said no, he never resented it; he was proud to work beside his dad. “And there were no diversions or distractions in those days (a mere 14 years ago or less),” he said. “No TV, no video games. We were happy to have something to do and proud to help. It’s a little different, now.”
In this slightly more modern town, affected by much tourism over the past 30 years, things are changing…for children, perhaps more quickly than for anyone else. Plastic toys have arrived in cheap droves….sold in the flung-up booths along the street during the week of Feria. They break quickly, so the cry goes out for more. Many children have at least rudimentary TV channels available in their homes or that of a friend; Hannah Montana items (a lunchbox, backpack, or actual toy!) suggest that you are “in the know,” one of the chosen ones (we can all remember this from our own childhoods.) Envy thrives. Some young girls are now wearing sports clothing, instead of the traditional wrapped skirt, belt and woven blouse.
These are not bad things in themselves, but as young people begin to want things from the wider world (in particular the U.S.) more than they want what their parents have to teach them, as cellphones and IPODs and gameboys become the desirable items and their grandparents know nothing about them, a measure of respect is lost. The sculpted hair of the boys and makeup the young girls want separate them even more from their befuddled grandparents…still immersed in centuries of tradition…and a generation gap ensues. And of course for those families who can afford to send their children to university in the Capital, the children grow away from home. I think that the family net is strong enough here to hold again the stretching of the bonds; I hope that’s true…and that the children of this generation gain more than they lose from all these changes.

Miranda Pope works with preschool children in San Pablo in her project (www.letsbeready.org) and with 5 to 13-year-old children of single mothers in her project in San Pedro la Laguna (www.paintmyfuture.org.)

Addendum to previous post.

I had difficult loading up enough photos to do honor to Semana Santa in San Pedro la Laguna, but if you'll go to my facebook page -- I think it's under Mira Talbott-Pope -- you'll find a photo album for Semana Santa 2010 that has 25 or so photos with descriptions that give some sense of the history and culture.
I love living in San Pedro. You get used to wherever you live, but when I think about this place, looking at it from the outside, it's so deep and rich. I feel blessed.

SEMANA SANTA 2010-04-01

El dia de la procesión de los niños., today…dia del virgen. This procession through the alfrombras, or beautiful fruit-and-flower carpets, in the streets ¨to the cross¨ affected me more than recent others have, maybe because the procession of children in special dress or costume-- some of the boys carrying the andas of Christ; some of the girls carrying Mary-- stopped on a large straw mat at various corners of the main calles of San Pedro (where usually I go to the ATM machine, buy my cards for my celfone, or buy my fruit and vegetables.) There tables had been set up with candles, flowers, and incense, and several old ladies in traditional dress, under a huge double arch of fruits and vegetables.In each of these spots or “stations of the cross,” a different child read a passage from the bible describing this station (Christ fell here and a soldier helped him up, it was difficult here and a follower wiped his brow, etc.) and all the people recited the appropriate group response. Really beautiful to hear the solemn voices. And then the whole column proceeded slowly to the next station, the or carriers with a side-to-side swaying motion, and the old ladies in the rear singing out of books that looked as old as they did.The children were adorable, as always,but the thing that always gets me is Mary following her son to his cruxificion. It was after all, a true story, whatever Mel Gibson made of it. I could become a Catholic, for all the chanting and incense, and the personal story of Christ; I just happen to have bad feelings about the Catholic Church.Que lastima.

Guatemala Life and Culture

As I look out my kitchen window this early morning, my neighbor, wife of the gerente or manager, walks across the grass toward her one-room building - which is home to at least four people - carrying the morning’s bread, fresh from a local bakery. She does this every morning, usually accompanied by one or more of her grandchildren, the youngest of whom always lives with her. She then cleans one of the other houses, several times a week, does her family’s wash by hand in the pila of the house across from me, and keeps her own home spotless, as I learned once when I had to use their gas stove to heat water because the electricity at my house was off. Her older children visit often, one bringing her two grandchildren with her, and the women sit in the area they’ve created adjacent to the building, just recently roofing it with corrugated plastic, and creating a foundation, so it has become a room with two walls, the other two open to the garden. This is where the family spends its daytimes and sometimes evenings. And this is her life. She rarely leaves the “compound,” though she sometimes goes with her grandchildren out into the plazuela in front of our houses to look on at an event. She seems to have no friends in the community, or at least none visit and she doesn’t spend time anywhere else. My friend Katrina complained that a woman she has come to know here has a similar life, working all day in a small hotel, and going home to her own home with her son at night; nothing else. But Maria’s life looks okay to me. Her children and grandchildren adore her and are very affectionate with her. Her son evidently studies hard, and is playful and good with the little children. Her husband, who looks quite a bit older, is a sweet, loving and hard-working man. They have created a life, as managers of this little compound, that is better than that of many people in the community. What more does one really need?

