Volunteering, and Cultural Differences

Volunteering with sweet Sergio in the hospital today – despite the cleft in his lip, the most beautiful of the babies - I began to wonder if I am asking him to do more than he should be capable of. If he’s only two months old, not three, yet….well maybe he can’t be expected to grip my fingers and pull himself up. He has no tendency to grip at all, though – I grasp for my memory of my own babies’ capabilities – this seems strange. Yet he pushes like crazy with his feet, against my stomach, the edge of the bed or whatever he can push against…..not enough to keep him upright, but then he’s probably still so young. I decide to go look at the big board where the babies’ statistics are kept. I can’t believe the dates I see, so ask first another volunteer, a young Dutch girl, and then the nurse. Sergio is SEVEN months old. He still just about fits on my lap between my knees and my stomach….that’s about 24 inches…maybe 25, 26. Quickly I look at the other kids’ statistics. I think Alma is the same age….she is eight months old. Two children are doing well – smart and curious and already sitting and crawling – they are 11 months. Two of the much more compromised babies – cleft, but also with cerebral palsy and maybe retardation, whom I thought about 8 months – are already 2 and 2-1/2 years. And the boy I thought was 7 is 12. I am simply stunned. I wonder what I think I am doing, if so much time has passed without the sort of stimulation I am trying to give the babies. Of course, eventually, as I hold and rock and talk to the girl who is most compromised, finally getting a smile out of her (it always feels like a triumph)…..the idea of making progress passes, and I simply hold her and rock her and talk to her, giving her human contact. I am disturbed that with all the children, the nurses simply feed them and put them down. They tend to feed them somewhat upright and facing out…since they all seem to do it the same way, perhaps that’s how they were taught. Maybe it avoids bubbles, because I don’t see any babies being burped, and forget rocking them to sleep. The nurses have a lot of babies to care for, and except for the day some nurses had off, they are always clean, and don’t have diaper rash, so they are doing something. In all my years of working with children, I’ve never worked with those with physical handicaps. So I suppose I am simply adjusting, but my day feels changed as I contemplate the life some of them will live. I feel as though nothing I do will have any effect, and then notice Sergio using his feet against the bars of his crib to turn himself over. He wasn’t doing that two weeks ago. And when I leave for the day, both he and Alma are looking directly out of their crib at me. So maybe, maybe, what I and the other volunteers are doing help push them along toward greater capability, bit by bit. Later in the day, I talk to my teacher about the babies and the things I learned today…practicing my Spanish. She says that malnutrition is rife in Guatemala. The Mayan people are small to begin with, or smaller than Americanos, but poverty and malnutrition produce babies that are tinier than they should be. Still it seems strange to me that Sergio has been in the hospital since April 28….just over six months, and he hasn’t caught up. I still don’t understand it, but suddenly nutrition education – especially when she tells me cleft palates result from folic acid deficiency - becomes for me a more salient need in this country than I had considered. 

“It’s the little things,” as my daughter advised. I start off to “work” at 8:45 Monday morning and notice that a van is parked in the middle of the very busy street I live next to, the street the busses use to get out of town. It has a small collection of metal parts under the front bumper. Has it dropped an axle or drive train? A groaning bus full of people comes up the street and manoevres around it. On my way home at noon, I see two men have jacked the van up, and have a box of tools open on the street next to the van. Whatever is wrong they are repairing it right there in the middle of the street. Typical Guatemala. 

 One day I walk up through Central Park toward the ATM machine which helps me manage my money here, and notice a huge crowd on 5th Calle. I join them and see men and women with numbers on their chests, balancing trays of food. I think perhaps they are going to serve people in the crowd….but how would this be a contest? Best server?? Then they all move down toward the park and line up in a row, and I get a good look at the contestants. They are all dressed differently, evidently the “uniform” for whatever restaurant they work for….even a few women in indigenous dress. This seems a little unfair as some have dress shoes and some tennies, and it seems like this is a race! I notice with amusement all the different “starting” stances they take, from seriously aggressive to casual, and then off they go! This is actually a race….they will go as fast as they can around the park and then down one street and up another, ending where they started…and carrying their trays aloft!! This is hilarious, but they are pretty serious about it. I watch for awhile, unbelieving and delighted, then head for the Bodegona. 

There are so many processions here, all taken very seriously. But on All Saint’s Day there is a big one, leaving from Iglesia San Francisco and going up the calle. I stumble on this as I go to my favorite internet cafe. They are carrying the huge "float" (I don't know the word yet for the big box on which rides different sorts of figures, on this day a saint lying down, carried on the shoulders of many people in unison.) At first I think perhaps someone has died, and this is actually his body.....the people seem to be in deep mourning and most in the crowd around the "bier" are wearing black, but then realize it is just a statue. I have heard there is a tradition of Jesus Acostado (lying down); maybe this is what this is? Ahead I see there are a group of men dressed in long purple sort of Arabic headcloths, with the rope to hold it in place. When the "float" reaches them, they trade positions with the bearers and the procession continues. I follow it up the street seeing other groups gathered ahead, in different colors. Wondering, bemused....I go back to the internet. 

I went to pick up a package at a nearby receiving station (cargoexpress) where I was told it was safer to send packages than thru the post office, especially because my house has no way to receive any sort of mail (no mailbox or slot.) I told them it had been 13 days since it was mailed from California, so they talked among themselves and decided that perhaps it was at another station. I couldn’t understand the directions the guy was giving me, so he told me to come with him, and walked outside. I thought he was going to point down the street, but he got on his motorcycle (those and scooters more prevalent than cars, here) and motioned for me to get behind. So off we went, whizzing through the cobblestone streets and around the potholes. My first motorcycle ride in a long time, and very fun. And it turned out that the package and a birthday card from my son were at the regular post office - perfectly safe, but undelivered. 

I went to my first real concert yesterday (other than free ones in the downtown park.) It was scheduled from noon to midnite. I paid $13 for a ticket and $5 to share a tuktuk with another woman to get there, since it was held in a pueblo outside of Antigua. This woman – a new friend, met at the Macadamia Nut finca trip - is eight or so years younger than me; I was impressed when she told me she drove her car down through Mexico to get here some 18 months ago. When I had contemplated this, I was told it was totally too dangerous and if nothing else I would be required to pay to get through real or bogus “checkpoints” all the way. She said absolutely not; no problem whatsoever, except that her camper was searched at several checkpoints and fumigated at one. Usually she stayed in various campgrounds, of which she said there are plenty in Mexico, but one time she parked on the beach (where I’ve been told you NEVER camp, being more isolated, etc. - and I did meet a woman who was robbed when she camped on the beach in Livingston) and she realized she was stuck in the sand in the morning (shades of Y Tu Mama Tambien.) She hailed a nearby farmer who tried to get her out with his truck but couldn’t; he located another farmer with a tractor and he pulled her out immediately, and wouldn’t accept any money. She has been in Guate ever since, except for going back to the US to sell her car, among other things. She is headed for Peru in a few months. I have met several women traveling alone through C. America, but except for my short jaunts here in Guate, I can't imagine it. I had heard the bands at this concert were from El Salvador and Nicaragua as well as Guatemala, so I was expecting all traditional music, like some I’ve seen so far at the concerts in the park. Well…..no..... The crowd was at least 3/5 Guatemalan, but 90% young; the music was rock, for the most part. I had also expected that there would be a shaded area, with seats, but this was in an open field (demonstrably a cow or horse pasture on other days) with a huge very well-appointed stage (lighting, sound equipment etc.,) comparable to the Grass Valley music festivals in California. The day was sunny and pretty hot, though the breezes came up at 3 pm or so. The bands were mostly young and good enough but not spectacular, with a few notable exceptions. I don’t care for heavy metal but the first band, with a singer with lots of long black hair and a spectacular falsetto, was excellent. The next two were just loud so I went to get some dinner (for $2.50 a crisp bun full of freshly-roasted pork; the entire pigs were there on spits.) Then there was a guitar player from Canada who played solo, who was really exceptional…he also played one tune with Alicia Jo Robins, a fiddle player whose group followed him. She played four or five selections of old-time fiddle, and it was really fun to see some young Guatemalan men dancing to the music, doing the do-si-do and fooling with it, but also just having fun with the bouncy rhythm. Then there was a group of young Guatemalan women musicians in traditional dress, which I looked forward to, but though they were excellent drummers their singing and especially their harmony left a lot to be desired. Then there were two Guatemalan men, Fredy Colorado and his brother, who did Latin TAP dancing and breakdancing! Which of course I loved. And then a band which I would like to locate the name of….possibly Guanamanga….which consisted of an older guy with long grey hair who looked Gringo but spoke impeccable Spanish, and the others all Hispanic….a percussionist who was one of the best I’ve ever heard – on wooden box, and a ceramic pot, as well as more traditional drums – an old man who played various ocarina-type instruments strung around his neck, a woman who sang behind the lead singer, and a bassist. He was definitely good enough to come to the World Music Festivals in Chico. I would have liked to stay for the next two bands, from El Salvador and Honduras, which were also the highlighted bands, but by now the crowd was a little drunk, my legs were giving out from dancing but mostly from standing, and the wind was freezing! I stood by the warm generator for awhile, trying to keep myself going, but eventually gave in and walked out to the road to wait for a tuktuk to get me home at about 10 pm. This act in itself a challenge, as you are warned so often about walking on a dark road alone. In this whole crowd of maybe 800 people I knew one person (my friend – i.e. a woman I’ve met twice - went home early): the guy from my local English-language bookstore, and he was hung up on some young Guatemalan women. I met one person when my friend spoke to her – a woman with long curly grey hair, dressed in a flowing skirt and bright shawl, who told us she is a musician (guitar and flute) and that she was personal friends with a lot of the folks who would be playing. She has lived in San Marcos (on Lake Atitlan) for 13 years. I am still intrigued about gringos who have managed to live here a long time...how they do manage, but there was no time to query her.

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.

