Photobucket Album
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
An amoeba, some meds and motion sickness walk into a bar...
Is there a better way to return to the Southwest than walking into the invisible mist and distinct smell of creosote and be greeted by family? I don't think so.
Yesterday, we arrived in the El Paso airport at about 4 p.m. with moisture and the perfume of that wonderful desert plant in the air and Tony's mother, step-sister and brother waiting for us. But even before the creosote and hugs hit us, some of my senses had already landed in New Mexico; eavesdropping on the conversation between the two gentlemen seated behind me on my flight from Dallas-Ft. Worth to El Paso was like being trailed by my very own Sound Off! column. Talks of jobs in Mexico vs. the U.S., development in Cruces and Sonoma Ranch filled the shared air for the 30 minutes we sat on the runway in a Texas rainstorm and for the hour and 15 minutes in the air. While it's good to be home, our last days proved more of a journey than anticipated.
At about 11 p.m. our last night in Honduras, I was curled into a whining little ball in the center of my bed. Helloooo, amoebas. While I would definitely repeat my last month in exchange for a repeat of the amoebic experience of sprinting to the bathroom between crippling abdominal cramps that made me question my ability to withstand the pain of childbirth, this night was not fun. I had made it 26 of my 29 days in Central America with a clean bill of health, and now, the night before a five-hour bus ride back to Guatemala City to be followed by two flights back to the U.S., this.
That night, I took the remaining amoeba meds from Tony's bout with the creatures and managed about four hours of sleep. The next day, Tony ran to the pharmacy and got more meds. I took two pills with breakfast, two pills of motion sickness medicine and hopped in the van that we thought was headed for Guat. City. Why did we think this? Because we had asked three waitresses in our hotel (the registration and departure point for the vehicle) and one driver of the shuttles, "Does this bus go to Guatemala City?" and they all had said "yes." An hour-and-a-half into the ride, we ask our driver where in the city we would be dropped off, and he said, "Oh, no. We'll pass by it, but we're going straight back to Antigua." That would land Tony and I an hour-and-a-half past our destination and still pretty close to broke, money-wise. Thank the Lord, the Guatemalan-American family that had so charitably complimented our funds to get into Honduras so many days ago...was in our same van again. As a family of six, they made up 60 percent of the clientele in the van, and said they wouldn't mind if the driver took us straight to our selected hotel (a Hojo in Guatemala for $80 a night -- highway robbery). Tony and I made their 60 percent 80, and, frankly, we didn't ask the couple in the front of the van, but they didn't object, so happy sailing for Tony and I!
Yada yada yada, long story short, we got dropped at the hotel, I took one last dose of meds with my sub-par dinner that night, we packed, passed out and woke at 5 a.m. for our 5.30 a.m. free shuttle to the airport (why we volunteered for the Hojo swindle). We're home now and I've just come back from the doctor here to try and figure out how to kill off whatever amoebas, bacteria or stowaway slices of Central America I still have in my intestines. The remainder of the day will be full of errands, bill paying, check deposits and other little tasks aimed at reacclimating ourselves to life here. Last such efforts included a dinner of red enchiladas and a dessert of Scoopies (Caliches). Delicious, but alas, my amoebas didn't appreciate these distinctly New Mexican flavor explosions, and revolted.
Anyway, that's all for now, and I'll probably do one final "Best Of Guat Happened" entry and one final picture posting as soon as I'm able.
Until then, Central America is more beautiful than I imagined, more welcoming than I thought possible and not always as dangerous as people make it out to be. Go!!
Yesterday, we arrived in the El Paso airport at about 4 p.m. with moisture and the perfume of that wonderful desert plant in the air and Tony's mother, step-sister and brother waiting for us. But even before the creosote and hugs hit us, some of my senses had already landed in New Mexico; eavesdropping on the conversation between the two gentlemen seated behind me on my flight from Dallas-Ft. Worth to El Paso was like being trailed by my very own Sound Off! column. Talks of jobs in Mexico vs. the U.S., development in Cruces and Sonoma Ranch filled the shared air for the 30 minutes we sat on the runway in a Texas rainstorm and for the hour and 15 minutes in the air. While it's good to be home, our last days proved more of a journey than anticipated.
At about 11 p.m. our last night in Honduras, I was curled into a whining little ball in the center of my bed. Helloooo, amoebas. While I would definitely repeat my last month in exchange for a repeat of the amoebic experience of sprinting to the bathroom between crippling abdominal cramps that made me question my ability to withstand the pain of childbirth, this night was not fun. I had made it 26 of my 29 days in Central America with a clean bill of health, and now, the night before a five-hour bus ride back to Guatemala City to be followed by two flights back to the U.S., this.
That night, I took the remaining amoeba meds from Tony's bout with the creatures and managed about four hours of sleep. The next day, Tony ran to the pharmacy and got more meds. I took two pills with breakfast, two pills of motion sickness medicine and hopped in the van that we thought was headed for Guat. City. Why did we think this? Because we had asked three waitresses in our hotel (the registration and departure point for the vehicle) and one driver of the shuttles, "Does this bus go to Guatemala City?" and they all had said "yes." An hour-and-a-half into the ride, we ask our driver where in the city we would be dropped off, and he said, "Oh, no. We'll pass by it, but we're going straight back to Antigua." That would land Tony and I an hour-and-a-half past our destination and still pretty close to broke, money-wise. Thank the Lord, the Guatemalan-American family that had so charitably complimented our funds to get into Honduras so many days ago...was in our same van again. As a family of six, they made up 60 percent of the clientele in the van, and said they wouldn't mind if the driver took us straight to our selected hotel (a Hojo in Guatemala for $80 a night -- highway robbery). Tony and I made their 60 percent 80, and, frankly, we didn't ask the couple in the front of the van, but they didn't object, so happy sailing for Tony and I!
Yada yada yada, long story short, we got dropped at the hotel, I took one last dose of meds with my sub-par dinner that night, we packed, passed out and woke at 5 a.m. for our 5.30 a.m. free shuttle to the airport (why we volunteered for the Hojo swindle). We're home now and I've just come back from the doctor here to try and figure out how to kill off whatever amoebas, bacteria or stowaway slices of Central America I still have in my intestines. The remainder of the day will be full of errands, bill paying, check deposits and other little tasks aimed at reacclimating ourselves to life here. Last such efforts included a dinner of red enchiladas and a dessert of Scoopies (Caliches). Delicious, but alas, my amoebas didn't appreciate these distinctly New Mexican flavor explosions, and revolted.
Anyway, that's all for now, and I'll probably do one final "Best Of Guat Happened" entry and one final picture posting as soon as I'm able.
Until then, Central America is more beautiful than I imagined, more welcoming than I thought possible and not always as dangerous as people make it out to be. Go!!
Friday, July 27, 2007
Quien dice "no" a los ... Belgians?
Another day in Honduras down. Yesterday, we went to the "Enchanted Wings" butterfly and orchid garden. In New York, I would try to go to the orchid exhibit every year when it came to town, so to see that some species of the flowers were native to Honduras was especially exciting to me. Not everyone's scintillating cup of tea, I know, but I was pumped.