Yesterday a funeral, and later a carnival for the kids and some sort of dancing in the evening – from the distance of my house it looked like those figures with big comic heads. And of course bombas – the big ones, going off from time to time. Today there is a barrage of 80 million firecrackers going on down the alley past my house, following a play of some sort which was held in front of the church, with figures costumed as kings, queens, and knights, with play sword-fighting and much shouting; now a band consisting of several horns and a tuba just went walking thru the pine needle alfombra on the street and past my house, down the alley, followed by 50 or so people from the village. There is a statue of the crowned Virgin up in front of the church, but I have no idea what it’s all about. I don’t see Maria and her kids in the yard, perhaps they are in that crowd. Tono just came back all dressed nicely and with his hair combed back. Usually he is in the yard with his pants rolled up and his hair every which-a-way. I moved here to be part of a community…..but I don’t take part, really. Primarily because I have noone to go out on the plaza with. I should get the phone number of another volunteer who lives down the street next to the store, so I can see if she wants to attend with me, the next time something’s going on. Don’t know why I think I need that, but I always feel I stick out like a sore thumb. Probably I’m un-noticed. I have been out there of course – once for a good futbol game, twice with our clowns, once or twice for music or some other event, and of course I used to work with our teachers in this school. But no mucho. 

I went with our young teachers on a bus to Alotenango today. I expected to find it a small pueblo on the side of that volcano, like Santa Maria is on Agua, but instead it is a fairly large, probably once colonial town, like Ciudad Vieja (the first Spanish capital) down in the valley some distance from the foot of the volcano of the same name, which can be seen from the streets in Antigua, companion to Fuego. In this town streets are paved with interlocking cement blocks, like so many. There are some large stately buildings, most in disrepair, some half-destroyed. This pueblo is also dominated by Volcan Agua and probably received some of the brunt of that deluge. Their cemetery is one of the grandest I’ve seen, with figures on top of the omnipresent cement biers, possibly these were internments in colonial times, although at a quick glance I thought I saw flowers on those graves. The people of the town, as in Santa Maria, are more indigenous than in Antigua…..browner faces, shorter bodies, more traditional traje. But there are also a few young women in pants suits….maybe teachers from other towns...and young t-shirted girls on bicycles. The school is quite large, grey, dirty, ill-lit but spacious. The teachers all looked friendly. No kids in class, yet. The sub-directora was hospitable and seemed intent on introducing the idea of our program to her teachers at a meeting tomorrow. It seems word of the program has been spread there by a teacher who took the training and used the exercises. That’s nice to hear. Coming back, I was glad to have time to do some grocery shopping before my Spanish class at home this afternoon. Carrying my groceries home, stopping at the internet shop to email family and friends, it suddenly seemed awfully nice just to be here. I have always been so set on accomplishing something, being of use, being valuable to others, on having a purpose in what I do…so Capricornian, really most of the time, although if I have a Grand purpose then I am comfortable fooling around on my “off-hours.” But for this moment it just seemed nice to be in THIS town, even at this juncture (although modernization continues creeping in,) to be seeing these faces, and expressions of this culture (which, as soon as I had decided the other day that it was becoming overly modern, seemed to show me one face or another of its traditional activities – the procession, WITHOUT a motorized carrier for the large religious figure, the band very slow and traditional….drum and out-of-tune horns., all these somber people in black, walking and chanting. Lovely, really. ) That it was nice to live here, regardless of how productive or helpful I’m actually being. Just that I like living in this town and this culture. Although as usual it’s hard for me to say that without quickly saying…..of course I’d rather live in the country. Yesterday an older man (well maybe my age) made the rounds of the plazuela, trying to get people to write letters complaining about the noise. His wife is ill, he said, and the noise makes it impossible to sleep. Well, I told him, I understand completely, although at times I rather like the music, but I don’t want to write letters complaining, because I’m a visitor here. This is their pueblo. If I don’t like it, I can move. He explained that he and his wife have rented a house here for some years, since moving from the house they own in Panjachel. He’d like me to come visit his wife, as she has no social outlets. After telling him about my volunteer work, he said, well you could consider it a deed much-needed. He is originally from Trinidad and has lived in the U.S. and Europe. His wife lived in Argentina at one time (and danced Tango, he said when I asked) during the Eva Peron era. The gentleman told me that the factory behind his house, of which I see the East gate from my house, and the employees at lunch break in the calle North of me, is owned by an American and makes rugs which he imports somewhere. Well there’s what I railed at in my political days…..American jobs going overseas to take advantage of the low wages and no benefits. But in this town this is the ONLY industry, and except for the many vendors and few cabinetmakers, etc., the only job in town. What a huge difference these jobs make for the people of Santa Ana. The other face of CAFTA. 

I am sending ideas to my two friends who are planning to visit here in February. It is wonderful to remember all the trips I’ve taken and the lovely or interesting places I’ve been, and would like to take them to, and of course we will see some new areas, as well. I have been dying to get to the jungle – having a fantasy about listening to the night sounds – for some time, and we will go to Tikal. My wireless internet at home has not been functioning since the first days of the electrical blackouts, which happened daily for a week or so, about the same time every evening. That was during our coldest days (maybe 48 degrees F) so perhaps lots of people had electric heaters turned on. But the phone in the house across from me ceased functioning, and that is my internet connection. And then nobody did anything about it, since those young volunteers come and go. You’d think connection with home in Belgium would prompt some action, but no. I finally had to call repair service – which came the following day to my amazement. But internet still doesn’t work. So tonight I called Julio – a smiling family man who has a small shop in the front of his house ½ mile closer to town. I had recently taken my thumb drive to him, when it developed a virus and wouldn’t open. As I walked there, I caught him in the doorway of his shop with his arm around his 10 year old boy. There is now an internet shop next door to him; perhaps he has expanded. He fixed my thumb drive with no charge and a big smile. 