Ceremony

With an aquaintance from Texas, newly back in Antigua (friendships are difficult here, as most people come and go,) I go to Café Pena de Sol Latino for their first anniversary party. I look forward to some good music and a few lemonades. On a whim I call several other friends and ask them to join us; a Guatemalan man from our writers' group shows up. The young band playing first is very good, though their repertoire a little limited (I liked hearing “Hotel California” en español.) Toward the end of the afternoon, they had a Mayan ceremony to bless the café. I had seen one of these here before, and was tempted to leave, as I had a bad cold, but am glad I stayed. As part of the ceremony blessing the café, they demonstrated a healing ceremony for several of the regular band members. The fact that three of them did it suggested a genuine request for healing rather than just a demonstration. An older non-Mayan appearing man spoke en espanol about the meaning of this day in the Mayan calendar…..having to do with seeds and planting for future harvest. Virtual seeds, and seeds of pensamientos, thoughts. The shaman, a short dark-skinned man with short-clipped hair and a red tshirt, put on the traditional red headwrap, with its four tails ending in long tassels. In this act, he transformed himself. The traditional fire – containing chocolate, tobacco, sugar, and candles of several colors - was lit in a metal bowl in the center of a circle of rose petals. The ceremony proceeded, to the best of my recollection, with the shaman circling his hands around the head of the supplicant, releasing whatever energy he picked up with a snap of his hands, behind the man’s back. Then a bundle of herbs was passed around the head and then down the arms and around the body of the supplicant, much as I’ve seen in attempts to follow Native North American ceremonies, but these bundles were not sage – probably sietemonte - and not burned. The bundle was then broken in half by the shaman, and the two bundles pressed firmly, first to the temple and back of the head, then to the two sides above the ears. The bundles were broken in half again and two of them deposited around the outside of the fire on the rose petals. The smaller remaining bundle was again pressed in the four directions around the head of the supplicant, who was kneeling upright with his eyes closed. The shaman then took another bundle and sprinkled it with alcohol, which was also sprinkled into the fire, making it flame up. This bundle was then rapped sharply from shoulder to hand on both sides, leaving small wet marks on the man’s long-sleeved shirt, and then across the back and on buttocks and knees. The shaman then took a large two-handed bundle of small tapered candles, colors presumably selected to meet the applicant’s need, and set them on top of the man’s head, then on each shoulder, on his chest in the middle, then on the back on both sides, and then, after holding them slightly aloft in a supplicating pose, distributed them in the fire. Just before doing this, he had to stir up the fire, and I noticed when he took the candles away from the spot on the man’s chest, that he had the man put his hand on that spot for the moment that the candles were away, as if “holding the energy" of that position. He then took an egg, and touched it to the top of the man’s head, his forehead, and then each shoulder. He then gave the man the egg to hold in both hands at the midpoint of his chest, while the Shaman held one hand on the man’s forehead and one on the back of the head in a firm pressure that I myself could feel, watching. He then snapped his hands (flapping all fingers sharply against themselves) to release the energy. He then took the egg, held it up toward the fire and then put it in. Then I think there were more candles, maybe more bundles of herbs….the last one appearing stiffer and different from the rest, like rosemary. This same ritual was repeated with the two other band members. The organizer then offered all of us in the audience (maybe 30 people, including some kids) an opportunity to take a taper and throw it in the fire, as an offering for seeds we wanted planted. What came to me as I did this, was that I keep hoping to find something here that feels truly like My Place, (though I do love being in Santa Ana – where this morning the singing from the church mass is wafting through my window - and potentially like the work I’m doing) and what I received was that until I’m in My Place inside myself (because I’ve gotten so thrown here; feeling so off-center without adequate language) I’m not going to be able to find the external Place. So that was very helpful. I was also very moved by the sincerity of the ceremony.

Volunteering

Volunteering Thurs. Oct 19. I have certainly been finding it difficult to “get my foot in the door” of volunteering, here. Which seems ridiculous because everyone and their mother, literally, is volunteering. Okay most have more Spanish than I do, but….. I went to the hospital for the tour two weeks ago. Then I thought about it for awhile because those trundled up babies with their smashed-looking faces somehow just didn’t call to me. But I went in last Monday to be told, certainly they would love to have me, but they are full-up for volunteers with the babies for a week. Please come back the following Monday and bring a copy of my passport and two photos, one for the identity card. So I go through getting Milvia to take a photo of me and finding a place to reproduce it, since my printer is refusing to print photos, and on Monday I show up and the social worker isn’t there; she is busy in Guatemala City. I leave my photos. I return on Tuesday and she has only five minutes to talk to me, after talking with another woman and handing her identity card to her, I notice. Yes, yes everything is fine. Yes Monday and Wednesday mornings will work perfectly. So I return Wednesday morning to her office so that she can introduce me to the ward. She isn’t there. The other person, who speaks no English, calls the ward and then tells me, “No, they don’t need any volunteers in that ward.” I am stunned and almost tearful. WHAT? The social worker will return in the afternoon, that day. I leave my Spanish class early and go again at three pm. She’s there, she’s busy with two other potential volunteers. She asks me, in passing, if I started yesterday (that would be Tuesday.) I say, “Un pequeno problema.” When she finishes with the other person, while I wait, wait….she says, “There was some confusion. Yes you are on, but you will have to start next Monday.” She is quite apologetic. I say Monday will be fine. Interestingly this doesn’t seem to be an isolated situation. At least one other person here has told me she thinks volunteers are treated terribly – i.e. ignored, given conflicting information, not really utilized well, etc. And I can say that noone from C.S. has contacted me since receiving my application, though I understand Hanley won’t be back for a few weeks, which makes it make sense. Noone from Families de Esperanza has contacted me despite leaving a note, in Spanish, asking them to; despite signing up to do anything temporarily while I’m learning Spanish (and despite their brochure saying to come work with them because it will help your Spanish.) Very strange. But is this part of American “cultural values,” to think everything should move efficiently? Additionally, so many coordinators of these projects are volunteers, and apparently often with no idea of what possibilities are offered by the expertise of some of their prospective volunteers. Personal A little calculation this morning makes me realize I am living just under my income, including putting aside money for trips home, which won’t always be necessary. Even though I'm paying $600 rent. Cultural There is a schizophrenic Mayan man who lives in the park between my house and the hospital. He is filthy, his curly hair sticks up in all directions; his clothing – the same every day - has become one dull uniform color. I see him in the evening, lying on a park bench, legs sprawled out, a bag with a bottle in it clutched in one hand. Or in the morning, asleep on the ground, if it hasn’t been raining, or on the cement base of a fountain with a little overhang, if it has. In the daytime I see him eating out of the sort of small paper container sold by the nearby food merchants; his face is crumpled and fallen; the look in his eyes dark and inward. I presume he is a drunk too, or maybe drunkenness and schizophrenia have all mingled together in his mind, to produce the mumbling and gestures his disheveled body produces. Nearby school girls in their clean uniforms, relaxing on the grass during a break, laugh at him and point. He seems oblivious. He reminds me of a few schizophrenics I’ve known, obsessively writing down the license plates of all the cars that park on their block (though this man probably cannot write,) or walking into traffic, arm out, shouting at unknown enemies, daring anyone to deny their right to pass. But I wonder what goes on in HIS head; I wonder what the story is that has brought some woman’s sweet clean baby to this pass. 

The three volcanos that ring this city are a palpable presence here. Volcan Agua huge, to the South, the visual reference point for orienting yourself when you walk through the city; small Fuega to the West, with its thin puff of smoke, and larger double-crowned Acatenango. Wherever you walk, they are always there, dwarfing the city. People look to them to see what sort of day its going to be…….when Agua is ringed with clouds, or invisible, heavy rain is coming. If you can see Fuego’s thin smoke trail, it’s a clear day. But it’s more than a pragmatic thing; these huge mountains, so close to the city, are like guardians, or sentinels. I can see why the people near Mount Olympus believed their Gods dwelt there. I look to these as if addressing a prayer, and listen for the answer. Agua unleashed a torrent of water in 1541, destroying this City that had been built as Central America’s crowning glory, destroying the many now-ruined churches whose occasional adorned pillars, tumbled walls and half-ceilings still attest to the workmanship and devotion that once graced the city.. So there is respect, too. These are not tame Gods. Some believe that the presence of the lava field that created these volcanoes is part of the energy that created the wars and violence this country has experienced, and the sense of danger that still exists here, despite the relative tranquility of the present city, abundant flowers spilling over its walls. 

Nearly the end of October, and the weather continues to be so varied. Cool at night; hot sun in the morning without a cloud anywhere; almost-hail by 3 pm. 