So swinging ourselves through the hodgepodge trapezes of directions given by friendly strangers along the way, we finally arrived at our destination. It was 100 lempiras to enter, which is about $5 a person. After ringing the cowbell before the locked gate about four times and deciding how long we would wait before taking off, a young woman bounded up what we soon saw to be quite a few stone stairs separating the entrance from the actual butterfly facility.
The "tour" started with a brief introduction of the life cycle and stages of a butterfly, from egg to pupa to cocoon to full-blown butterfly. For some reason, a guy was filming us with a sizable video camera as we learned about a day in the life of a caterpillar, so look for us on a Honduran instructional butterfly video coming soon, no doubt, to a theater near you. After this brief and interesting lesson, we were released into the screened-in butterfly habitat, which was accented by fountains, lush vegetation and...of course...butterflies. I got a few good photos, but couldn't quite capture the smell of hot, wet, old bananas on plates as "tempting" nectar for the butterflies with my lens. If you need it recreated, close your eyes and imagine three days' worth of sweat accumulated on the shoulder of a high school gym class student. The smell wasn't omnipresent, however, and the overall experience was beautiful and worth it. But there were cubbyholes in the exhibit -- before I pinpointed the actual source -- where I was convinced Tony was overworking some pretty sour and powerful sweat glands upwind.
After the butterflies, we asked the woman who had let us in about the orchids. She led us through the butterfly house to a back door, which led to a wooden bridge that traversed a creek. On the other side of the bridge was a kind of greenhouse, again beautiful and including its own robust plant life (...obviously) and dripping water source. While there were dozens of pots with growing orchids...about three of them could be considered "in bloom." Apparently December and March are better months for these plants, neither of which are remotely close to the end of July, in case you're not close to a calendar.
After leaving Enchanted Wings, which is owned by an American man and his Honduran wife, we headed to a cafe off the town square where Tony and I "shared" a Honduran cigarillo...aka I had about four puffs) over two rounds of Sprites, coffee flavored granitas (like slushies) and Gin Rummy. No big deal; I killed Tony twice. It's what I do.
After watching our waiter shamelessly hit on a Canadian Spanish student in intervals for about 20 minutes, we finally received our bill and paid it just in time to catch the opening drops of what turned out to be one heck of a downpour. By the time the skies opened up, however, Tony and I were tucked safely under the porch roof of our hotel with two of Honduras' national beers in hand. This, by the way, is the only way to spend rainstorms; feet wet, watching stray dogs getting shooed from one dry spot and another, sipping refreshnig drinks. This was at about 4 p.m. yesterday, and Tony and I got to bed at about 2 a.m. this morning. We stayed up all night chatting over more beers and what I think were called "Chupaquenos" (Sprite with local rum) with a couple going to Med. school in Wisconsin. After our hotel's bar closed down, we were invited by Dirk, one of the three Belgian owners of Cafe Via Via (our hotel) to sample his newly opened wine bar. Who says "no" to Belgians at 12.15 a.m.? Surely not Tony nor I.
The wine cafe was nice, but what was better was being huge nerds. Tony and I spent the majority of our time there shrugging off the soft lighting, hip music and decor (and in Tony's case a very direct lady of the night), instead asking Dirk and his Honduran girlfriend all the questions about Spanish (and French) grammar we had been wanting to ask our non-Anglophone teachers in Xela for the past month. And this was better than class; this was over glasses of Cabernet Sauvingon...and water.
So today is our last full day here, and while we originally planned to go on a three-hour horseback ride, we decided to hang up our wallets and our chaps and just enjoy a leisurely day here. We leave for Guat. City tomorrow at noon, so I may not be able to write until I return to American soil. See you all soon!!
So swinging ourselves through the hodgepodge trapezes of directions given by friendly strangers along the way, we finally arrived at our destination. It was 100 lempiras to enter, which is about $5 a person. After ringing the cowbell before the locked gate about four times and deciding how long we would wait before taking off, a young woman bounded up what we soon saw to be quite a few stone stairs separating the entrance from the actual butterfly facility.
The "tour" started with a brief introduction of the life cycle and stages of a butterfly, from egg to pupa to cocoon to full-blown butterfly. For some reason, a guy was filming us with a sizable video camera as we learned about a day in the life of a caterpillar, so look for us on a Honduran instructional butterfly video coming soon, no doubt, to a theater near you. After this brief and interesting lesson, we were released into the screened-in butterfly habitat, which was accented by fountains, lush vegetation and...of course...butterflies. I got a few good photos, but couldn't quite capture the smell of hot, wet, old bananas on plates as "tempting" nectar for the butterflies with my lens. If you need it recreated, close your eyes and imagine three days' worth of sweat accumulated on the shoulder of a high school gym class student. The smell wasn't omnipresent, however, and the overall experience was beautiful and worth it. But there were cubbyholes in the exhibit -- before I pinpointed the actual source -- where I was convinced Tony was overworking some pretty sour and powerful sweat glands upwind.
After the butterflies, we asked the woman who had let us in about the orchids. She led us through the butterfly house to a back door, which led to a wooden bridge that traversed a creek. On the other side of the bridge was a kind of greenhouse, again beautiful and including its own robust plant life (...obviously) and dripping water source. While there were dozens of pots with growing orchids...about three of them could be considered "in bloom." Apparently December and March are better months for these plants, neither of which are remotely close to the end of July, in case you're not close to a calendar.
After leaving Enchanted Wings, which is owned by an American man and his Honduran wife, we headed to a cafe off the town square where Tony and I "shared" a Honduran cigarillo...aka I had about four puffs) over two rounds of Sprites, coffee flavored granitas (like slushies) and Gin Rummy. No big deal; I killed Tony twice. It's what I do.
After watching our waiter shamelessly hit on a Canadian Spanish student in intervals for about 20 minutes, we finally received our bill and paid it just in time to catch the opening drops of what turned out to be one heck of a downpour. By the time the skies opened up, however, Tony and I were tucked safely under the porch roof of our hotel with two of Honduras' national beers in hand. This, by the way, is the only way to spend rainstorms; feet wet, watching stray dogs getting shooed from one dry spot and another, sipping refreshnig drinks. This was at about 4 p.m. yesterday, and Tony and I got to bed at about 2 a.m. this morning. We stayed up all night chatting over more beers and what I think were called "Chupaquenos" (Sprite with local rum) with a couple going to Med. school in Wisconsin. After our hotel's bar closed down, we were invited by Dirk, one of the three Belgian owners of Cafe Via Via (our hotel) to sample his newly opened wine bar. Who says "no" to Belgians at 12.15 a.m.? Surely not Tony nor I.
The wine cafe was nice, but what was better was being huge nerds. Tony and I spent the majority of our time there shrugging off the soft lighting, hip music and decor (and in Tony's case a very direct lady of the night), instead asking Dirk and his Honduran girlfriend all the questions about Spanish (and French) grammar we had been wanting to ask our non-Anglophone teachers in Xela for the past month. And this was better than class; this was over glasses of Cabernet Sauvingon...and water.
So today is our last full day here, and while we originally planned to go on a three-hour horseback ride, we decided to hang up our wallets and our chaps and just enjoy a leisurely day here. We leave for Guat. City tomorrow at noon, so I may not be able to write until I return to American soil. See you all soon!!