Yesterday about 5 pm, as I accompanied my Spanish teacher to my gate when she was leaving, there were cacophonous noises from the church nearby. We stood for a moment with the manager of this place to see what would emerge. My teacher surprised me by asking the manager’s age. He said he is 73 and that the tiny girl with him is his daughter, not granddaughter as I had thought. He also said his wife, who looks perhaps 40, is only a few years younger. So none of this adds up, but perhaps is the story they tell this little girl. At that moment a large anda began to emerge from the church, carried on the shoulders of about 25 people. My teacher and the manager surprised me by instantly dropping to their knees, though we were 100 yards away, and making the sign of the cross, then kissing the tip of their joined thumb and fingers, as people do here. They remained kneeling for another few moments. The figure on the anda looked black, from my vantage point, and I asked if it was the Christo Negro. I had heard that his figure, famous in Esquipulas, some several hours distant from here, and that people came there to worship from Mexico, Nicaragua, and so forth. My teacher told me there are numerous copies of this figure, and evidently one here. The musicians following the anda were the worst I’ve ever heard, the cacophonous quality of a 6th grade band of horns and a single booming drum. Yet somehow the primitive quality of the music was appealing. About 60 people walked in front, beside, and following this anda with its brightly illuminated Christo, wearing head coverings and carrying candles. The group stopped some 20 feet from where I stood, taking photos (after asking my manager if it weren’t rude,) and lowered the anda to arm's height for a few minutes, then shouldered it again and proceeded. The usual firecracker explosions followed along with them. I want to learn more about these various figures, because far more are celebrated than fits the schedule of each village having its saint’s day.

Personal Musings, and Volunteering

My 70th birthday party in Berkeley in 2006 marked the beginning of my trip to Guatemala. I gave myself a party last year with 15 people, mostly from the writers' group, in attendance; this year my “boss” convinced me to have a party at his house. It was lovely. Most of our teachers and the coordinator from the project and my Spanish teacher and the teacher I worked with in San Pedro all came, the latter two ladies brought their teenage daughters. Many people from Fred’s hotel came and two of my gringa women friends from writers’ group. 21 people in all….and we had entertainment by the great clowns that are staying in that hotel and are collaborating with Fred's Payasos Educadores clown project, with whom there were also great connections afterwards for the training the French Canadian clown is giving. 

A month or so ago, Fred offered me the (volunteer) position as his coordinator for the young women teachers. I said “No, what I really want to do is work with women and children.” And then pissing and moaning to myself a few nights later about not having been able to find a position doing that, I suddenly thought, “Of course I will be his coordinator. I can continue to improve my Spanish, and eventually I’ll be able to do counseling, etc, but I can’t, now, anyway.” I think it’s about looking at what’s being offered in front of you – not what you want to reach for. So I have started by looking for funding for his project, and have a couple of good leads and one Letter of Inquiry in. Fred has also started considering doing Early Childhood Education training for teachers, expanding our Pedagogia Basic training plan. Well ECE is what I consulted in for 15 years, and I do feel passionately that children need good initial school experiences (if not totally good experiences) so I am happy to help out with that. I have developed a plan for HOW to do that, using the ECCERS, and have written away for materials. So I feel productive and energized about that. I have been attending a training by a professor from Canada on the topic, and contributing somewhat….trying actually to keep my mouth shut because of course I always think that I have ideas better than almost anyone I listen to. Which is silly, really; I have many ideas to contribute on the topic and they have others. Collaboration is the key. So that has been interesting. She will speak about behavior management this week; there I will really have to sit on my hands, or better yet, use all my skills to say what I need to without offending her or taking over the training. That will be hard unless she has a very similar philosophy of behavior mgt….and even on classroom management we have had at least one difference. In my opinion much of the ideas (Montessori, and others) on education were developed in a time and with a culture which was very emotionally restricted, upperclass, needing liberalization. And as much as I believe in this, and taught in this framework myself when raising my kids, I have learned that for kids from chaotic backgrounds, children with emotional and behavioral issues, there needs to be more structure and somewhat more restricted choices. Or at least to start with that until they feel secure about what is expected in class, then perhaps you can allow more freedom and choice. Besides the Circles people found that when choices and group size were limited, children interacted more verbally and tried more different activities. So….at any rate we will see about all that. 

Today I attended a Payasos training to attract new payasos to volunteer with us. Very entertaining. Lovely expressive people; and several young teens were there, wanting to become clowns. I have learned there is a strong expressive arts community emerging or growing stronger here. There was a collaborative meeting in San Marcos a few months ago, with dancers, and performers, including some from the Livingston group. This country is not huge, and thus collaboration is easy or at least possible. But I think good things are beginning to happen too. And Guat has a new President who promises to be slightly more liberal than the last. Like a Clinton compared to Bush or one even more militaristic than Bush. 