 LOS NENES [“Nene” is Guatemalan Spanish for “baby.”] I have worked at the hospital three days, with the babies. There was no orientation, just an introduction to the head nurse, who speaks no English. They don’t tell the volunteers what to do, though they may say what NOT to do, based on the doctor’s directions, or, frankly, what makes things easy for them. So we English-speaking volunteers, and there seems to be a new group nearly every week - from Holland, Germany, Canada and the U.S.- teach each other. In this ward, there are about five brand new very small babies who are there for nutrition problems. They are TINY. Occasionally the nurses hand these babies to us volunteers to feed, otherwise they pretty much stay wrapped up in their wrappings, in their heavily padded sit-up chairs in their cribs. If these are preemies, this might be appropriate, otherwise I would like to see them receive more skin touch, more rocking, and be held more closely, looking at their faces when being fed. They tend not to feed them this way, but face them out or at least not close. Then there are two babies, Sergio and Alma, who are about three months old. They both have cleft palates, not too terrible looking. And actually you get used to the gaping hole from the middle of the upper lip up into the nostril pretty quickly. Alma is pretty responsive but it takes Sergio longer. He is really cute though and has begun to look at me more, and is responding to my sounds and words. He pushes with his feet a lot, so I prop him so that he can push against my stomach or the crib if he’s lying in the outdoor one, where we can put three to four babies at once so they can stimulate each other. But we have to watch that they don’t start going for the mouth or eyes. It gets a little hard to juggle all the kids who need attention. Actually it is very hard for me, and I tend to get uptight about it; but I keep reminding myself I can only do what I can do and trying to limit my attention to three to four kids each time I go. There are four older babies, all girls, who have cleft palate, too. One of them has two clefts with two tiny teeth sticking straight out between them. She also has little control over her eyes (or does she “space out?”) and seems to have CP in her legs, and possibly is retarded, too. She was pretty hideous to me at first, but now just looks like herself. It is amazing the way she manages to shift the nipple of the bottle from one side to the other of these two clefts, and essentially chew on the nipple to get the milk to come. All of the babies with the clefts, do this, but it is more obvious with her. Evidently they can’t get suction. One of the nurses tends to feed her by covering her nose with a cloth, perhaps to get suction; this makes her twist and scream. When I fed her there were no problems, so I don’t quite understand it. Two slightly older girls do pretty well; they smile at people, they are ready to play and be picked up. One hollers if she is put down, and most of the other volunteers go for that and pick her up again. I try to interest her in something when she’s put down; she usually settles for that. The other older girl (no more than eight months old) I haven’t gotten to know. She seems to be retarded, too. I will have to be sure to give her some attention on Wednesday. Then, there is an older girl – maybe four years old – in a wheelchair. An older boy of about four is also in a wheelchair, but he also seems autistic. He screams a lot; he hits at the other kids if he’s close, or sometimes at you if you try to play with him, but I think it’s more an attempt to get you to engage than aggression. But he can hit hard. The only connection I’ve made with him is to toss a soft ball or big rag in his lap; he will then sometimes toss it back, but often it goes on the floor, and if I’m holding a baby, it’s hard to retrieve it, so the game stops. He also likes to clap, so I try to get him to imitate the number of times I clap, and I count in Spanish. But I haven’t figured anything more out with him. Then there’s a sweetie of four or five, who likes to put a lot of puzzle pieces in a small box which he can barely hold. He is also in a wheelchair. He is smart, knows some of his colors, can remember your name, and calls “Ayudame” (help me) all the time. He is pretty demanding of attention, but of course he needs and deserves a lot more than he’s getting. However some of the visitors, especially some kids who come with their parents to visit their baby, play with him, and some of the other volunteers. I try to focus on the babies. There is also a boy of about seven, who seems to have CP. He is a sweetheart but is fixated on watches, and asks all day long what time it is and whether he can have my watch for a few minutes. He has one of his own. He is really smart and needs way more intellectual stimulation than he’s getting. I play catch with him when I can, and I’d like to get him a Walkman so he could listen to music or stories. It’s really hard to see all these needy kids, and then sometimes to see the nurses all taking big long breaks together while one or two of us handle all the kids. Maybe no more than ½ hour though. There is one nurse who is really sweet with the kids, nuzzling them when she changes their diapers, for instance. I’d actually like to spend MORE days there, but am trying to keep in at two mornings a week. I don’t want to set up something I can’t sustain. I want to continue with some of the writing I’ve been doing. And want to leave myself open if Camino Seguro finally comes up with something for me to do. All of this is pretty frustrating. When I was here in November there was so much openness to my volunteering, so much sense that volunteers were really wanted and needed, and now……??? Is it just the Spanish? Or is a lot of it a sham? Or is there something about me? I would say at Familias de Esperanza I made the mistake of suggesting that things in one group for parents should be run a little differently, (just a little!) and I think that didn’t sit well. But……there is NOTHING there for me to do, in any department? I don’t know, but I have to be more careful with my behavior in the future. Being critical or suggesting you know better is not the way to start. But of course the first day at the hospital I got huffy and finally went to the doctor when it took them ½ hour or more to come up with a diaper I could put on a very wet, and eventually partially naked baby (while all the nurses took a very long break, sitting in the middle of the room, drinking coffee and chatting.) So that is the babies’ department. I enjoy it; I would like to help more, but again there is the sense of frustration that it is a drop in the bucket, and that the nurses need some training in bonding and attachment and early cerebral stimulation, that I could probably give, or someone should be giving. But we’ll see. I’ll try another approach (being quiet, just doing my job, and perhaps modeling for parents or staff, but I won’t worry about that part.)

Introspection and another short trip

I think the primary thing I’m “suffering from” here is the lack of passionate work. I have the idea in my head of going to volunteer in Livingston, eventually, perhaps, after I’ve learned more Spanish. I had the idea that these babies at the hospital might need me to not only hold them, but to teach people about infant depression, bonding, need for touch and stimulation. Now I hear they have psychologists and etc etc. there. Of course those could be psychologists who aren’t applying what they’ve learned, or they haven’t learned about this. At any rate I will do the tour on Thursday and we will see what we will see. But that would be very satisfying – even just holding the babies. One other thing that struck me, in all of this looking at living/working in another country, is the impression I got from both the ex-pat women I’ve dealt with: loneliness. My friend was so eager to talk and talk – in part because what we were talking about was rejuvenating her dream, which has gotten buried in the mountain of work to do to realize it, but in part because she has noone to talk to. And when I made a date for tonight with another woman, she said “Oh that will be something to look forward to.” I recognize both those states of mind, at least as I perceive them: something, something to fill the lonely days…..something to remind one of what in the hell you came here for in the first place.  

“Wherever you go, there you are…..” A phrase I’ve thought of for years; one of the concepts I used to justify why I never traveled (besides no money, children to care for, and goats to milk.). And here I am, so far from home, and guess who I find! The same person – a little too isolated, yet rejecting of anyone that doesn’t fit just right (not that that is necessarily a bad thing;) connecting with kids and parents in the calles, at least through understanding glances and smiles – especially when their child does something cute and both the parent and you see it…..and catch each other’s eyes and smile. That's pretty sweet. I run into Beth, from Camino Seguro, on the street. She hails me down by name, as I only recognize “someone familiar.” We talk for half an hour, about volunteering at C.S., about my “god-son” Denilson, who attends that project, and who I’ve been supporting since last July. I fantasize taking him to a futbol game, which she thinks is possible, and we talk about learning Spanish. She says she’s been here 9 months and still doesn’t speak it well; we commiserate about how inadequate it makes us feel, but she says she’s just decided to be perfectly fine being a poor Spanish speaker. At the time this makes me feel better; on the other hand she has a volunteer job (or possibly a paying job) at C.S. where Spanish isn’t necessary. Hmm. 

 October 15. I finally make it to Cerro de la Cruz – that spot on the hill with the big cross that I see all the way across town. I show up for the tour at the policia tourista office in the center of town. I am early, so I grab a local tourist publication and read about the activities of a doctor who worked for the United Fruit Company in the early 1900s. The author acknowledges the dreadful things the UFC did by the way it influenced politics in its favor, but says that UFC made habitable 50,000 acres of “virtually uninhabited” jungle/swampland where yellow fever, dysentery, snake bites and malaria were rife, and provided its employees with services from the hospital that it created. This article also states that UFC “paid the highest wages, sold food at subsidized prices to its workers and families, [and] provided housing and education.” But what did UFC do to the area to make it malaria free – spray poison every where? And what does “virtually uninhabited” mean – that just indigenous Mayans lived there? The book I read on Rigoberta Manchu suggests that the struggle with UFC that caused such genocide in the Mayan highlands was precisely over low wages, and “owing your soul to the company store.” It will take more research to resolve this unending debate. 

Then another person arrives for the tour, and she and I chat. She loves the night life in Antigua and wonders why she is signed up to go up to Xela, where it’s colder. She will study Spanish there, too, and volunteer with some project, she’s not sure what. She tells me about various places she’s been to in Guatemala. Three other girls and a guy arrive; one of the girls is talking about having been to Tikal so I swing in step with her to ask her impressions. She loved it; BIG bugs and scorpions, a huge tarantula on her pillow at nite, but “it was worth it.” She is from Israel, and has been traveling thru the US and Mexico. She works for an Israeli tech company with an office in San Francisco, so she has been there. She says she has very little Spanish; that it seems hard to learn. I comment that at least she has already learned one language (she speaks English very well) but she says that in Israel English is everywhere, especially on TV, so it’s really easy to pick it up. We start the climb up to the Cross. In 15 minutes I am starting to pant and puff, and my legs start to hurt – this abuse added to my new salsa class last Friday. I start dropping behind, a little embarrassed. My partner starts to lag with me then sees I’m really behind and goes on ahead with all the other youngsters. Fortunately there is a policia bringing up the rear; they must be used to this. I suddenly realize that I did not come here to race to the top, anyway. I wanted a walk through the woods. So I am happy to slow down. I notice the tiny columbines in the heavy undergrowth, and the purple morning glories, but can’t identify the rest of the plants, except that we are in a huge eucalyptus grove. Eucalyptus was brought from Australia to California intentionally, as a lumber tree, which didn’t work out. But who and what brought it here? Finally I reach the top and there is Antigua, spread out below us. I can see the arch I used to walk under every day, Central Park, and think I identify Iglesia San Francisco, though there’s no sign of my rooftop or the taller one at Sky Café around the corner. I wish I had brought binoculars. There is a huge red building, a square around an open center. A query of a nearby family brings the information that is an escuela for “monjas”….nuns. I have seen them walking around town, quiet and virginal. There is a good looking curly-haired young man with the group, but for some reason he and the four girls are not talking. I go over to where he is and ask, “So why and how long are YOU in Antigua?” He says he’s just traveling through. He is from a farming area in France, where he worked with autistic kids on a farm dedicated to principles somewhat like Montessori school. He started in Montreal, then came through the US on a bus, stopping briefly in NY, Philly, and Atlanta. We share delighted views on NYC, which I also love. He then went through Mexico and he also loves the town of San Cristobal de las Casas, where I’ve been advised to go. He likes Mexico better than Guatemala, but can’t say exactly why. He wants to get out in the country. He really liked the Panajachel area; I tell him my impressions of San Andres Sematabaj. The group then starts down the hill again. This way is easy. I pick up a little of the trash thrown around the area of the Cross, and dump it in a trash can on the way down. The rest of the group goes ahead and I walk with the other policia. He asks me how long I’m here; the usual questions. He seems interested that I want to become “fluida” in Spanish, and starts asking me questions to get me to practice. I ask if he is a teacher, he says he was for seven years, but now “Soy policia.” We stop at a stand, I look for a moment at a group playing “futbol,” some old men, some boys in the group – a real “pickup” game. Someone else has bought slices of pina in a plastic bag; I do the same – wonderful rich-flavored juicy pineapple, no sourness to it. I rejoin the young man and ask what he will do from here. “I don’t know,” he says. “You don’t know??” I respond, some-what incredulous. It is fascinating to me that some people can just go from one place to another without much pre-planning. He mentions an “earth lodge” somewhere on the side of Volcan Agua that he wants to check out. He wants to get out in the country. He walks away from me across the street, and I think, “well….okay,” and I begin to move along. Out of the side of my eye I see that he has just dropped some trash in a can and is headed back over, but by the time I turn he has seen me ahead and switched back. “Adios!” I call out, but he doesn’t hear me.