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Crossing borders and eras
Last night was a sad and final departure from nearly all things Xela as we bid adieu to our British friend from our Xela school, Kathleen. After a lovely wine tasting and (fruitless) tremor watch with Kathleen and her recently arrived and equally witty and British friend, Emma, at our favorite Antigua wine spot, (named Bacchus and randomly owned by a woman hailing from northern Virginia, like myself), Tony and I turned in early. We figured we would need all the sleep we could get before our 4 a.m. shuttle to Copan Ruinas, Honduras from where I write you now.
The shuttle ride was unexpectedly amazing, as Tony and I -- having found a Drammamine (sp?) equivalent in Antigua -- were passed out in our seats for 80 percent of our journey. We did wake, however, in time to get to the border and realize that we had grossly underestimated how much money we would have to pay to leave the Guat and enter Honduras. While, all said, the sum was nominal (about $5 per person), we didn't have it. Luckily, Tony and I are apparently charming when shrouded in helplessness, and between the micro-loans of a Guatemalan-American family and two Irish women, Tony and I were able to pay our dues and get into the country without shackles or unforgiven debts -- I traded money for hand sanitizer and banana bread with the Guatemalan-American family, and when we tried to pay for lunch for the Irish women in Copan Ruinas, they actually gave us more Guaetmalan money.
Once past the border, Tony and I set up in Cafe Via Via, the first listing under "budget accomodations" in our Lonely Planet guidebook. Rooms here are $14 a night for a double and have such amazing features as a ceiling fan and private bathroom. Perhaps the most welcome feature of our room, however, is that we have a mattress. Our $16-a-night accomodations in Antigua afforded us two boxsprings piled on top of one another. Every time I turned over in bed and made the mistake of laying on a limb atop this unyielding surface, the respective appendage would lose all circulation within 10 minutes and I would wake myself by shaking the blood back into it like I was creating a new dance for a new John Waters' film (see "Hairspray").
Back to Honduras. It's hot here. And humid. Very different from Guatemala, yet in ways already better as we feel a little more tropical and more comforted and surrounded by nature. The park plaza near us is bursting with vegetation, coconut trees sprout roadside and the song of cicadas can be heard in rounds throughout the town. It reminds me a lot of the climate in Benin, West Africa -- I'm oily, my hair is frizzing and I'm forever covered in an alternating ebb and flow of the air's natural condensation and sweat. Appatizing, I know.
Anyway, once settled into our room, we grabbed a bite and set off for the ruins. A $15-per-person entrance fee shot us back in time over 1500 years. Following the path and stupidly shrugging off the offers of experienced tour guides, Tony and I wove dumbstruck through stone pillars and temples, altars and accented sports fields, wowed by the skill and intricacy demonstrated by the ancient roots of a ever-alive culture. From what I've been told, Copan Ruinas' ruins are some of the best-preserved in Central America. While Guatemala's city of Tikal has much larger structures, the carvings depicting Mayan dieties, leaders and heiroglyphics are said to be much more intricate here. The other plus is that none of them have been cemented over for preservation's sake -- they are all presented in their original form, save one, which is labled as a replica (the original has been placed in a museum).
I have great pictures, but again, I may not be able to upload them until I get home next week. Sorry!
For tomorrow, Tony and I are toying with the idea of trekking to another ruins site or to a coffee farm. Either way, a horseback ride may be involved. We're having bolo ties traditionally woven for us as we speak. ...Kiding. See you soon, and I'll try and write tomorrow!
The shuttle ride was unexpectedly amazing, as Tony and I -- having found a Drammamine (sp?) equivalent in Antigua -- were passed out in our seats for 80 percent of our journey. We did wake, however, in time to get to the border and realize that we had grossly underestimated how much money we would have to pay to leave the Guat and enter Honduras. While, all said, the sum was nominal (about $5 per person), we didn't have it. Luckily, Tony and I are apparently charming when shrouded in helplessness, and between the micro-loans of a Guatemalan-American family and two Irish women, Tony and I were able to pay our dues and get into the country without shackles or unforgiven debts -- I traded money for hand sanitizer and banana bread with the Guatemalan-American family, and when we tried to pay for lunch for the Irish women in Copan Ruinas, they actually gave us more Guaetmalan money.
Once past the border, Tony and I set up in Cafe Via Via, the first listing under "budget accomodations" in our Lonely Planet guidebook. Rooms here are $14 a night for a double and have such amazing features as a ceiling fan and private bathroom. Perhaps the most welcome feature of our room, however, is that we have a mattress. Our $16-a-night accomodations in Antigua afforded us two boxsprings piled on top of one another. Every time I turned over in bed and made the mistake of laying on a limb atop this unyielding surface, the respective appendage would lose all circulation within 10 minutes and I would wake myself by shaking the blood back into it like I was creating a new dance for a new John Waters' film (see "Hairspray").
Back to Honduras. It's hot here. And humid. Very different from Guatemala, yet in ways already better as we feel a little more tropical and more comforted and surrounded by nature. The park plaza near us is bursting with vegetation, coconut trees sprout roadside and the song of cicadas can be heard in rounds throughout the town. It reminds me a lot of the climate in Benin, West Africa -- I'm oily, my hair is frizzing and I'm forever covered in an alternating ebb and flow of the air's natural condensation and sweat. Appatizing, I know.
Anyway, once settled into our room, we grabbed a bite and set off for the ruins. A $15-per-person entrance fee shot us back in time over 1500 years. Following the path and stupidly shrugging off the offers of experienced tour guides, Tony and I wove dumbstruck through stone pillars and temples, altars and accented sports fields, wowed by the skill and intricacy demonstrated by the ancient roots of a ever-alive culture. From what I've been told, Copan Ruinas' ruins are some of the best-preserved in Central America. While Guatemala's city of Tikal has much larger structures, the carvings depicting Mayan dieties, leaders and heiroglyphics are said to be much more intricate here. The other plus is that none of them have been cemented over for preservation's sake -- they are all presented in their original form, save one, which is labled as a replica (the original has been placed in a museum).
I have great pictures, but again, I may not be able to upload them until I get home next week. Sorry!
For tomorrow, Tony and I are toying with the idea of trekking to another ruins site or to a coffee farm. Either way, a horseback ride may be involved. We're having bolo ties traditionally woven for us as we speak. ...Kiding. See you soon, and I'll try and write tomorrow!
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Carole King comes to Antigua
I'm not sure that the news made it over to the states, but since we've been here, we've experienced two tremors -- that is the earth slithering slightly and falling quite short of a full-blown earthquake. The first one was in Xela a few weeks ago, during dinner, and we thought our host family was playing a joke on the gringos around their table, telling us that the water in the jugs were moving because the earth was. Tony and I went to school in New York and were used to the passing subways and traffic shuddering buildings and therefore thought our family's supposed "tremor" was a truck going by outside. They persisted, however, and I was let down because I hadn't properly felt the plate-tectonic-tremble and wanted another I could stand up and surf or something. But my family said that it wasn't common and probably wouldn't happen again before I left. Silly family.