January 2008. I have seen all of 2007 here. I have a brief respite before the school year begins, and then we will see what the year holds. My “boss” said we will have more responsibility this year; not sure yet what that means, or if it involves me. 

There have been so many changes in Guatemala in just the short time I’ve been here. First and fore-most their airport, which has gone from a small and funky one, which I liked a lot, to one the equivalent of L.A. Other changes? The highway between Gua City and Antigua has been noticeably improved. That has been going on since I arrived, causing many delays in getting from city to town. On a local level, I notice more kids with bicycles and one with inline skates, though one ten-year-old boy watching the payasos in our park one day in December said he had never had a bicycle. And very close to my house is the first fast-food place in Santa Ana, offering pizza and hamburgers. It has become the front-step hangout for young men and a few women with motorcycles and scooters, or just standing around. The internet shop in Santa Ana - a hole in the wall, previously; the ground-floor front room of a two-story house where the shop-owner lives – has up-graded considerably. New linoleum tile on the floor, two rooms, more computers, internet setup for the kids and young men to play games, AND better quality connections. The owner still has his two young boys - maybe 11 and 15 - run the shop, though I notice they run upstairs to call him if something goes wrong. 

I have become concerned with a small and simple shift: all the older people always greet one another during the day and evening, with “Buenos dias, buenas tardes, buenas noches…” I love the sound of it as they pass and respond to my greetings. All the different intonations, different styles; it’s really quite lovely – I’d like to record it. But what concerns me is that most of the youth….or maybe half of them, toss off a “Buenas” or a “Hola” or don’t respond at all. Is this just another indicator that the old, polite, slow ways here are passing?? Will it all go in the direction of wanting more things, spending more time in loud bars? Today I read the book by Nicole Maxwell, about hunting for medicinal plants in the Amazon in the late 1950’s. “The younger Indians,” she writes of the Cárdenas, “consider such ‘classical’ sessions [of the men’s secret societies] rather a bore. They aren’t much interested in ancient beliefs, and when it comes to parties, they’d just as soon dance rumbas to the music of the radio on the smooth [new] floors of their living quarters.” So this has always been going on. Is this just because of the North American/European influence? or is this the natural Uranian thrust of youth? Always drawn to the new and different, rejecting of the “old” ways of their parents? I suspect there are always different temperaments, even within this young/old dichotomy………those who move eagerly to the new, those who hang onto the old forever. 

Something I love: yesterday on my way into town, a teenaged boy on a bicycle was pedaling his mother who sat on the crossbar in front of him, and a man was pedaling his three little kids: a girl on a seat behind him, and two boys, one on the crossbar in front of him, and one on the front fender, facing and hanging onto the handlebars. 

Bad News: My salsa teacher was wounded while taking part in a procession on Christmas day and has been unable to work all during the time I was in New York City for Xmas, so I had a class with a younger teacher in their new “salon,” which is just the large entry way of a small hotel – where they moved way over by the Mercado after the tienda of tipica they had been housed in was robbed during the night a few weeks ago. And that right after a day-time armed robbery of a regular tienda down the same street, which has caused it to bar its entrance. In the same week a young American friend of friends was stopped by a motorcyclist not too far from my area in broad daylight, and robbed at knifepoint, and a chickenbus from Comalapa was boarded, and everyone robbed of their huipils and their Christmas bonuses. So there is more crime and violence here than when I first came, and it is extending to the locals, not just the tourists. The “word” is that gangs from the City are moving out into the rural areas. 

On the way to walk out to my salsa class today (now nearly a mile away,) I noticed bundles of pine needles arriving on the main street of my pueblo, and more cars parked than I’ve seen before. I thought perhaps it is a saint’s day or something and that I would find a procession on my return. But coming back, I found the main street of Santa Ana full of people in black, following behind a carried gold casket. Hundreds of solemn people, walking…some singing. Back up the street toward my house there were still people lining the streets, so whatever it is is not over. There were bombas being set off as I left, but none now. We have had our electricity going off and on and off for several days, apparently due to high winds knocking trees onto the wires here and there in Guate. Our water is out today too, and for the first time we have none in our reserve tank. Internet is also out at my house, because the phone in the house I get wireless service from has not been working since the first power outage. We also had a 5.6 earthquake centered in “nearby” Esquintla yesterday evening. It was the first one that has startled me enough to cause me to run quickly out of the house…..where I found my neighbors, too. I thought it all seemed very 3rd world til I read the news today that 500,000 people in California (including my sister, for a time) are without power. My daughter living in my house has snow, no power, and no hot water. I had the house set up for those emergencies, but they aren't sure how to get the generator power going. Much email conversation about that. The huge bunch of bananas that has been hanging in the tree in the yard came down yesterday. And with it came the whole 30 foot tree. My Spanish teacher told me that the tree is no good once it produces a bunch…..that a sprout will grow out of the old trunk to produce a new "tree". It will be interesting to see how long that takes. The bananas are ripening in a wheelbarrow covered with a tarp in a corner of the yard. I’m sorry to see that long purple knobbed appendage come down with it. That was beautiful.