Bakc to the Lake, and home again

In the morning I sit in the sun and read and listen to my surroundings, waiting for my friend to wake. There is a bird here with a loud whistle – I have heard it once or twice in Antigua, too – and there are many other birds around in the trees and on the power lines overhead. The church not far from her house begins to boom out its morning sermon and there is a lot of choral singing. A little boy - playing or working on the roof of his house, visible behind hers - keeps calling to his brother. There are even the loud pops of occasional bombas (firecrackers.) For an idyllic place, it seems rather noisy this Sunday morning. When she finally joins me we talk about that – I’ve referred to it before as Imperfect Perfection. But we also talk about it in terms of the spiritual exercise we both follow – that you have to be able to Do Your Thing no matter what’s going on around you, and resisting some annoyance or intrusion only increases the hold it has on you. Essentially one has to accept Guatemala (and anywhere else) for what it is…..and continue to go your way and do what you do, which may or may not affect your surroundings. We talk about her struggles building this place over the years (she no sooner got a huge long retraining wall built around the back part of the property – hiring many men from the community to help her – than Hurricane Stan came along, the water poured off the newly constructed soccer field a ways above her house, and her wall came tumbling down - for instance) and how she feels that a house built in Norway (which she has done) would last a hundred years, but because of the heat and humidity in Guatemala nothing lasts more than ten years. Already one wall of one house is cracked because the foundation has settled, two large trees with roots under the house are buckling the porch, etc. etc. She has become somewhat discouraged, especially after she discovered that some workmen she had trusted were cheating her. So we talk about all this, about creativity, about our experiences with and because of the latihan, and about our relationships with our parents and with our children, as the sun rises in the sky and eventually the inevitable clouds begin to gather. We decide to have some late breakfast before I leave, and she makes me some scrambled eggs with veggies cooked in, and spreads on top of it some sort of red-orange “caviar” out of a toothpaste-type tube she had brought from Norway, made of codfish roe; not really caviar, but a little salty and very delicious. Then about two o’clock we set off to walk me to the truck stop so that I can return to Pana in good time for my shuttle to Antigua, and sort of by surprise she decides to go to Pana for the afternoon, too. I am a little glad that she is with me, as this second pickup has no framework around us (some have a sort of peaked roof made of pipe, which I presume is covered with a tarp when it rains) and therefore there is nothing to hold onto. There are just two low benches down each side, and when the truck starts up it is going twice as fast as the first truck – (i.e downhill) – and I am terrified….each twist and turn of the road at this speed seems to threaten to toss me over the side. I have to just hang on tight to the edge of the truck and look straight ahead into the bottom of the truck so I won’t be as aware of the speed. She suggests I look out at the lovely view toward the lake, but then sees I am pretty tense and says, “Just breathe.” Well, I AM “just breathing” and have gone back to my former mind-set of just giving myself over to God, [the back of the Guate chickenbuses are usually painted with signs like “Cuidame Senor” – Take care of me, Lord] but I wasn’t about to look down at the lake. I decide that if I come back again, and I imagine I will, I’m going to take the INSIDE side of the truck on the way down, and maybe even take the position of one of the little girls in this truck, with my back up against the window. So THIS ride isn’t too fun, at least until we get most of the way down the mountain side so I can enjoy the vistas again (usually I love riding in the back of a truck.) 

Then we walk back into crowded Pana, in the throes of their big weekend fiesta (replete with carnival rides and shooting galleries.) We walk down the stalls of bagged bagels (unfortunately vendedores here don’t seem to have learned the basic principles of good business and have set all their stalls out one after another with the same items, whether textiles and crafts or food, which of course undercuts prices and bores the customers.) I find some wonderful fresh homemade bagged potato chips, she gets some hard chunks of almonds drenched in molasses, and on we go thru the maze of streets, looking for the hotel where I am supposed to meet my shuttle. Of course I see 10,000 textiles and carved items and handbags and so forth that I would like to buy, but I am not in the money-spending mode these days. After locating the shuttle, we walk down to the lake, and see that gorgeous sparkling blue entity stretching out for miles and miles, with a few people bathing themselves on the water’s edge below us, replete with soap, and then swimming, and unfortunately the usual flotsam in the grass below us, ten feet from the water. You do see signs around about putting your trash where it belongs, but noone seems to pay attention – but at least that’s a start. We decide to eat, since it could be seven pm before I get home; but unfortunately choose an Americanized restaurant because it is across the street from my shuttle, and get a not-great meal, but for only $6. At the restaurant is a whole clutch of young Norwegian women, whom she says – after a brief conversation with them – are going to Spanish school in Antigua and starting to volunteer in a kindergarten; something set up by their school. Then my shuttle comes, I say goodbye for now to her, and I have another opportunity to spend three very close hours with nine strangers. 

The girl next to me and I start talking; she is of course going to Spanish school in Antigua and starts tomorrow volunteering in a hospital here where she says babies with cleft palates whose parents can’t afford to take care of them stay until they are three months old and can have the operation! With all my concerns about the importance of touch and about early bonding and it’s affect on later behavior (proclivity to violence, inability to feel empathy, or have good relationships, etc.,) you can imagine how this sounds to me. On the shuttle TO Pana, a girl had mentioned that she had taken a tour of this hospital and that “babies” (she didn’t say what sort or what problem they were in the hospital for) are kept in sort of cages…..! I have been thinking off-handedly about going in to volunteer to hold babies, as volunteers do in hospitals in the US for extra care, but having heard these stories I am determined to go to the hospital this week to learn what I can about volunteering with them until my Spanish gets better. This second shuttle driver is younger and more reckless than my teacher’s husband, (although at least all these shuttles are enclosed vans – usually appearing and sounding in good mechanical order): at one point he is passing busses on a curve, and I make a comment to the other passengers in the back with me, and a young man sitting behind me speaks up to the “chauffeur” in perfect Spanish asking him not to pass on curves and to take care of his passengers. When the guy doesn’t respond, the young man says, “Did you hear me?” and the driver slows down. The hippie guy sitting directly behind me says to the other man that he has been all over C. America and thinks this is the most dangerous road – way worse than Chiapas. I had heard in that parts of Mexico the drivers are crazy and always thought I couldn’t go there on a bus because of that – now I know I’ve already been through the worst!! Although I would NOT do this trip on a chicken bus. Those guys are insane!As you travel you see wrecked and ruined buses over the edge of the cliffs. With all of these “possible danger” issues, however, my feeling is that if I’m not willing to take these occasional risks…………what then? Stay in my house all my life? I will be reasonably cautious, por supuesto! But some risks are necessary to see this incredibly beautiful country and to learn more. All along the highway on my way home are families in the beautiful reds and blues against black or indigo of the traditional clothing, walking back miles and miles from the regional markets. Mothers with wrapped babies, small children, old men…..walking,walking, chatting with each other, carrying things. Such amazingly strong and resilient people!

Back to antigua, and on to San Andres Sematabaj

The drive back from Copan is pleasant and uneventful. We stop once for a bathroom break and to let one of the group off to make his way by some series of local busses to Tikal. We also stop for dinner about half-way at a decent restaurant with delicious limonada con soda (lemonade is made with limes down this way) but I am so broke by this point that I order only 2 tamales, and have to borrow a bit to cover that. As we drive in the dark I find myself saying, “Ah it will be wonderful to be HOME…” and then realize that I am thinking of it this way, which feels rather nice. And it is wonderful. 

Although the weekend was full of realizations and information of various kinds, I think two things stay with me strongly: 1) the importance and pleasure of speaking Spanish well enough to really talk to people. 2) Guatemala outside Antigua (and outside of Guatemala City) doesn’t seem nearly as dangerous as the guidebooks and various information on the internet has led me to believe. THAT is important for any future traveling around that I do. I am also left this morning with the wonderful and well produced CD from the Garifuna man we met, Aurelio Gota (Gotay?) The music is very fast (I believe it’s called Punto, the music and the dance) and vital and his voice is wonderful, and the songs are in the Garifuna language. What a trip! And did I say that my teacher and I are going back to Livingston for the annual Garifuna celebration in Noviembre? 

And then the week goes by in its usual way, and this weekend I leave Antigua to visit my new Subud acquaintance from Norway who lives outside of Panajachel, in a shuttle-bus with three young women, (including one who had traveled to Rio Dulce with us,) my Spanish teacher and her tour-guide husband - having decided not to go it completely on my own, plus they gave me a slightly better price than the other agency – $20 roundtrip. It takes nearly three hours to get to Pana, one more than I thought. I had forgotten how beautiful the drive to Lake Atitlan is – through agricultural areas almost all the way. Fairly large farms - though they appear to be mostly family-owned - in the flat valley, and then smaller ones on the sides of the hills as we get up into the mountains: primarily cabbage, and corn, with some lettuce and some coffee. Once we get to Pana, and let the three girls off at their hotel, my teacher insists on walking with me to help me find the truck that jitneys people up to San Andreas, where my friend lives. Actually this turns out to be a big help as Pana is larger than I remembered, and is having ITs pueblo celebration this weekend – with thousands of people in the streets. I’m not particularly concerned about taking the “jitney” up to San Andreas, though it’s an open truck, but Milvia wants me to call her on her cell as soon as I get there to let her know I have arrived safely. When the truck finally shows, on the unmarked street corner, I hop in with two young women in traditional dress, and then one after another a man with a big sack of something, a boy holding a flat of eggs with his mother and his little brother wrapped in her big shawl, several other women and men with some other parcels, show up and climb in. I had chatted with the first women while we waited, and told them I was visiting a friend in Pana (in part, cautiously, to let them know someone was waiting for me), and I greet all the other arrivals, help to load a bag in for the old man, and complement the boy on his sweet “big brothering.” This is all natural for me to do, but I am aware of my actions as possibly easing my being there, and I think they do, tho I did hear the word “gringa” at one point. Then we take off. 