Yesterday, after an afternoon of slipping in and out of travel agencies' doorways, Tony and I settled into a tiny cafe run by an American dealing in wine and cigars. First, I was amused, if not bewildered by the owner. This woman was 20-something and living the dream (of many) in Antigua, Guate., surrounding herself in Spanish, chocolate, Cuban cigars and South American wines, yet while we were there, she was lighting up a factory-produced cigarrette, eating McDonald's and talking with a customer about Coors Light and Budweiser through an accent I would guess came from one of the Carolinas. Ma'am...focus.
Anyway, Tony and I had just ordered our second glass of wine. We had been pleasantly imprisoned within the high-ceilings, exposed wooden rafters and colonial stone interior of the establishment by a sudden downpour -- ho-hum, I know. We had just watched the woman from our hotel's front desk hustle past the door when Tony said, "do you feel that?"
That time, amigos caros, I did. It was just like every account of a tremor I've ever read or heard of. This time, however, I understood. The earth just kind of...swerved and shimmied sideways, like a cartoon Latin lover sidling across a dancefloor to his unsuspecting female prey. It was awesome. Then we saw our hotel front desk lady run past the doorway again, in the opposite direction, and it was over. I threw my hand up in the air in what I believe may have been the "rock on" symbol in which only two glasses of mid-afternoon wine could have resulted.
Besides that exciting, pseudo-sedentary adventure, yesterday was fairly slow-paced. We visited a small but stunning art gallery adorned with the sculptures and paintings of a few exceptional Cuban and Guatemalan artists and roamed a local market (in reverse order). The market was not for tourists, and we were therefore spared the masks, woven bags and painted pottery that otherwise saturate vendors' stalls and blankets here. In this market, we found gargantuan produce and well-seperated dried goods displayed in fashions more similar to West African markets I had seen before -- that is in baskets on the floor, large sacks on risers, etc. Food sold included some of the largest carrots I've ever seen, beets, bananas, pastas, dog food (??), papayas, mangos, tomatoes, beans, dried and fresh corn and more. The outdoors were the territory of produce and a handful of flower sellers, while the corazon of the market was left to stalls hung with clothing for men, women and children. While it took some doing to navigate around the bustling marketplace, it was a great experience as sometimes your nose would tell you before your eyes what was to come next -- synthetics or strawberries, pots and pans or pineapples, cooked food or cuttlery.
Tony and I met Kathleen for dinner at a place called the Sky Cafe. The food was a bit pricey, shying from any real pressure to provide typical Guatemalan food -- something we have found ridiculously hard to come by here -- and was rounded with the ambiance provided by a couple who "necked" next to us for over three-and-a-half hours. The mysteries of the night included a) why they bothered ordering the huge plate of nachos, and b) where their margaritas disappeared to, as we never saw them come up for air. We decided that the romantic advances of the man were designed to prevent the woman from running up their food bill. Genius and effective, if not nauseating.
Today, we've just finished breakfast (mainly eggs, beans, plantains and tortillas in one variation or another and black coffee), and plan to wander through some church ruins, finalize travel arrangements for Honduras, where we hope to go tomorrow, and have some more coffee before returning to the Southern comfort wine and cigar shop for some more tremor-watchin'.
This said, I'll write when I next can and be back in the states on Sunday!
Yesterday, after an afternoon of slipping in and out of travel agencies' doorways, Tony and I settled into a tiny cafe run by an American dealing in wine and cigars. First, I was amused, if not bewildered by the owner. This woman was 20-something and living the dream (of many) in Antigua, Guate., surrounding herself in Spanish, chocolate, Cuban cigars and South American wines, yet while we were there, she was lighting up a factory-produced cigarrette, eating McDonald's and talking with a customer about Coors Light and Budweiser through an accent I would guess came from one of the Carolinas. Ma'am...focus.
Anyway, Tony and I had just ordered our second glass of wine. We had been pleasantly imprisoned within the high-ceilings, exposed wooden rafters and colonial stone interior of the establishment by a sudden downpour -- ho-hum, I know. We had just watched the woman from our hotel's front desk hustle past the door when Tony said, "do you feel that?"
That time, amigos caros, I did. It was just like every account of a tremor I've ever read or heard of. This time, however, I understood. The earth just kind of...swerved and shimmied sideways, like a cartoon Latin lover sidling across a dancefloor to his unsuspecting female prey. It was awesome. Then we saw our hotel front desk lady run past the doorway again, in the opposite direction, and it was over. I threw my hand up in the air in what I believe may have been the "rock on" symbol in which only two glasses of mid-afternoon wine could have resulted.
Besides that exciting, pseudo-sedentary adventure, yesterday was fairly slow-paced. We visited a small but stunning art gallery adorned with the sculptures and paintings of a few exceptional Cuban and Guatemalan artists and roamed a local market (in reverse order). The market was not for tourists, and we were therefore spared the masks, woven bags and painted pottery that otherwise saturate vendors' stalls and blankets here. In this market, we found gargantuan produce and well-seperated dried goods displayed in fashions more similar to West African markets I had seen before -- that is in baskets on the floor, large sacks on risers, etc. Food sold included some of the largest carrots I've ever seen, beets, bananas, pastas, dog food (??), papayas, mangos, tomatoes, beans, dried and fresh corn and more. The outdoors were the territory of produce and a handful of flower sellers, while the corazon of the market was left to stalls hung with clothing for men, women and children. While it took some doing to navigate around the bustling marketplace, it was a great experience as sometimes your nose would tell you before your eyes what was to come next -- synthetics or strawberries, pots and pans or pineapples, cooked food or cuttlery.
Tony and I met Kathleen for dinner at a place called the Sky Cafe. The food was a bit pricey, shying from any real pressure to provide typical Guatemalan food -- something we have found ridiculously hard to come by here -- and was rounded with the ambiance provided by a couple who "necked" next to us for over three-and-a-half hours. The mysteries of the night included a) why they bothered ordering the huge plate of nachos, and b) where their margaritas disappeared to, as we never saw them come up for air. We decided that the romantic advances of the man were designed to prevent the woman from running up their food bill. Genius and effective, if not nauseating.
Today, we've just finished breakfast (mainly eggs, beans, plantains and tortillas in one variation or another and black coffee), and plan to wander through some church ruins, finalize travel arrangements for Honduras, where we hope to go tomorrow, and have some more coffee before returning to the Southern comfort wine and cigar shop for some more tremor-watchin'.
This said, I'll write when I next can and be back in the states on Sunday!
Sunday, July 22, 2007
"Kill La Luz"
So here I am, writing from Antigua, the old capital of Guate before it was changed to Guatemala City for, I think, earthquake reasons. And there you are, wondering where the photos are that I promised to upload for you guys before I left to come here. First, let me apologize. Second, let me say it wasn't (entirely) my fault.