Mythical Mayan Pueblo - DOS

My mythical Mayan Pueblo #2 Went with a social worker to San Cristobal al Alto this morning, taking a road I walk past all the time on my way to the Project. This 5-mile road - almost all dirt, though fitted concrete blocks cover some especially steep parts - climbs the hillside maybe 1000' to a small pueblo which is the prettiest one I've seen. Unlike others, the road meanders a lot thru the pueblo, and the houses and tiendas are not just one long row of low concrete buildings or walls on either side of the road, painted different colors. There are gardens interspersed between the houses, some cultivated, some wild. The church is one of the least ornate I've seen....actually looks abandoned but is still in use on Sundays. The school appears to have about 3 classrooms. There is a medical clinic run by the government in a room of the school and a moderate-sized plaza between the school and the church. That's center of town. Along the - seems like just one main - road in the pueblo are several tiendas carrying the usual sorts of odd things, lots of wrapped penny candies, Ketchup, Corn Flakes, some bread rolls open in a case, next to a box of batteries, etc. The tiendas are jammed to the rafters but I am hard-pressed to say with exactly what. At one spot on our walk through town, a baby pig got out in the road and was chased or herded by me and several children (a sure sign that I'm going to like the place!) What was especially lovely [we're suddenly having an afternoon downpour in my pueblo and I hear the children playing in the plaza screaming and running for cover] is the view which you can see in places of Volcan Agua, pretty close, and in one direction of San Pedro (where I work in the school) and of Antigua in the other, way down below. Tan bonita! What was charming was all the gardens. Even at that altitude (probably 6000') lots of banana trees with huge leaves like elongated, slotted elephants' ears, many many Nispero trees (loquat), oranges, grapefruit, limes, corn galore, squash so verdant the vines were climbing 15-foot trees. The people are not really indigenous, there - no traje worn - but most are agricultural workers, some work in Antigua. The streets were mostly empty when we were there at 9-11 a.m. So most people were off at work. The woman we visited said the pueblo is very tranquil. Some danger from thieves if you walk down the hill by yourself, but otherwise no. As we drove in, the driver said an American lives there in a big house....no se' if it's year-round or occasionally, but it surprised me to hear this as it feels quite isolated up there. It was about a half-hour drive up the hill; maybe 12 mins. coming down. But there are actually busses that make it up that road, three times a day. That is phenomenal...I don't think I'd want to ride in one. Very steep and muddy. I asked a woman if there were houses for rent, because I was quite captivated, but she said she didn't think so. I can see that hill from my house as I sit here writing. I have such a strong craving to live in the country. My house here is surrounded by a nice cultivated garden and there are tall banana trees directly opposite my window, but it is not the same. It's just very difficult to do so, at least from my current vantage point. I think the only way it could happen is if a project has a small satellite somewhere and wants someone to "man" it....that way you have some status and protection....some raison d'etre. Otherwise I don't know how. And that particular place is a bit isolated from anything in Antigua, like my writer's group, or the mercado, or my salsa classes.But where there's a will...............there may be a way. 

Volunteering yesterday a gringa speech therapist and I went to a home in a downpour of rain....up the narrow dirt path between barbed wire fences, the rain making a river of the path with just a 6" dry part....thru the scrap-wood gate (happy hollering kid in the rain opening the gate for us) and thru the filthy yard. I know there is nothing about poverty that requires a yard to be full of trash (except perhaps no $5 per month for trash pickup).....but this one is the worst I've seen. But a large yard, at this moment all mud....a few wet flowering plants, a banana tree or two. The house is two concrete block rooms without doors or windows and a kitchen area that is just an open shed with sink, woodstove and plank table. The five kids are all wet and dirty; we work with them (me doing a puzzle with the three boys to keep them occupied while the younger daughter gets speech therapy) in the kitchen/shed area. Can't remember if the floor is cement or dirt, I think cement, but there is no electricity, so we work in the very dim light on this grey day. The young dog hangs out under the table since he has discovered I pet him; his nose is constantly in my hand as the kids and I play. The boys are great. Their hair hasn't been washed in awhile and sticks out all over; their faces are very Mayan....although narrow, but high cheekbones, dark skin. They are fairly quiet and pretty cooperative with each other; they sort of ignore me, as many kids do because I don't speak a lot and not always well....but they get along well together and respond more to me as time goes on. The mother is small and dark, smooth hair, wearing American clothes, a sweater; she is quick in her movements........she reads to the other daughter and is generally good to her kids, but slaps if they displease her....and last time berated her daughter to tears for spilling something. I want to do some parenting but the speech teacher rightly says the mother hasn't agreed to this, and I don't have the language to do the adroit entries into suggesting this ("Perhaps you'd like some ideas for other ways of handling her behavior," or such as that.) It isn't that I can't say those things ("Tal vez quisieras unas sugerencias para otras maneras en que tu puedes mantener su comportamiento") but here in the quiet of my home it takes me a whole minute to think of it....and in the flow of rapid conversation in the home it's hard to stop everything for me to get it out clearly. But that will come. My sister suggested that I could live up in S.C. al Alto and still maintain my contacts here. That hadn’t occurred to me. Buses up and down for writers' group, salsa class, and spanish. I could speak to the alcalde of the town about a place to live and work. But I don’t feel the impulse to actually DO it. I suppose I could have a room in a house, rather than a whole house to myself, but that is not really my style. Thinking of the difficulty I have speaking to Maria and Tono, maybe we’re talking about six months from now. Maybe I won’t be doing writers’ group and salsa by then???