I was a bit nervous that this would be a wild ride up a steep hill with dropoffs (one of my big fears) but actually the area along the road is richly green and pleasant, not especially steep and it is beautiful looking back at the lake. Various passengers rap the side of the truck and get off or on at various points. When one man gets off, he picks up his big machete off the floor of the truck and takes it with him. If I had been really worried at any point about the potential for being robbed, I might have worried if I’d seen this; but actually I was quite comfortable from the beginning. I am a little surprised there are not more greetings and adios’ between the people, although they are friendly about jostling into each other as the truck goes around sharp corners, and at one point a woman grabs my leg to steady herself and we have a nice warm non-verbal exchange. After about 20 minutes we arrive in San Andreas Semetabaj. I had some thoughts that it would be a tranquil Mayan country village, but the street are wide and paved with interesting fit-together blocks of concrete, there are quite a few tiendas, restaurants and so forth, there are lots of people in the streets, there is a new parque, already somewhat littered, and there is water flowing into the street from the mountainside (and last nite’s rain.) Nonetheless it is quiet in comparison to bustling, touristy Pana. I had not had any response to my email telling her I would be coming, but she had expected me the week before without any communication between us (before I decided to go to Rio Dulce, instead,) so I was pretty sure she would be there waiting for me. Just in case, I have taken some extra money so I could ride back down to Pana and spend the nite in a cheap hotel if need be. I follow her map carefully but manage to get slightly lost anyway. A nice well-dressed man walking with his kids sets me on the right road….which is actually just a double-track trail down off the paved road, some 500’ to a gate with the sign “Casa del Luz” – the name on her map. I knock at the locked gate and after a moment her face appears……..I am lucky she is there because she HADN’T gotten my email and has no idea I was coming. It takes her a few moments to adjust. So we spend the rest of the day and evening together and a good bit of the next morning. I am rather low-key this weekend, fighting off a cold, but for some reason I do very little talking, and she does the majority – talking in particular about her studies for many years now, even when in Norway, of the Mayan Calendar, the Popul Vuh, and various things associated with it. She has sought out Mayan shamen in the Lake Atitlan area, and at an earlier time in Mexico, but doesn’t think too much of most of the ones she’s met because of their focus on blaming other people for the ills that befall one – i.e. black magic. However she has read the work of some Mayan man who became a professor in Mexico, studying and writing on the Popul Vuh (which he said was not a correct translation of Mayan words) which she gravitated to very much, and she has given lectures on the topic in Norway several times. Her vision as she was building her Casa del Luz was that it would be a place where people could come to learn about these things, that she could arrange contacts with local Mayan shamen and visits to villages, particularly for the great numbers of Norwegian visitors that come to Pana and San Andreas because of her Norwegian neighbor and another Norwegian woman who runs a Hospedaje in San Andreas. But I tell her I know several people in Chico who might be interested, as well. Her place is gorgeous. The land it’s on is not large, but there is a lovely lawn-and-trees area just inside the gate, and two houses which were evidently shells when she arrived, but are now just lovely, fairly simple – somewhat Santa Fe/Taos-looking – homes. Very like the style of most homes in Guatemala, but a little more grand, and she has added wonderful pine wood-framed windows (instead of the metal ones other people use) and beautiful paneled doors. The houses both face the gate, one more-or-less behind the other, and there is about 30’ between them. The view from one house is the lawn/garden (with a big pine tree as a centerpiece) and from the other, higher by 15’, over the wall to the coffee finca beyond and across to the mountains that surround the lake 15 miles away. VERY lovely, and her furnishings simple and very beautiful. She has quite a few citrus trees of various types, banana trees, excellent avocados (I haven’t found any good ones in Guate this time of year,) and passionfruit. I have seen the vines many times, in Berkeley and elsewhere, but never have seen the fruit, much less tasted it. The inside of the fruitskin is spongy/fibrous, but within this is a bed of sweet seeds, not unlike a pomegranate, and you crunch the little seeds inside them. Since I had been a bit interested to hear about the orphanage that her Norwegian neighbor has started here in San Andreas, she tells me that it has been funded by various Norwegian organizations, who give a lot in Guatemala, and that it houses eight children who are cared for during the week by one Mayan woman with an aide who stays for the weekend when the main woman goes home. The Norwegian woman who started this is married to a Mayan man, and lives next door to my friend with her husband and four Guatemalan orphans, in a rather lovely turquoise eight-sided concrete house. Her husband’s relatives live in three or four shacks on the property. S. also tells me that there is a more traditional Mayan village a mile or more up the road and that we can walk up there to see it next time I come to visit. My friend has also looked into other projects in this area and says that in general many seem to get started, with great will and enthusiasm, but that few continue; those that do seem to involve more Guatemalans than gringos. She seems to think that many projects just let the government off the hook for taking care of its own people, a philosophy shared by some of my Chico friends. But my thinking is that it is very expensive and requires a lot of expertise to get these projects started: perhaps the best “compromise” is to have NGOs start them, and train people (learning from the locals as well, of course) with the expectation that the government will take them over in time, and certain monies or trades will be locked into that prospect. However, I have to say that doesn’t even happen in the US….witness the program I worked for for four years which foundered and had to change its really useful focus after the initial funding by the Prop.10 organization, in order to fit into government guidelines for MediCal funding. 

So we sit in the garden and then the house, and she talks and talks and I listen. Then we walk down into San Andreas to give me a “tour”. I can’t say the town impresses me much, though it could have its days. It is a rather dark and glowery day today. And the restaurant we decide on is only so-so, but relatively inexpensive. We also walk up to the town cemetery which surprises me in having no statuary of any sort – just rectangular cement boxes with names and dates on them, painted turquoise or rose or white with LOTS of plastic flowers, and some little raised dirt mounds where children are buried. Nevertheless a lovely place with an overgrowth of every sort of plant. Next - back to the lake, and home again.

Beyond Livingston

So we leave Livingston to return by boat to our van at Rio Dulce, and stop at another small restaurant along the river, where lunch was offered on the deck next to the water. At this point I was not hungry, had very little money to spend, and was anxious to get to Copan (in Honduras) before dark. This is of course the problem with tours, and this one was deficit (though the driver/guide was a wonderful man) in not ASKING us what we wanted to do next. I think all of us would have opted for going straight to Copan, though these “kids” were always ready for a beer. At the same time, being with a tour gave me the chance to speak or at least listen to Spanish nonstop, as almost all the other travelers were better at Spanish than I. In addition, this spot on the river was beautiful, and the restaurant staff congenial and willing to speak Spanish and talk a bit about their lives…and we heard again about the difficulty children in this area have in getting to school. This trip back to the Backpackers Hotel is muy rapido. So much so that the boat starts slapping hard at any incoming waves from other boats and spraying the outside people with water. At one point it gets to be a little too much for this non-swimmer, and I found myself turning around and saying sharply, “That’s enough!” From thereon it seems more reasonable. That is the only point on the trip that I am at all afraid or worried. [Later I learn that our speedy bus driver had been taking his first turn at handling a boat – that information would really have worried me!] There are some problems when we dock, as the rest of the group swore they had been told that the price of the boat ($26 each) was included in the tour price ($90.) I had been told it was not, but believed that it was only $10, and am getting so short of cash that it makes a difference to me, too. The boatman begins to look a little worried when the Canadian starts to rant and rave about being cheated and ripped off; I hurriedly get M.C. to make sure he understands that we thought he’d done a good job and the anger is not at him, but at the people who booked the tour. Eventually all is resolved, though I decide to tell my teacher to explain to her husband at the tour agency that people need to know EXACTLY what costs are involved, covered or not covered, as otherwise they will be very angry and OFTEN, as in my case, not bring enough to cover expenses. But everyone settles down after a bit, the pilote gets paid, and off we go again in the van. 