The Internet cafe where I had an account didn't open until noon yesterday, when Tony and I were to meet with Kathleen across town at the Blue Angel. As it was all of our last day in Xela, we had decided to trapse the city in a farewell wander in the morning and then get a few of the national beers (Gallo, Cabro, Moza...you pick) and rent out one of the cafe's two TV rooms and watch a double feature of the "Kill Bill" movies. The anticipated plan was then to saunter over to the Internet cafe, get in touch with loved ones and in my case, upload photos. But then, the electricity went out, simultaneously delaying our entire operation and limiting our possible courses of action. After the power returned and the movie(s) resumed, we had to be home for our last dinner with our host family, which turned out to be quite an affair for Kathleen and Tony as the two of them decided to just about split a bottle of rum between them during "Kill Bill 2." (High points of their respective dinners included Kathleen leaving her host family's dinner table early to have a dance party in her room, alone, in the dark with her mp3 player befor packing and Tony flinging part of his tomale into his tea at our dinner table, spilling it while trying to swap glasses "without me noticing," and ultimately drinking his own tea, wincing at the pulpiness when he got down to the tomale dregs of it...and jokingly gaffawing at the possibility of a man being "mas gordo" than our host brother.)
So anyway, Now we're here in Antigua, which is about four hours southeast from Xela and about an hour-and-a-quarter outside of Guatemala City. The buildings here are colorful and surround massive colonial structures -- mostly churches from what we've seen in our total of about 45 minues here so far -- that rise out of the more petit architecture like cemented ghosts. The weather here is about 10 degrees warmer with more humidity, but still no malaria danger (because of the elevation), and overall more comfortable. We're staying in a little guesthouse of roughly eight rooms (all with private hot water bathrooms) for about $8 a person. We plan to stay here among the tourists, monuments, various international cuisines and traffic peppered with horsedrawn carriages for about three days before moving on to Copan Ruinas, Honduras for another two or three days. We'll work out our travel arrangements tomorrow, but just plan on enjoying this tiny and safe city for today.
Without much more to tell as I haven't seen much off the cobbled streets here of yet, all I can say is I'll try to work on finding an Internet cafe with a card reader for my camera/photos, and until then, I'll blog as frequently as I can!
Stay safe, wish us the same and I'll talk to you all soon!
The Internet cafe where I had an account didn't open until noon yesterday, when Tony and I were to meet with Kathleen across town at the Blue Angel. As it was all of our last day in Xela, we had decided to trapse the city in a farewell wander in the morning and then get a few of the national beers (Gallo, Cabro, Moza...you pick) and rent out one of the cafe's two TV rooms and watch a double feature of the "Kill Bill" movies. The anticipated plan was then to saunter over to the Internet cafe, get in touch with loved ones and in my case, upload photos. But then, the electricity went out, simultaneously delaying our entire operation and limiting our possible courses of action. After the power returned and the movie(s) resumed, we had to be home for our last dinner with our host family, which turned out to be quite an affair for Kathleen and Tony as the two of them decided to just about split a bottle of rum between them during "Kill Bill 2." (High points of their respective dinners included Kathleen leaving her host family's dinner table early to have a dance party in her room, alone, in the dark with her mp3 player befor packing and Tony flinging part of his tomale into his tea at our dinner table, spilling it while trying to swap glasses "without me noticing," and ultimately drinking his own tea, wincing at the pulpiness when he got down to the tomale dregs of it...and jokingly gaffawing at the possibility of a man being "mas gordo" than our host brother.)
So anyway, Now we're here in Antigua, which is about four hours southeast from Xela and about an hour-and-a-quarter outside of Guatemala City. The buildings here are colorful and surround massive colonial structures -- mostly churches from what we've seen in our total of about 45 minues here so far -- that rise out of the more petit architecture like cemented ghosts. The weather here is about 10 degrees warmer with more humidity, but still no malaria danger (because of the elevation), and overall more comfortable. We're staying in a little guesthouse of roughly eight rooms (all with private hot water bathrooms) for about $8 a person. We plan to stay here among the tourists, monuments, various international cuisines and traffic peppered with horsedrawn carriages for about three days before moving on to Copan Ruinas, Honduras for another two or three days. We'll work out our travel arrangements tomorrow, but just plan on enjoying this tiny and safe city for today.
Without much more to tell as I haven't seen much off the cobbled streets here of yet, all I can say is I'll try to work on finding an Internet cafe with a card reader for my camera/photos, and until then, I'll blog as frequently as I can!
Stay safe, wish us the same and I'll talk to you all soon!
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Dairy hurts
Life in Xela, while about to draw to a close, is going very well. I've recently learned that a chain of bakeries here, Xelapan, make eclairs and we have one 30 seconds from our school. So...yeah, as said, life here is good. I've also recently taken to a regular regimen of Metamucil to make up for the fruits and properly cooked veggies we've been lacking, so...again, life has resumed its "regular" goodness. Delightful, I know. Lastly, I know none of you will believe me, but last Saturday, we passed by a hamburger cart that, no joke, was called, "Guateburger." That's Guat's up! That's Guat's happening! That's Guat it is right now! OK, enough. But I can't believe I've forgotten to write about that until now. It was like Xela was nodding its head in acknowledgment of my visit that fine morning when we passed it by.
Anywho, as far as activities, etc. go, today we went to the town of San Andrés Xecul to see this wonderfully multi-color church. The sides of the building are painted white, as the front of the church used to be. Now, however, the facade is bright yellow and adorned with otherwise beautifully painted saints (presumably?), plants and more. Up at the top, on either side of the cross, are two jaguars. Jaguars, according to Mayan beliefs, are said to be guardians of the day, fighting the night through the darkness to allow the safe return of day (if I understood the Spanish explanation correctly). Their spots are seen as battle scars, and the cats are perceived as an otherwise sacred animal. It is always so interesting to me to look at how the presence of Christianity is altered or adapted to a land's native or indigenous culture and religious or spiritual beliefs.
As we went into the dark church, a woman was sitting off to the side with a small loom set up, and was weaving with great swiftness and skill, barely looking up at the flock of tourists whisking their way into the church. Further inside, as we passed empty pews bordered by walls with small, long trays of burning votive candles and paper, we came upon a small service in progress. On the main alter, beneath the crucifix and encased effigy of Jesus...framed...by...neon lights, women and children in indigenous, woven clothing knelt, praying and singing with each other.
After leaving and snapping a few more pictures, we hiked unsurprisingly -- yet consistently astonishing -- steep streets to get to a second church, a smaller chapel. Next to this structure, respectively painted, were crosses in front of or over and around which flowers had been draped. Here, offerings such as bouquets, bottles of alcohol and animals (pigs, chickens, etc.) were left as offerings in prayers for the deceased or for other reasons. Where I've been in West Africa (in Benin), when animals were killed as an offering for a request or wish, those on the site of the sacrifice may sometimes prepare the meat and share it as a meal with those nearby. This is not the case in San Andreas, however, where I was told that the animals were simply killed and put into the lit fire before the crosses. When we were there, women were gathered around and stirring the fire, but I didn't want to get too close to check on the sacrifice progress so as not to disturb or offend them.
Lastly, we went to a "house" that was the "dwelling" of San Simón, a saint that (primarily)indigenous people in the town pray to. Similar offerings, also including money, fireworks, food, cigarettes, etc. adorned the representation of the saint, and the fire burning just outside the house. Strung from the rafters were candles of different colors, each with a different prayer/wish intent or meaning. I'll try to ask more about the specific colors and write about them later because right now I am pretty uninformed on the issue.