The Mythical Mayan Village

Mini-jaunt On a Sunday, Fred (director of our project) and I walk up to Santa Maria. This is the pueblo furthest up the road that passes Santa Ana and Familias de Esperanza and continues up the volcano.  Once I could see the lights of Santa Maria from my rooftop terrace on Callejon Lopez. We walked for miles up a steep hill, past Finca Carmona, the furthest school on that road that I’d ever visited and then miles more. Finally, legs aching, I asked if we were close and Fred said “About half way.” I said a few swear words and then said, “I’m going to take the next bus that comes along.” And along it came, moments later. We walked around town and looked at things in the market, just like in Antigua and other places, and then started back down the hill. That’s where I fell in love. Looking out across the verdant fields of corn and squash and beans, below us, criss-crossed with makeshift fences and dotted with small sheds, I felt as though I were feeding, as thought the landscape were a source of direct nourishment through my eyes and heart. “Yes,” I kept exulting inwardly, near tears. “Yes! This is what I’ve been missing – with only that narrow vista of banana trees and the hillside from my windows. This is what nourishes me.” It seemed like a great confirmation. 

I keep looking for the Mythical Mayan Village So today I went to the pueblo of one of our young maestras, who is indigenous, spoke Katchiquel as a child, and still does occasionally at home. I had thought she lived in my mythical village, but it is nearly as big as Antigua, mostly concrete streets - a few mud - a large municipal building being built, and a big plazuela with, on this day, a ferris wheel, big jumping house for kids, several stands for marimba bands, a vegetable and textiles fair......and so on. First we looked at her house.....which is a series of side-by-side rooms down one side of a large cleared dirt space with little "flower beds" in it, with fruit trees or vegetables growing in them. One room was her "kitchen" - dirt floor, corn-cane walls, woodburning "stove". The other side of the cleared space is for the houses of two of her uncles. The whole thing about 100 ft sq. She showed us her backstrap loom, the first time I´ve seen them unassembled.   (I realize I could easily have one at my house!) Then we walked to the fair area and suddenly started seeing masqued and costumed figures coming out of a large building and followed them to a big roped off area in the plaza where they danced and paraded for the next hour. The most interesting and elaborate costumes! Many like the conquistadors with epaulettes and much metallic embroidery, some like Native North Americans!, some with horns coming from their shoulders, heads, chests, some like something from Mad Max at Thunderdrome (much leather and spikes), some like humanoid figures in Star Wars, several men dressed as women, two skeletons with skulls on their upper arms and backs, a few clown-types, but most interesting were the masques they wore.....almost like mannequin´s faces, but even more stylized.....perfect flawless faces, some with perfect goatees, but so many of them identical, and all with that strange immoble look on these vigorously dancing figures. Very surreal, really. I enjoyed that a lot. Then they started a contest.....pole climbing. The pole was maybe 40-50 feet tall and had been slicked and covered with pig grease. There were 4-5 men gathered to climb it for the 800Q tacked at the top of it (maybe $110.) What was interesting is that they carried bags of sand over their shoulders, and scrapers in their pockets, and it seemed to be okay to use this to try to get rid of the pig fat which was making it impossible to climb up (no cleats, of course...bare feet or tennies) But I also loved the cooperation between the contestants.....scraping and cleaning a section, then coming down to let someone else try to get further, boosting each other, standing on each others´ shoulders and sometimes heads by mistake (much unintentionally or intentionally funny behavior, like sliding down on top of each other)...at one point the pole looked like a totem pole, with 5 human figures crouched one on top of the other on the lower half. There were also some monkey figures in costume running around, who were messing around (sort of like Coyote in this culture, I think) messing up their attempts, getting in the way, etc. And then just some older drunks who were trying to be helpful but of course slipped or fell. So the whole thing was hilarious and yet the contestants were very persevering and serious about it. They had made it half the way up the pole in the 40 mins or so that I watched. We also went up to the church where there were the most beautiful large wheels covered in peacock and other feathers with a saint´s image in the middle, lots of incense smoke in the air, beautifully dressed women in typical huipiles and faldas, such as all the women in the town wears, but with the addition of silver and colored ribbons tying up their hair, and a white veil draped over the whole thing...carrying these lovely fabric-covered poles with images at the top. Later they came out of the church and formed a procession through town...along with the big "wheels" carried on the shoulders of the men. But we had to leave. On the way back (in a friend from the project´s pickup truck - some of us sitting down in the back) we saw a dirt road leading to a pueblo and one of the young maestra´s invited me to go up there with them in two weeks to do a training in Brain Gym..........so maybe THAT is my mythical mayan village! I´ll go see....

More Cultural Events

Sunday 17th June. Photo on left is from yearly procession in Antigua.