The trip to Copan is easy enough though it takes several hours. In general the landscape is more thickly populated and more modern. They take our passports at the border of Honduras, but everything is in order, and on we go and in a 15 min. drive from the border we are in the town of Copan and at our motel.  Maria Cristina and I are roomed together, again, but quickly leave after dumping our backpacks and go to look around the town. The town is bustling at this hour (8 pm or so, although this is confusing as Guatemala had already gone off DST and Honduras has not, so we lose – or gain – an hour) with people sitting in the park or chatting on street corners. We find a cute restaurant with some liveliness to it and go in, whereupon the teenage boys at a nearby table begin dancing outrageously and sort of flirting with us. That is fun, and we decide the culture here is different from Antigua or anyplace else we’ve been in Guatemala. More loose and easy, more friendly, less traditional (and actually there is no typical indigenous clothing in evidence here, of the sort we are used to among the Mayans in Antigua, although a lot of older women are wearing openwork lacy blouses, which might be typical of this area.) It is possible, if this impression is true, that the fact that this is one of few countries in this area that didn’t go thru civil war in the 70s and 80s contributes to the greater modernity and more “relaxed” attitude. The manager or possibly owner, tho he is quite young, of the restaurant comes over to chat with us, eventually introducing us to his little daughter, who stays with us to talk and play even when daddy goes to take care of other customers. He then brings his baby boy, obviously his pride and joy, over to see us. His wife and other family members or friends are playing cards in the back of the restaurant while the tv shows cartoons for the kids in the group. I notice more and more how M.Cristina’s fluent Spanish makes it possible for her to connect with everyone everywhere we go. A definite incentive for me. After a quick dinner we leave and walk up the street toward the motel. On the corner we run into the rest of the group, eating dinner in an open-air (screened) restaurant. We join them, although again they are all smoking like crazy, which MC likes even less than I do. When the guide, sitting next to me, lites up again, I take my leave and go over to where some little wild kittens and their mom are rustling around in the bushes outside the restaurant. I come back and beg a few pieces of meat from one of the men and when I throw it to the kittens, they lunge on it in a way that makes me think they are actually starving. Oddly enough, noone else heeds my plea to give up a little meat for the cats, even after I repeat it. The restaurant is run by two women, evidently a mother and her adult daughter with a baby. They take care of the baby over in a corner, all the while they have some pretty outrageous rock and salsa music playing very loudly. We then leave the restaurant and I think we are headed for the hotel but the group follows Carlos (the guide) down the street in the other direction, and we follow them, thinking maybe we had gotten mixed up in our directions. Eventually it is clear we are headed somewhere else, and he takes us to a bar in a lower part of the city. The bar plays videos of various American and European rock groups – Rolling Stones, et al – and everyone in our group is in a good mood, friendly, and joking is rampant, in a combo of Spanish and English, but for the life of me I can’t get anyone to get up to dance, so eventually when one guy decides he’s had enough to drink, I get up and leave with him to go back to the hotel. M.C. had already taken her leave early on, deciding the music was too loud for her. After the nite at the Backpackers Hotel, we both sleep soundly despite some noise from the street which filters easily into the hotel through the wrought iron façade. In the morning MC and I again go walking around town, in part so she can check out a hotel to stay at for the next few days as she ls leaving us here. She finds Hotel La Posada around the corner, a beautiful place with inside gardens, nice rooms, hot water, cable tv and good towels, for $26 per nite. We learned that the president of the country is coming to make a speech that day, and we ask various people around town, including some men working on the street, whether he is a popular president, which they say he is. We let them know our American president isn’t very popular with us. Everything seems a little low-key for a presidential visit, tho there is blue and white bunting all over, and families and people line the low walls of the park where he will speak. There are also several trucks full of soldiers in evidence, but even that seems easy-going. Of course, this would be more like the governor of a state in the US, in terms of size. But still quite relaxed. I notice many of the older men in town wear sombreros, and we had earlier noticed different men on horseback, but whether this is for some parade or common behavior, I never learn for sure. One of the men we see is so old, tired and poor-looking, that I think horseback is his usual method of getting around. We leave in the van fairly early (although there is a mixup because of the time-change) and make our way to the Copan ruins. There is some problem because while the fee is $10 American, by the time we convert the Honduran Limpiras we’d gotten in change for our Quetzals at dinner, we were shorted by a few dollars, but we all just bite the bullet and go in. (Interestingly, the Limpira is named for one of the heroes of Honduras, an indigenous Mayan, whose picture, with long black hair, is on the bill and on many posters.) We get a wonderful Mayan guide of 27 or so who has a capacious memory for details and who enjoys the questions and energy of our group. Copan ruins are famous among the Mayan group for having preserved inscriptions which tell of Mayan social life, the guide tells us, but I’m not clear how this is important, since he says because of the scrambling of stones over the centuries and inaccurate replacement, no one can read the inscriptions. Nonetheless the area is absolutely beautiful and the carved statues of the various numbered kings (“…and 14 beget 15 and….”) are fairly intact and quite wonderful. The guide shows us the various large round stones with channels for the blood to run down, which had been used to sacrifice human beings to the gods. They seem to still hold some power, as I perceive them (at least I correctly identify the one that is an original, not a copy, as are many of the other large carved figures.) He shows us the ball court where they played a kind of volley ball, 4 on 4, with a big heavy rubber ball which was, he demonstrates, hit with all parts of the body except for the hands and feet. The object was to score with a hit on the two carved standing stones at either side of each end of the court. At the end of the game, the best player was sacrificed to the Gods, and of course every player tried for the honor of being the best. He refers many times to the various kinds of drugs used by the shamen (was that the term?) and kings for visions and wisdom, some of which were also used as anesthetic for the sacrificial “lamb.” He says that in this case, unlike Rome, the common people (who were shorter in stature and had a shorter life expectancy than the ruling class, and lived in a very specific area of the community) were not allowed to watch the ball games (being spiritual in nature, in homage or supplication to the Gods) but they could sit away from the court, and with the incredible acoustics of the area, HEAR the whole game…..even able to tell which player was in action at a given moment. This suggests to me the enormous power of the shamen and kings. In Rome, as I understand it, the emperor had to offer the “games” for the amusement of the people as a way of keeping them in line. Although most of the tops of the huge “pyramids” have been removed to the museum for protection, the remaining buildings are quite amazing and beautiful, and it is possible to feel something of the size and nature of the original community. The museum cost an additional $5, but we don’t have the time or money; it is also possible for another $12 to go into the tunnels used by the archaeologists in excavating the ruins. As we leave, after wishing the guide good luck on the exam he has to take for an Anthropology class the next day, (he has to study outside his country because there are no Anthro/Archaeology teachers at the University of Honduras due to budget restrictions,) Maria Cristina takes up a conversation with one of the security guards or assistant guides, an older Mayan man. She mentions to him that although the rest of the group is leaving for Guatemala, again, she will be staying in Honduras and would be back the next day to see the Museum. He tells her that if she wants to take a tour by horseback, he will take her around to the various present-day Mayan villages in the nearby hills. Of course she says she would love to go. She had also found a poster for a butterfly reservation within walking distance of town, so she is set for several days on her own in Copan, before following whatever trail is next for her. We also learn that one of the reasons for the president’s visit to Copan is because there has been talk of raising the price of admission to the ruins to $180, which worries all the staff and the Mayan communities around the ruins, as they are afraid no one will come any more and their livelihoods will be destroyed. The president is coming to talk to the community about their concerns [what a concept!] The rest of us pack ourselves back in the van (by unspoken agreement everyone keeps the same seats they first started with, but because MC is leaving, I get her backseat with a headrest and a larger window-opening,) and off we go for the five-hour drive back to Gua City, after converting our remaining Limpiras back into Quetzals with a vendedor at the border, who walks around from car to car with big rolls of bills (and who of course shorts us in the conversion, this time by $12.50, for me.) I’m not sure how to avoid this money loss in each direction, but hope to learn.

Livingston, Guatemala

Then Livingston. I have imagined it many times, having heard that it has only one street, but it is not at all what I expected. Coming in from Rio Dulce, it looks like many towns along the coast of California, say Moss Landing..…moored sailboats and motorboats, some very fancy homes, and many of the unique-to-3rd world country homes of bamboo and thatch on stilts next to the river. Once we disembark, we stop at the first restaurant we come to on the hilly main street, eat a fantastic breakfast with fresh-squeezed oj (I haven’t found any, yet, in Antigua) on the veranda of the restaurant, and watch the people go by. Next to us, two Hispanic women in the large lacy blouses and loose skirts typical of this area work on laptop computers. It turns out that they are associated with the local project for providing job education for young people in this area, which this wonderful restaurant BACAMAMA exists to benefit. I am looking everywhere for evidence of the Garifuna people that Livingston is famous for, but they are in the minority on this cobbled calle, although a few black women approach us with photos of women in a little album, asking us to choose a style to have our hair plaited (just like in Jamaica.) Most people walk or bicycle by, but there are a few cars, which we ask about. Evidently there is a daily ferry, on which any cars have to come. The heat and humidity are really oppressive, but welcome breezes from the river and the Bay are frequent. Maria Cristina and I have hooked up with the young American man and a woman from Holland for breakfast, and we then start off together to explore the town. The first sight is the concrete basketball court, where many people are spending a lazy Saturday watching the local teams play basketball, not futbol as in the Antigua area. We meander along the usual sorts of stalls and small shops, selling local crafts, food, lots of signs for Liquidas – bottled water and sodas. When we get ¾ of the way down the one main calle (although lots of side roads run off into the residential areas,) I ask our tour guide about the Garifunas – is there a special area where they congregate, or something? “Oh they’re all over,” he says, without much interest, but up to this point I have seen very few black people, proportionately. We pass one large attractive restaurant with the word Garifuna in the name, but otherwise I have seen nothing to indicate the presence mentioned in the guidebooks. I had imagined music coming from one after another open-air bar, colorful costume (though what I’d seen on the Garifuna youth playing music at El Pelicano bar in Antigua wasn’t TOO colorful) and the sort of rich patois I’d heard in Jamaica. Then we see a bunch of folks from our tour congregating next to a shack on the side of the street, talking with an old black man with a grizzled beard. He speaks English and as we come up he is describing a tour he and his band had made to Holland, and says that they have recently been in New Mexico. The folks in our group from those areas speak up enthusiastically and he engages with them, naming towns they know, and places they are familiar with. I elaborate about this, here, because he looks like an old drunk and I make the snap judgment that he is b.s.ing us about the grand travels of his band. I take the chance to ask him about the Jovenes de Livingston, the group of young Garifuna musicians I had met in Antigua; hoping, really, to connect with them again, here. He says he has heard about them from many people, but he doesn’t know who they are – they must be from Puerto Barrios, on the other side of the river, and just using the name of Livingston – he seems rather scornful. I ask more about the Garifuna influence in Livingston. He says that they have been more and more shoved out of eminence here by the Hispanics, who had “come in with their restaurants and their culture.” Now the Garifuna are a minority in their “own land.” I ask other questions, and he offers to take us on the tour that the tours don’t offer (he says something about that to our tour guide, who is hanging back from this conversation – in English, which he doesn’t speak – but also with some apparent degree of scorn, or desire to distance.) Five or six of us swing in behind the man – Aurelio Gota – and he takes us (and our reluctant guide) down to the end of the calle, and then along the ocean – because, tho the shoreline along the bay looks the same as along the river, Livingston is where the Rio Dulce meets the bay and then the sea. There is no beach to speak of, and the water is resplendent with some floating plastic bottles and bags, and other wonders made by man. Not dreadful, but not very pretty. We walk along among groups of children playing, a few tiendas offering food or liquidas, people taking their leisure in the cool ocean breeze. Most of these people our impromptu guide speaks to by name, and we of course say Hola and Buenos Dias to everyone we pass. One tienda is playing a CD, and Aurelio says, “That’s my music,” and offers to sell us a CD. I go back to get a cold bottle of water and ask the woman, jestingly, if the music is really his, and she says, “Oh, certainly!” When I return to the group, Aurelio is handing out the CDs and when I take one, I joke with him that I had checked it out and what he is telling us is true. Unfortunately, he takes some offense, even though I apologize and explain to him that so many people try to sell different things to us tourists, and so often exaggerate their value or the story connected with them that we become skeptical. As we continue to walk along the shore – meeting one white couple (from our tour group,) and few Hispanics, but dozens of Garifunas – he shows us a pink and white mansion on the shore, with a beautiful garden, among the shacks that otherwise line the shores. He says that Nazis, fleeing Germany after the war, settled here and remained for 3-4 years, then disappeared. He says that you hardly ever saw them outside their fortress (which had a two-story tower, as if to look out to sea,) but he remembers them. I ask how old he was then and he says about two. I say I was ten when the war was over, born in ’35. He and the young man we are walking with express surprise, and he said he was born in ’53 (which would mean that any Nazis he saw would have had to be there for nearly eight years.) I am shocked because from his appearance I would have thought he was 75 or so. He laughs and says, “Well I was thinking about courting you, but now I know you are old enough to be my mother!” 