That's about all that's been going on here, aside from a hilarious moment for me (because I'm cold-hearted?) in a local Xelapan bakery. I was in there with Tony, and as he, as a lactose intolerant individual...at that point possibly still suffering from amoebas, was staring at creme and custard-filled delights, the song "Love Hurts" came on, in English. It was great. The only thing that would have made the moment better would have been a rotating pastry case and a shot of Tony weeping into his own reflection on the glass.
I'll leave you with that and the promise that I will upload more photos before we leave on Sunday for Antigua and a few days in the Honduran town of Copan for some Mayan ruins. Tonight, we're going out for pizza to bid farewell to a few friends. I'd say, "aren't you jealous?" but ah...the "Land of Enchantment" has plenty of pizza available.
Hasta la pasta, as Tony and I think the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles like to say.
Anywho, as far as activities, etc. go, today we went to the town of San Andrés Xecul to see this wonderfully multi-color church. The sides of the building are painted white, as the front of the church used to be. Now, however, the facade is bright yellow and adorned with otherwise beautifully painted saints (presumably?), plants and more. Up at the top, on either side of the cross, are two jaguars. Jaguars, according to Mayan beliefs, are said to be guardians of the day, fighting the night through the darkness to allow the safe return of day (if I understood the Spanish explanation correctly). Their spots are seen as battle scars, and the cats are perceived as an otherwise sacred animal. It is always so interesting to me to look at how the presence of Christianity is altered or adapted to a land's native or indigenous culture and religious or spiritual beliefs.
As we went into the dark church, a woman was sitting off to the side with a small loom set up, and was weaving with great swiftness and skill, barely looking up at the flock of tourists whisking their way into the church. Further inside, as we passed empty pews bordered by walls with small, long trays of burning votive candles and paper, we came upon a small service in progress. On the main alter, beneath the crucifix and encased effigy of Jesus...framed...by...neon lights, women and children in indigenous, woven clothing knelt, praying and singing with each other.
After leaving and snapping a few more pictures, we hiked unsurprisingly -- yet consistently astonishing -- steep streets to get to a second church, a smaller chapel. Next to this structure, respectively painted, were crosses in front of or over and around which flowers had been draped. Here, offerings such as bouquets, bottles of alcohol and animals (pigs, chickens, etc.) were left as offerings in prayers for the deceased or for other reasons. Where I've been in West Africa (in Benin), when animals were killed as an offering for a request or wish, those on the site of the sacrifice may sometimes prepare the meat and share it as a meal with those nearby. This is not the case in San Andreas, however, where I was told that the animals were simply killed and put into the lit fire before the crosses. When we were there, women were gathered around and stirring the fire, but I didn't want to get too close to check on the sacrifice progress so as not to disturb or offend them.
Lastly, we went to a "house" that was the "dwelling" of San Simón, a saint that (primarily)indigenous people in the town pray to. Similar offerings, also including money, fireworks, food, cigarettes, etc. adorned the representation of the saint, and the fire burning just outside the house. Strung from the rafters were candles of different colors, each with a different prayer/wish intent or meaning. I'll try to ask more about the specific colors and write about them later because right now I am pretty uninformed on the issue.
That's about all that's been going on here, aside from a hilarious moment for me (because I'm cold-hearted?) in a local Xelapan bakery. I was in there with Tony, and as he, as a lactose intolerant individual...at that point possibly still suffering from amoebas, was staring at creme and custard-filled delights, the song "Love Hurts" came on, in English. It was great. The only thing that would have made the moment better would have been a rotating pastry case and a shot of Tony weeping into his own reflection on the glass.
I'll leave you with that and the promise that I will upload more photos before we leave on Sunday for Antigua and a few days in the Honduran town of Copan for some Mayan ruins. Tonight, we're going out for pizza to bid farewell to a few friends. I'd say, "aren't you jealous?" but ah...the "Land of Enchantment" has plenty of pizza available.
Hasta la pasta, as Tony and I think the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles like to say.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Chichicasteroadblocks
So Sundays and Thursdays are the market days for a Lonely Planet "don't miss" town of Chichicastenango. The outdoor market is massive, and boasted to be one of the biggest in the world. Not sure how true that is, but this past Sunday, we went anyway. Exhausted from our Saturday early-rising and our unexpectedly physical hike, we shook off our school directors' suggestions of heading out early on the 6 a.m. bus. Go figure. Instead, we sauntered over to the mercado bus station at around 8 a.m. with two friends from school -- the much-talked-about and delightfully English Kathleen and another Canadian student, Gabrielle. We wandered through the queue of buses and finally were led to a lovely red chicken bus headed for Chichi, directo, meaning we didn't have to switch buses halfway through the voyage. My guidebook said the trip of 94 km should take about three hours. I thought this a gross overestimation until we found our bus stuttering along the winding mountain roads through three, sometimes 20- or 30-minute, roadblocks for roadwork. Endlessly annoying. While I should be used to time not being of the essence in countries other than America, I still found myself getting pretty impatient.
After trudging through these stops, however, it was smooth sailing or chicken-bussing, if you will (and I think you will). We arrived in Chichi at noon, three hours on the nose, or as Kathleen says, "bang on," after having left and stumbled out into the market. The market was like an amusement park of vendors' stalls of handicrafts, produce and textiles. Gabrielle went off by herself due to stimulus overload and not wanting to travel in a gaggle of gringos, but Tony, Kathleen and I decided to stick together. We chose the massive, white Iglesia Centrale to be our meeting point two hours later; an hour before the market closed at 3 p.m. It was easy to find with its huge ediface, large stone staircase and its light plumes of smoke rising from smoldering wood, incense candles being lit by locals.
Tony, Kathleen and I wove through Guatemaltecos, vendors and tourists traveling alone and in multi-generational groups. Vendors were sometimes seated on stools, at other times on their merchandise, depending on what it was. Objects for sale include hand-woven Mayan fabrics in traditional forms (i.e. wrap skirts, woven belts, woven headwraps, etc.) and some tailored for tourists (tailored skirts in similar fabrics, placemats, table runners, napkins, scarves, pillow shams and so on), wooden masks, stone idols, jade (white, black and green) jewelry, woven bags, nativities, ceramic and wooden bowls and other knick-knacks. For locals, produce and clothing may also be bought at the market, as can be prepared food. Just as a heads up, Guatemala, namely Chichi, has the best fried chicken I have ever had. Holy crap, so delicious.
Regarding prices in the market, many had warned us that things in Chichi would be more expensive as the market is such a tourist attraction. In cases we found this to be true. Another reason that the prices get spiked sooooo very high for tourists is that some don't know to bargain. A friend of ours said that she heard a woman walk into a textile booth she was in, asked how much something was and received the answer of 300 Quetzales (about $40). The woman said, "OK!" and walked off with her purchase. Our friend, who has been here for over a month now, got it for a third of the price -- a good rule of thumb, I've found, when bargaining in tourist-y markets abroad: divide the original price by three, start a little lower and bargain up from there. In our time there, we heard a woman squaking to her lady friend in English that a vendor would give them whatever it was she was trying to buy for the "rock-bottom" price of $250 US. Tony, Kathleen and I all turned to each other with looks of disbelief and figured she must have been trying to buy a Guatemalan and reinstate slavery, because nothing we had seen was worth $250 -- we walked away as soon as anyone tried to sell us something for 250 Quetzales.