Something in me has shifted just recently. Or maybe there were several slight, un-noticed shifts before the results became apparent. Whatever has occurred, I am feeling happy and grateful again. My Spanish has improved enough to make some communication possible, though I still struggle with hearing well in the group settings, now two children’s groups. And I think I have just accepted my slow learning progress; which together with a bit of improvement, makes for a lot of improvement in how I feel. And I have loved working in the school classrooms, several days this week because the main teacher had to be at a training all week. So I felt like I was a real help. And Jose, in one class, who was so dreadful at first, is doing better behaviorally, working more at his school work, and when I pass he looks up at me to get his approving looks from me. That really touches me. And then I worked one day in the prepa class at San Cristobal, too, and felt effective, though I have to be very careful not to step on toes, and I need more manipulables for that class. So all that just makes me happy. 

 

And then Fred told me that at their training, the Santa Ana teacher said she was looking forward to my behavior training, which means I have to get back to her in the morning (I want to peek in her prepa class, too.) I wish I had a good translator, familiar with classroom teaching; then I could do these behavior trainings instead of just handing out written materials (checked and corrected in my Spanish class.) And now it’s just one week until it’s time to go home again. What a pain. I don’t care to leave when I’ve just gotten started. I said that last time too. 

 

So it seems I had to come all the way to Guatemala to find out who I am. And oddly enough, it’s who I thought I was all the time. Cut to the bone, without friends or family to distract me………I am what I love……my emotional connections…………the things in my life that make me feel emotional: The kids and my varied relationships with them My dance teacher and the dancing we do.  My TV movies………all emotional ones.  My writing about my emotional life, and that of others. That is my life here. That is who I am. Scorpio, scorpio, cancer cancer And Aquarius writes about it. And of course Capricorn keeps up the struggle of it all. Too funny, really. And of course that is what my horoscope for Guatemala said. 

 

Those kids are killing me. I’ve been getting too physical with the ones in Dianet’s class…pushing them into Time Out for instance, holding the door against them to keep them out at recess (I’m not sure why she wants this.) And when the door banged into the back of my foot, I got a nail in my heel for my trouble, and to remind me that being physical is not the way. We have to set it up clearly so that the consequences speak for themselves and we can be the coaches………trying to help them learn behavior appropriate to a learning situation. I have to remember that for the training. And before I left I spoke to both teachers, and left a written explanation of this stance. But today, in the prepa class, with those three little boys laughing at everything I tried to say….that was hard (I make the mistake of wanting them to like me, that emotional need thing, again) and the boy who screams in my face (and at the other teachers.) I did well with shining both of them on, but didn’t need to make faces at the screaming boy, funny or not. Just shine it one and go about my business, but then exact consequences. And of course later, when I had the manipulatives out and was left in charge of the kids, it was exactly those boys (“my” kids) who were there wanting interaction with me (and the toys) and appreciating my comments. It is interesting to me that Guatemalan kids don’t gravitate to me like the children I’ve known in California. Part of this is the language barrier, but I think some part may be the greater affection I see children getting here. They don’t need me or my attention as much. This is a little difficult to take, but I’m here to help them, not get my emotional needs met. 

 

July. For the past three days this pueblo has dressed itself up as I’ve never seen it before, in preparation for two days of a futbol tournament, evidently. Makeshift booths line two sides of the plazuela, full of video games and food. Both nights the teams came, in full regalia, with referees and a scoreboard. And both nights it RAINED and RAINED, a “tormenta” my manager calls it. And it has been a torment for these people, though I don’t hear them complaining. For awhile the audience sat under umbrellas and the players slipped and slid across the slick court. Hilarious to watch; but it must have hurt and been disappointing for those who invested time and hopes of some income. Finally everyone went home. But the fiesta goes on….evidently working up to the big Antigua festival starting this weekend and continuing on to Miercoles, it’s Saint’s Day. Today many paper decorations on the church, and tonite some performances including two very dramatic but very off-key singers. 

 

Guatemala goes on revealing itself. A social worker I know from FdeE came back from the lake today, just as I’ve been thinking I need to call them to come visit (thinking more and more about San Juan.) She and her husband have left there because the “moral cleansing” that has been going on there for five years started hitting closer to home. I have never heard of this before, even the few times I was in that area, but evidently people who rob and steal or commit adultery, or who knows what else, homosexuality possibly….are being shot, and the people of the community stand behind it. Three teenagers were killed recently for stealing bikes and dealing pot, I think; and she received a threat against one of their employees. So that was it for them. Que lastima for me, possibly, (or maybe I’m supposed to stay here) and que lastima if those projects that are helping the area recover from the pollution of the lake begin leaving it. 