He then leads us up a steep meandering path away from the ocean, through backyards and into a house, where he introduces his bedridden aunt – probably a bit shocked to have 6-7 foreigners show up while she is in bed. But she is very gracious and Maria Cristina does her usual charming Spanish thing with her, and we leave her with well-wishes for her health. Then through many more back “yards” – this path reminds me very much of the ones we took off the road in Jamaica. A few children bounce along with us for a way, some teenagers call out jokingly to us, many people look askance. I get the feeling that not many tourists show up here. We then go through a big cemetery with gravestones and some larger edifices a bit higgley-piggley on the varied terrain and also, he tells us, tumbled about by the hurricane last year which demonstrated to the people that they needed to abandon their traditional bamboo and thatch houses and begin to build with concrete. This comment interests me, as it suggests that recent hurricanes have been more frequent or more devastating than previous ones. In the center of the cemetery, he shows us a huge tree 100 feet tall or so (not many trees in Guatemala reach the heights I’m used to in California) and at least 20’ around with many trunks grown together. He says something lovely about the roots reaching down into the graves and the bodies of the people, which include his parents and a sister, feeding this tree spiritually as well as physically. He has been talking all along about his attempts, as a leader in his community, to keep the Garifuna culture alive, through his music group, but also through his school. The children come there outside of regular school to learn the Garifuna language, history, music, and customs. At this point he shows us the building where his school is located, although he also says sometimes they meet on the beach. He says there hasn’t been much interest by other agencies in helping. I ask why the community in general doesn’t take part more in the tourist activities, which is the economic base for most of the country……….why not more restaurants, with Garifuna music and dance? I tell him that tourists come all the way here to see the Garifuna culture, and it’s not in evidence – why not take advantage of this? People could raise pigs and goats and chickens and vegetables to supply the restaurants – everyone could benefit! He says, “I think we Garifuna are a lackadaisical people.” An interesting word to use. What I see is a people being marginalized in their own town…..second-class citizens. But maybe they don’t care. Maybe they are happy with their lives as they are. I know many Europeans and especially Americans have met this sort of lazy resistance to their efforts to improve the lives of various indigenous peoples around the world, who are actually fine with things as they are, or don’t want foreigners interfering. Given my rather negative experience with child-rearing where I was in Jamaica, I ask him at one point about parent-child relationships: “Are the Garifuna pretty loving to their children?” I say, ingenuously. “Oh sure, they are! Of course they have to be strict with the kids, a little whipping never hurt anybody! These mothers, they are STRONG,” he says, admiringly,” You don’t mess with them.” I hear in his voice his memory of his mother. So, in my mind, it is the same as what I saw in Jamaica….and for that matter in a lot of areas. When M.Cristina asks about the Garifunas’ relationship to Africa, he goes off on a heated oration for 5-6 minutes about how the Garifuna are NOT, as is said in the books, decendants of shipwrecked African slaves, and not from Africa at all. He knows that the Garifuna people came from Venezuela and spread up the coast (and it’s true that there are Garif settlements all along Central America on the Caribbean…thru Honduras and Belize, for sure.) I don’t know if he actually believes this – he seems to – or if it’s a concept he uses to help the children of his community feel more proud of their derivation. He then takes us to a locked-up restaurant made of wood but designed to let the air in, as the thatch houses do. In its dark recesses, on a low stage, are four drums of the type I saw with the Jovenes de Livingston group. He says he made the drums and that they are very different from the Djembes of Africa (which is true – much more primitive looking) and he sits down and plays for his very appreciative audience for a few minutes. He then stands and says the tour is over. He had said all along that we could give whatever we felt for the CDs (home-executed copies) but when we offer 100 Q for the two we had asked for (pretty much all we had-$13) he is offended and says “For the tour, too!” though of course that it was not free was never mentioned. But we cough up what little more we feel we can spare from what we have left for the expenses we will still encounter. And we walk the short way back to the center of town. We still have 50 mins. until we are supposed to meet the boat, so people congregate on the wharf and some have more to eat and another beer, but I am pretty much out of money.

Travel time: off to Livingston

We are going to Rio Dulce and Livingston! Since I first arrived in Guatemala, and especially after I spent time in Jamaica and liked that culture so much, I have wanted to get to Livingston, the home in Guatemala of the black Caribbean Garifuna people. So my primary interesting in going on this weekend tour is to finally get to Livingston. My temporary housemate, Maria Cristina, decided this would be a great way to finish visiting Guatemala and get on her way to Honduras, and then down on thru Central America. So we pile into the tour bus on Friday at noon to find 12 passengers, including us, not the five we had expected. Since we are the last pickup, we get the extra fold-down seats, and I have all the baggage squashed against my feet, although I eventually find ways to use this for comfort. The first part of the trip is ghastly – it takes 40 minutes to get to Guatemala City and then 25 crawling thru the main part of G.C., windows open for air, which lets in the horrible diesel fuel of trucks and buses crawling along with us. I have rarely been bothered by smog, but my eyes are stinging before we get out of there. Then another 35 minutes moving thru the rest of the city at a better pace (it is a BIG sprawl of a city, but in many places interestingly divided by deep thick green canyons with houses perched precariously on their descending walls.) [In Feb 2007 I learn that some of these houses tumbled into the earth when a “sinkhole” developed.] Then out into the country and on our way to Rio Dulce. 

This huge river runs thru the middle part of Guatemala, out to the Caribbean. The terrain on the way there – the earth being what it is – reminds me a lot of the area between the Central Valley of California and the Pacific Coast. The trees are different, but look a lot like the low sprawling oaks of the Central Valley, and except for where the brush is punctuated by arms of cactus, higher than the trees, or – as we got closer to Rio Dulce – by banana trees, it looks just like our deer brush-covered foothills, at least in Spring. The towns remind me of the outskirts of cities like San Jose….ugly, sprawling, dirty rows of car body shops and small stores….but here almost the whole town has that look. The rural areas, however, are incredibly beautiful and rich green, even in September, since it's still the rainy season. A tall graceful mountain range follows us to our left, and smaller more spaced mountains rise along the right-hand side of this rich valley that our highway runs thru. Very little commercial-looking farming, except for one area of several hundred acres of parallel strips of plastic on the ground, presumably keeping the weeds down around young strawberry plants, although I couldn’t see them. We take a bathroom break in one town after about three hours driving, and immediately our bus is surrounded by adults and children selling shelled and roasted pecans. The kids are shy but Maria Cristina’s fluent Spanish quickly warms them up, and in her usual way (and mine, when I can speak the language better) she soon learns their names and ages, something about their schools, where they live and so on. With all the beautiful valley land around this ugly, terribly hot town, I am disappointed to learn they live “muy cerca” the parking lot we are in. 

The foliage thickens as we approach the river, but by then it is nightfall (which happens just about seven o’clock, here, year-round.) We pull into the “Backpacker’s Hotel” right next to the river, and eat some dinner looking out over the water and up at the HUGE bridge which spans from our side of the river to the town on the other side. This bridge is touted in the Lonely Planet guidebook as one of the few positive things accomplished by the president responsible for so much genocide in Guatemala in the 80s. I make the mistake of ordering something which I think will be BBQ chicken, but turns out to be bad Chinese food, “sweet and sour” with little fried chicken patties in it. However I am very hungry so down it goes. Maria Cristina’s Spanish (as well as her effervescent personality) is attractive to all the other people on our tour – all Spanish students at one or another school – so they come over off and on to join our table. I learn that three young girls in a group are barely 20 years old and from Denmark. Two couples are from Germany. Another single woman of 28 or so is from Holland. One single man is from Quebec, now learning Spanish with a French accent; and one is from New Hampshire. The tour guide also joins us, so I am able to learn a lot listening to the Spanish flow between him and my friend. While we are eating, a small boat with a motor on the back buzzes slowly into the dock and a woman in her late 30s, apparently Caucasian, climbs out and makes her way into the restaurant. She evidently buys something or uses the phone, then returns to slip back into her boat and buzz away into the night. Since I am inclined to imagine living almost any beautiful place I see, this sets up fantasies of renting a river-side home – open to the breezes - and buying a small boat to get around, since there are no roads in this area except for a few from the highway down to the Rio Dulce like the one on which we had come. Livingston and most of the towns in this area are not reachable except by boat because of the thickness of the jungle. After dinner, the younger folks go over to the bar side of the restaurant, out on a dock, and I join them to listen to the music, ending up in a very friendly, joking conversation with one of the young German men. Since there doesn’t seem to be the discouragement of smoking among Europeans that we see in the US, and since Guatemala has no rules about smoking in bars or restaurants, all of these young foreigners AND the American are smoking left and right and the atmosphere eventually gets to me, so I go up to the room I am to share with M.C., only to find that it is about 100 degrees in there, and no fan. The rooms are rather like in a child’s summer camp….only screen above head-level….and the beds, provided only with sheets, are rather like cots. As tired as I am from the five-hour drive, this is pretty disappointing, but I go back down to the dock, get MC from her sitting place and we go to the end of another dock to lie down on the cool planks, very near the water, until the evening cools off enough to go to bed. 

In the morning we are to take a launch down the river to Livingston. Since it turns out Cristina doesn’t swim either, we talk about small fears of the boat scene, but she says that it will be a big launch like on Lake Atitlan and will of course have lifevests for passengers. When we get up in the morning I quickly learn that neither is the case. Small boat and no lifevests. In the same way I had just sort of given over my life to the very fast bus driver, the day before, I get on the launch and decide not to dwell on my fears. This launch quickly turns out to be non-functional, and when we sputter to a stop – and float quietly for ten minutes a quarter way across this huge river (the bridge span seems about the length of the Oakland-San Francisco bridge to the first island) while the “pilot” frantically tries to get it to start – another, slightly larger, boat comes to our rescue. We jump from one to the other and with a huge roar of the engine we are off down the river. It is a little scarey, exhilarating, and sort of annoying to be going so fast since I want to see EVERYTHING, but there is a lot of water to cover, and the driver does slow down enough for us to see some of the dwellings, grand and simple, on the banks; takes us close to a small island covered with birds – white egrets standing out sharply against the green trees; black cormorants sitting in the tops of all the trees, silhouetted against the amazing sky. He also takes us down a side canal so that we can get really close to several dwellings, where really young children paddle their way alone through the water in dugout canoes which sit in the water right up to the lip of the boat, and mothers hang their wash on lines on the decks of a house on poles at the water’s edge. There are “islands” of lilies all along the river wherever it is shallow. Stopping near one, we watch a 6” tall bird with long skinny legs walk across this world of lily-pads, floating in the water…..bright white lilies on tall stalks, tilted toward the sun. The Hispanohablantes call this La Isla de las Flores. El pilote also takes us into a lagoon where the trees, as all along the river, are thick right down to the water’s edge; vines climbing up into the trees, branches of the some trees dropping directly down 10-15 feet into the water. And of course everything in the forest-scape is perfectly reflected in the water. It is really breath-takingly beautiful, and along with the sensuous breeze from the river on this very warm day, worth any trouble it has been to get here. The driver stops the boat in the middle of one lagoon for at least 15 minutes, waiting for the engine-sound to die away enough that the birds will begin to feel comfortable and start calling again. It is interesting how hard it is for the young people in my boat to be comfortable with the silence. They keep talking or sniggering……but eventually all is quiet, the birds begin to call back and forth, and I begin to cry inside with the miracle and overwhelming pleasure of being in such an incredibly beautiful place in the world. 