All said, Tony and I spent over our budget on presents for four more people on our present list and on a regalo (present) for ourselves, as well -- but it was worth it.
On our way back, we found that there were no more direct busses to Xela, so we took a minibus to the a chicken bus crossroads, Los Encuentros, for just over $1, and then paid just under $2 to catch the chicken bus back to our town. This was THE most crowded chicken bus I have ever seen. When we all tried to cram on, we found all seats full, as well as the aisle. Chicken buses are basically amazingly painted school buses, like those in Juarez, but more entirely more ornate. Here, we seat three adults to a seat, not all of whom neatly occupy just one "space" on the seat. On this bus, some seats were burdened by four (because kids are smaller). We had to fight for standing room in the aisle; or in Kathleen's case, space to hover over the driver; or in Gabrielle's case, near the door-opening aparatus; or in the case of another American getting on with us, Zaki, on the last step of the stairwell. Zaki was uncomfortable with this, but no one seemed to care unless you count the money-collector and route- advertiser-guy, who served as his security belt by standing behind him, hanging fully outside the bus, holding onto the bus' interior handrails.
The bus ride was hot and nauseating, especially for Tony. We found out today from the lab that he's battling amoebas. (Parents, don't worry, we bought the meds today and he should be fine by Wednesday.)
In other news, Tony and I are now toying with the idea of completing this week of classes and then spending our last week traveling to the colorful (and alas, again tourist-y) town of Antigua and to Mayan ruins on the Honduran border before flying out on July 29. We found that it's actually going to save us money, AND we get to cram two countries into this trip! Holler!
Alright, that's all for now. Oh! And the name of the lake we went to this past Saturday was Lago Chicabal for those still cliffhanging on that mystery. More photos to come before the week's end, sop stay tuned!
After trudging through these stops, however, it was smooth sailing or chicken-bussing, if you will (and I think you will). We arrived in Chichi at noon, three hours on the nose, or as Kathleen says, "bang on," after having left and stumbled out into the market. The market was like an amusement park of vendors' stalls of handicrafts, produce and textiles. Gabrielle went off by herself due to stimulus overload and not wanting to travel in a gaggle of gringos, but Tony, Kathleen and I decided to stick together. We chose the massive, white Iglesia Centrale to be our meeting point two hours later; an hour before the market closed at 3 p.m. It was easy to find with its huge ediface, large stone staircase and its light plumes of smoke rising from smoldering wood, incense candles being lit by locals.
Tony, Kathleen and I wove through Guatemaltecos, vendors and tourists traveling alone and in multi-generational groups. Vendors were sometimes seated on stools, at other times on their merchandise, depending on what it was. Objects for sale include hand-woven Mayan fabrics in traditional forms (i.e. wrap skirts, woven belts, woven headwraps, etc.) and some tailored for tourists (tailored skirts in similar fabrics, placemats, table runners, napkins, scarves, pillow shams and so on), wooden masks, stone idols, jade (white, black and green) jewelry, woven bags, nativities, ceramic and wooden bowls and other knick-knacks. For locals, produce and clothing may also be bought at the market, as can be prepared food. Just as a heads up, Guatemala, namely Chichi, has the best fried chicken I have ever had. Holy crap, so delicious.
Regarding prices in the market, many had warned us that things in Chichi would be more expensive as the market is such a tourist attraction. In cases we found this to be true. Another reason that the prices get spiked sooooo very high for tourists is that some don't know to bargain. A friend of ours said that she heard a woman walk into a textile booth she was in, asked how much something was and received the answer of 300 Quetzales (about $40). The woman said, "OK!" and walked off with her purchase. Our friend, who has been here for over a month now, got it for a third of the price -- a good rule of thumb, I've found, when bargaining in tourist-y markets abroad: divide the original price by three, start a little lower and bargain up from there. In our time there, we heard a woman squaking to her lady friend in English that a vendor would give them whatever it was she was trying to buy for the "rock-bottom" price of $250 US. Tony, Kathleen and I all turned to each other with looks of disbelief and figured she must have been trying to buy a Guatemalan and reinstate slavery, because nothing we had seen was worth $250 -- we walked away as soon as anyone tried to sell us something for 250 Quetzales.
All said, Tony and I spent over our budget on presents for four more people on our present list and on a regalo (present) for ourselves, as well -- but it was worth it.
On our way back, we found that there were no more direct busses to Xela, so we took a minibus to the a chicken bus crossroads, Los Encuentros, for just over $1, and then paid just under $2 to catch the chicken bus back to our town. This was THE most crowded chicken bus I have ever seen. When we all tried to cram on, we found all seats full, as well as the aisle. Chicken buses are basically amazingly painted school buses, like those in Juarez, but more entirely more ornate. Here, we seat three adults to a seat, not all of whom neatly occupy just one "space" on the seat. On this bus, some seats were burdened by four (because kids are smaller). We had to fight for standing room in the aisle; or in Kathleen's case, space to hover over the driver; or in Gabrielle's case, near the door-opening aparatus; or in the case of another American getting on with us, Zaki, on the last step of the stairwell. Zaki was uncomfortable with this, but no one seemed to care unless you count the money-collector and route- advertiser-guy, who served as his security belt by standing behind him, hanging fully outside the bus, holding onto the bus' interior handrails.
The bus ride was hot and nauseating, especially for Tony. We found out today from the lab that he's battling amoebas. (Parents, don't worry, we bought the meds today and he should be fine by Wednesday.)
In other news, Tony and I are now toying with the idea of completing this week of classes and then spending our last week traveling to the colorful (and alas, again tourist-y) town of Antigua and to Mayan ruins on the Honduran border before flying out on July 29. We found that it's actually going to save us money, AND we get to cram two countries into this trip! Holler!
Alright, that's all for now. Oh! And the name of the lake we went to this past Saturday was Lago Chicabal for those still cliffhanging on that mystery. More photos to come before the week's end, sop stay tuned!
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Putin' on the mist...
So today I woke up at 3.45 a.m. to say goodbye to my friend Stephanie. It was almost tearful, and probably would have been if I hadn't still have been sporting my pajama shirt under my hoodie and wondering what bed would be like when I got back in it.
At about 4.30, I returned home (our friend and a teacher here, Juan, was nice enough to play chauffeur that early in the morning). I got back in bed until a leisurely 5.30 a.m. when the alarm went off. Tony and I were to meet everyone in front of the school by 6 a.m. to go on the bus. While Tony and I did wake up with the alarm, our feet did not hit the floor at that hour. Instead, we spent until 5.51 a.m. (no exaggeration) "discussing" whether or not we wanted to go, each of us waiting for the other to back out so we could return to our wonderful land of dreams. (I actually had been dreaming that my parents' house had just caught on fire in the laundry room, but I was willing to take my chances and return to the dream as I pretty much had the blaze under control when the alarm yanked me out of my firefighting at 5.30.)