Santa Ana is having another celebration….for Corpus Christi my teacher says, describing some sort of vessel into which the host is placed, which is carried around the village. Maybe that’s what they were carrying this morning, on the third day of celebrations. Unfortunately for the pueblo, the first two nights it rained torrents. The valiant jugadors continued on but they were slipping and falling in the water on the concrete court until they finally called it quits. Last night was clear; it had rained earlier. So the games went on, the women’s teams appearing first. The skill level is not first-rate but good enough. Then the canned music started. Boom boom boom go the woofers, making my windows rattle. Nearly the whole pueblo seems to be out in the plazuela, and finally from my upper window I can see some heads bobbing, which pleases me (it has seemed to me that no Guatemalans dance at these public ferias.) Earlier they had some men and boys with giant animal and people heads on their shoulders, dancing in concert. THAT brought me out into the plaza; they were really wonderful dancers. Later in the evening I saw them from my window, dancing in the futbol court. They had taken off their big heads, revealing lots of dark-skinned young men and boys and a few older men, all dancing with such vigor, arms flying, legs pumping in unison. Just wonderful! But the music went on til at least midnight, when I finally got to sleep. And this morning at 6 am they were at it again, this time with loud bombas in the cancha (futbol court) rattling my windows and setting off car alarms. And then the traditional drums and flutes started to play, and I looked out to see about 100 people - dressed mostly in black, the women with their heads covered with scarves or lace – proceeding from the church, a few people carrying the big vessel, the others walking slowly and singing or chanting. I took a few photos and then stood respectfully as my fellow Santa Anans walked slowly by. And now…at 3:30 pm, it’s time for the full band, with trumpets and trombones, to start shaking the windows again. And again with the bombas. I’m game, but this window-rattling is too much. I think my neighbors will also be annoyed and perhaps get it to stop, but when I look out I see the whole pueblo seems to be in the plaza. No wonder they don’t mind about the windows.

Personal/cultural musings

April 15: I start a full work-week (I’m limiting it to four days) next week, with both the Brain Gym teachers in the small pueblo schools, and seeing some women in their homes with a social worker and held in the kids group for Familias de Esperanza. Frankly, I’ve been enjoying my time off to go out of the country, to Chico the last week in March, for Semana Santa in Antigua and the week my sister was here - just going from this to that………..but volunteering is what I came down here for and I know I’ll get caught up in that again, too.

I still don’t feel centered here, but can’t imagine anyplace else that is more right – not Chico, not Livingston, though I hope to go there again in November, and still fantasize at times about living with more music and dance….and pigs in the street. I think about San Juan on Lago Atitlan….which would keep me in touch with the Brain Gym project, be the same climate (though I’d like it a little warmer,) and be a little quieter and more tranquil – possibly even more “in the country.” And last nite by chance I met a woman from Spain who is volunteering in Xela, and very much wants me to come up to see the children in the orphanage there which she works for…..but reading in the guidebook, the altitude could touch into my fear of heights, and it is COLDER than Antigua, not warmer.
So nothing’s quite right. But I’m still putting one foot in front of another, feeling my way along.
Actually what I enjoy most is sitting at my computer, writing on one or another project I’ve become involved with….looking out at the banana trees and bouganvilla in my yard here in Santa Ana.
And of course when the people next door suddenly start playing some good CDs really loud (usually there is no sound from there – it seems to be a small convention center) and the plaza is full of fathers and kids playing papi futbol……and I’m going out to dinner with some folks from the project………it all seems pretty good.

Cultural/Personal
As I’m walking home from the bus at lunch time – the side street from Calle Hermano Pedro to my house is a little more deserted than it usually is at 8 or 5 – two Guatemalan men are coming down the street in my direction.
“Hello,” the man closest calls out, in stilted English. “How are you?” “I’m just fine,” I say, with an off-hand smile, but he sticks his hand out to shake mine. I take his hand, but notice that his eyes and his friend’s look a little drunk, at this hour. “You can give me money for lunch?” He asks. I often hand out quetzals but not to drunk-looking men. “No,” I say, “No hoy.” (Not today.) And pass on.
In retrospect I realized that in my intention to be friendly and respectful to all passersby, no matter their outward appearance, I could have been in trouble in this instance, with no one else on the street. When I gave him my hand he could easily have pulled me to him, at least robbing me.
I am careful not to carry much money, and when I have a little more than usual with me, for some purpose, to put it in my pants pocket or an inner pocket of my bag. But I think on an empty street like that I need to steer clear of getting so close to strange men.
Later in the day, I hear that the body of a 30-year-old man was recently found a block from that spot. I will be a little more cautious.

If I want to involve myself more in the culture here, I am going to have to change some life-long habits. I have already shifted one: my tendency is to get right to whatever subject I have when talking with another person. I was already cautioned about that when meeting with some Native Americans in California; first they want to get to know who you are before you start discussing business.
Here, the cultural tendency is to say, “Hello, How are you? I am fine, thank you, and you?” before even the briefest phone conversation. I am learning this. At least it is not the more elaborate greeting that I understand exists in Afghanistan (and all Muslim countries?) where you enquire after the person’s family back to the 10th generation, the health of their households, etc.
Secondly, everyone here kisses on one or both cheeks even on first meeting. In California, I often hug people I’m very fond of, touch them on the hand or arm, and so forth, but not in a routine way on meeting and departing, as they do here. And not when I first meet someone.
Oddly enough, now that I’ve gotten used to it, Guatemalans in the psicologia department at the project, are NOT greeting me like that, and I miss it. And of course I decide to change that immediately, and with my salsa teacher, too, by initiating it.
Another custom, which I ran into with my mother-in-law in East Oakland, was to feed everyone who comes into your home. Maybe this is just a poor, rather than Guatemalan, custom. Well I don’t do this except if someone has come from a long way and is staying awhile.
More habits to change. More reference to the Alchemical idea of working on oneself in anything you do, and I guess, anywhere you go.