Then the engine starts up and off we go again, stopping at the riverside crafts shop where hopeful sellers wait with hand-carved and painted coconut-shell bowls, bracelets, small painted-wood animals, and embroidered fabric purses, belts, etc. We also see a demonstration of some of the carving. All of this to benefit a project there (started by another American ten years or so ago) which provides a residential highschool for these far-flung Mayan river-dwellers. Unfortunately the prices for the crafts items are rather high – tho I’m sure warranted – and because we are on a day trip, and therefore not out to carry bags of purchased goods, we don’t purchase anything. Our group is a probably a disappointment to them, though we are all very friendly. It is here that I see huge bamboo groves and hear some strange whistling noises that the guide said were made by large bees. Fortunately we have no personal contact with them. Then on to Livingston.

Culture and History, and personal recognitions

I jumped ahead with a summary of the year I've been here, leaving out a lot of step-by-step learnings about Guatemala and about myself, as I pursue this New Journey. So I'm backtracking a bit in the next posts. Culture and history: My Spanish teacher told me today about the area she grew up in, near the border with El Salvador, which was settled at one time by Germans, so her father looks almost white, with blue eyes, the latter which she also has in her warm brown face. Additionally, at one time a whole cadre of Gypsies from Spain came over there, during some period of persecution. So in the area of her home there are many women with full colorful skirts and blouses with blousy sleeves and big earrings in their ears. And men who are sort of violent, according to her. The group is regarded as thieves by I don’t know who.  Now, I would like to see that, (not the thieves and violent part) and possibly hear some music……she says muchas violinas! I’d also like to read about it on the internet, if I could do so (too expensive, now.) So this is another culture in Guatemala! I think my teacher said there were 23 language groups in Guatemala – 21 of them different Mayan languages. 

Personal recognitions: Tues. am. And the worst nite’s sleep I’ve had in a long time. Perhaps the barking dog….or the music from the apartment of the Korean couple next door. When I finally fall asleep I dreamed that I am in a two-story house w/ a bunch of women, and some earthquakey things start happening….a big beam gets wrenched up thru the earth, etc., and then the lower story starts being flooded. We are all scrambling up a stairway to the 2nd floor, but some women don’t make it and are washed away….The women I am with don’t seem to think much of the whole event, just seem to be glad they are upstairs…even tho “upstairs” is now resting on top of the floodwaters like a sort of open raft. I wake up rather panicky. I analyze, of course, that this is D. and these other Gringo women who think it’s perfectly fine to be in some other country where you can’t speak the language, and going off for a year, traveling by yourself. And how you manage the rest of it, like your money and going to the consulate in Guate to get an extension, etc. So some part of me is more afraid of this small adventure than I realize. 

Wed. nite: and M.C. and I go to a supposedly Cuban restaurant for dinner and spend too much money but I have an excellent ratatouille….so obviously NOT Cuban. The band also is not Cuban…..Peruvian pipes and all, but really excellent. And so after I “wake up” from the immersion of watching a movie with her, and climb my stairs after saying Buenas Noches, I suddenly wonder if I could get lost here and never find my way home. My sweet home in the California mountains seems like Paradise, with no noise, and no people. But might I never go back there???? I never have thought that; I always assumed I will get very old and die there. But I can see how one might get “swept away,” here. It suddenly occurs to me that the thread could just get broken and you might not find the trail home. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Guatemala - joys and disappointments

Why did I imagine life here would be different from life anywhere? This is one of the Great Learnings, I think - no matter where you go, there you are.

That is, that there would be both great joys - riding on the chickenbusses with mothers and their babies and their little kids (so many little kids!), and working men, the rock or salsa or reggae music blasting away, tearing along the curves of these volcano-side roads; or walking the colorful streets and meeting the dark eyes of sweet parents and their kids for instance - and also big disappointments. The latter is my growth in spanish - so, so slow! - which is preventing me from carrying on the life I expected here.   I feel so frustrated when I can't explain what I feel is a really valuable point-of-view or bit of professional understanding during a conversation with colleagues.   When I can't "use my words" in a group with kids because I can't get the "good stuff" out fast enough to be effective, or to demonstarte to my co-workers.

Now maybe that's a good thing - not to just be able to continue on the same line I was on as a professional in California. Maybe that is helping me change as a person - which is certainly required by living here. For one thing, nothing happens on time. Ever. I'm always delighted (as an aspiring Zen-conscious person) when some social worker and I, for instance, get on a bus in a small pueblo after visiting some homes where people either were or weren't there, as they had promised, only to find that the driver is under the bus, fixing something, or that we have a 15 min. wait for some other reason. I notice people get on, all ready to go, then size up the situation (the wait) and just settle in on the seats; people here are consistently  patient. So I am learning to be. That's a good thing, for this ever-hyper woman. Learning to be more present. That's another personal goal but that's easy.....everything's new, even after a year. I sit in on groups for children with difficulties at home (domestic violence, alcohol, child abuse - just like poor stressed-out families everywhere) but can't do more than help with the refreshments or the activity materials, or accept a child or two in my lap, because I can't contribute verbally, even though this is a field I know well and have lots to say about. Frustrating. I sit in on home visits where I understand about 75% of what's going on - the client's story - but can't offer much, even though I have lots of ideas on problem solving, parenting, health, and so on. More frustration. I've tried counseling a few people, but even though I manage, it's not adequate and short-changes them. So I have to wait to do my life-work. Frustrating. I've been writing a lot - short stories and a novel/memoir, and the start of another, but do you know EVERYBODY is writing, these days? A big surge in self-expression, self-revelation, a feeling of writing competence (sometimes questionable, the latter.) So that's rather daunting. So far, three of my stories have been rejected....three languish. We'll see. The activity itself, especially the self-searching and recognitions of the memoirs, was worth the work. 

I have been up to the Lago Atitlan area, which is very interesting. Guatemala was a war-torn country for many years and that has set the economic climate way back........but not the cultural one, or their awareness of the world. Many Guatemalans know the details of 9/11, for instance, or our involvement in Iraq, way better than most Americans do. There are classes in yoga, and tai chi, and acupuncture available in Gua City, Antigua and around the Lake (all areas of much American and European influence) and much sophistication about these things. There are theater groups and music and dance groups (with indigenous as well as european influences.) Artistically, Guatemala is very alive with both traditional practices (painting and weaving) and new ones. That is exciting. For instance, there is an American or European woman living in San Marcos, Lago Atitlan, who is teaching dance in the public school there, I hear; which means acceptance by the public school system! At times I think of going up to the Lake to live......I love the public lanchas (boats) on which everyone gets around to the lake-side towns - again, families, baskets of food, conversation between strangers. Delightful; and I love that big body of water, surrounded by volcanoes. But so far I'm living in that little house I described earlier, in the pueblo of Santa Ana, near Antigua, with its little up-and-downstairs rooms, and the little shared garden surrounding it.  I've been here for 7 months, now, after the first six in the more-expensive house in Antigua, proper. I work in a small project run by a man who volunteers for Common Hope, or Familias de Esperanza, as it's called here. With four young Guatemalan teachers, I go into the schools in the small pueblos and teach Pedagogia Basica (Brain Gym) activities to the kids. I love the kids; I love being in the classrooms; I have developed a real affectionate bond with these young teachers. We are currently proprosing to guide the preschool classrooms in implementing best practices in early childhood education (as defined in the US and Canada.) The Director also has a clown project and they go into the pueblos on Sundays and bring pre-school activities to the kids and parents. I am currently working on getting funding for both. This all feels like a gift as I just fell into connection with them, almost literally.   I was at a party with some folks I know slightly and afterward decided to walk over to a musical presentation at a beautiful church in the north of Antigua.  I fell into step with a Gringo man who invited me to go to Lago Atitlan with these young teachers to take a training in Pedigogia Basica - no strings attached.  So I said "Of course," and thus became involved.   Because of them, I worked some in two of the classrooms for the remainder of the year, helping with behavior management.  Then in the afternoons I go with the social workers and speech therapist of Common Hope to the homes in the hills to visit families. It's providing me with a lot........especially the opportunity to observe the homes, the family interaction, parenting styles, and to interact some with the kids...........but mostly I feel like an observer, and that is....well, I've said it already, frustration. And I have some social life: at my salsa class (a wonderful private lesson tho there are often other folks around,) though I rarely go to the bars; at my mostly-gringo writers' group; at the hotel where my Director lives with other people coming and going. Not a lot. I spend a lot of time at my little home, usually writing. . Pero, poco a poco. Just have to have a little more faith.   In the meantime there is much to love, here.

Still here!

I have now been in Antigua et environs for more than a year......salsa dancing the whole time, or at least taking classes. This town is interesting; it is setup pretty well, socially, for retired people.....and for college-age folks (lots of bars) but not so good for a 72 year old (yesterday) who loves hiphop and salsa dancing. So I go to class and if there is a younger friend in town for the weekend, we'll go to Rikki's Bar on Wed. nite for Cuban, or Thurs and Friday to Rainbow Cafe for our friend Kenny and his wonderful latin-flavored band. In many ways I haven't found the situation of my dreams - work/wise and home/wise - and wonder about the reason for that, since finding a few good friends and finding a program and some schools to work in has flowed pretty easily. OK we'll lay it up to my still-pobre spanish, not some metaphysical machination. Since I've had a lot of time to myself, I've spent it writing. Not for the first time in my life, at all....but only the second time (the last to Playboy at age 26) to submit anything. Only to have 3/6 rejected so far. A poem was accepted for Main Channel Voices, which was nice....nice poem, too. Juice.  (See my various offerings in Author's Den).