These nine minutes before our set reunion time, however, proved that neither Tony or I wanted to take responsibility for a missed opportunity to see a new bit of this country, so we hauled over to the school, hopped in the minibus and went off with the school's owners and our fellow students.
The hike was the most challenging I had ever been on, yet just my speed in a way. While the inclines were steep and my legs were quivering with exhaustion, there were no two-inch-wide paths on the side of a homicidal precipice. Heights and I don't get along, so as long as I can't see how high I am, I'm fine. Give me a cliffside "you are here" point of reference, and I become an awkward hurricane of tears and paralysis.
The hike's endpoint was a sacred (Mayan) lake, the name of which escapes me right now, but I'll look for it on Monday when we return to school. We climbed paths through cornfields and sacks of potatoes on the side of the road that wound through a jungle and rainforest-like atmosphere and wondered at the pure brute strength of the farmers and agricultural workers who would have to come up here to work and carry these heavy loads down. Then we were almost hit by the pickup truck on its way down. Mystery solved. (To be fair, though, we did see a man and his son climbing barefoot with hoes in hand on our way down hours later.)
Once at the top of one mountain, we thought we were homefree. We saw the welcome booth to the "park" hosting the lake, and figured that with a five-minute walk, we'd be basking in sacredness. Ah, stupid tourists. After what may have been another 20 minutes of hiking at an uncomfortably sharp and slippery angle, we got to the lokout point, which afforded us views of a nearby volcano (we heard it gargle, but didn't see it as we were walking). Opposite the volcano lookout deck, there was another platform jutting over the mountainside with a look out over the lake. At this point, we felt betrayed, cheated ... and muscle cramps -- we had hiked HIGHER than our watery destination. Not cute.
As a result, we had to walk down a nice little line of over 100 or 150 stairs to get back down to the lake. Here was my "you're this high" point of reference. I handled it expertly, though. Kind of. I didn't weep, and sometimes that's enough for me.
Finally, we reached the lake where we all but collapsed. It was serene and we all lay on our backs on the (mostly white) volcanic rock beach, chatted, watched clouds creep and swirl overhead and chucked stones at each other and at inanimate objects. The body of water filled a volcanic crater and was flat for about five feet into the water, but then dropped down sharply, we were told by our school directors. How deep is it? I learned the Spanish word for "abyss" today.
On our hike back, we took a different path, traversing trails shaded by amazing foliage. Another student likened it to the movie "Fern Gully" for context. We walked under fallen trees covered in vines, past exposed roots of massively titan trunks and at one point -- perhaps the most beautiful part of the hike -- through the mist I wrote about seeing in my first blog entry. I wrote then of how these clouds settled into valleys and snagged themselves on mountaintops, and this time we were actually walking through it.
The way back down felt like the physics of light speed compared to our asthmatic climb to the top. Falling came especially quickly for me, but I recovered nicely. It was a good fall in that I did not fall into a cow pattie or take anyone down with me.
For the rest of the day, I'm anticipating a shower and a nap and then we're meeting a couple friends at the Blue Angel Cafe to watch "The Life of Brian."
Ah yes, and Tony and I just went for some Indian food a few blocks for us. Who knew I would have to come to Quetzaltenango, Guatemala to find the best curry I've ever had? Delightful. More later, take care!
At about 4.30, I returned home (our friend and a teacher here, Juan, was nice enough to play chauffeur that early in the morning). I got back in bed until a leisurely 5.30 a.m. when the alarm went off. Tony and I were to meet everyone in front of the school by 6 a.m. to go on the bus. While Tony and I did wake up with the alarm, our feet did not hit the floor at that hour. Instead, we spent until 5.51 a.m. (no exaggeration) "discussing" whether or not we wanted to go, each of us waiting for the other to back out so we could return to our wonderful land of dreams. (I actually had been dreaming that my parents' house had just caught on fire in the laundry room, but I was willing to take my chances and return to the dream as I pretty much had the blaze under control when the alarm yanked me out of my firefighting at 5.30.)
These nine minutes before our set reunion time, however, proved that neither Tony or I wanted to take responsibility for a missed opportunity to see a new bit of this country, so we hauled over to the school, hopped in the minibus and went off with the school's owners and our fellow students.
The hike was the most challenging I had ever been on, yet just my speed in a way. While the inclines were steep and my legs were quivering with exhaustion, there were no two-inch-wide paths on the side of a homicidal precipice. Heights and I don't get along, so as long as I can't see how high I am, I'm fine. Give me a cliffside "you are here" point of reference, and I become an awkward hurricane of tears and paralysis.
The hike's endpoint was a sacred (Mayan) lake, the name of which escapes me right now, but I'll look for it on Monday when we return to school. We climbed paths through cornfields and sacks of potatoes on the side of the road that wound through a jungle and rainforest-like atmosphere and wondered at the pure brute strength of the farmers and agricultural workers who would have to come up here to work and carry these heavy loads down. Then we were almost hit by the pickup truck on its way down. Mystery solved. (To be fair, though, we did see a man and his son climbing barefoot with hoes in hand on our way down hours later.)
Once at the top of one mountain, we thought we were homefree. We saw the welcome booth to the "park" hosting the lake, and figured that with a five-minute walk, we'd be basking in sacredness. Ah, stupid tourists. After what may have been another 20 minutes of hiking at an uncomfortably sharp and slippery angle, we got to the lokout point, which afforded us views of a nearby volcano (we heard it gargle, but didn't see it as we were walking). Opposite the volcano lookout deck, there was another platform jutting over the mountainside with a look out over the lake. At this point, we felt betrayed, cheated ... and muscle cramps -- we had hiked HIGHER than our watery destination. Not cute.
As a result, we had to walk down a nice little line of over 100 or 150 stairs to get back down to the lake. Here was my "you're this high" point of reference. I handled it expertly, though. Kind of. I didn't weep, and sometimes that's enough for me.
Finally, we reached the lake where we all but collapsed. It was serene and we all lay on our backs on the (mostly white) volcanic rock beach, chatted, watched clouds creep and swirl overhead and chucked stones at each other and at inanimate objects. The body of water filled a volcanic crater and was flat for about five feet into the water, but then dropped down sharply, we were told by our school directors. How deep is it? I learned the Spanish word for "abyss" today.
On our hike back, we took a different path, traversing trails shaded by amazing foliage. Another student likened it to the movie "Fern Gully" for context. We walked under fallen trees covered in vines, past exposed roots of massively titan trunks and at one point -- perhaps the most beautiful part of the hike -- through the mist I wrote about seeing in my first blog entry. I wrote then of how these clouds settled into valleys and snagged themselves on mountaintops, and this time we were actually walking through it.
The way back down felt like the physics of light speed compared to our asthmatic climb to the top. Falling came especially quickly for me, but I recovered nicely. It was a good fall in that I did not fall into a cow pattie or take anyone down with me.
For the rest of the day, I'm anticipating a shower and a nap and then we're meeting a couple friends at the Blue Angel Cafe to watch "The Life of Brian."
Ah yes, and Tony and I just went for some Indian food a few blocks for us. Who knew I would have to come to Quetzaltenango, Guatemala to find the best curry I've ever had? Delightful. More later, take care!
Friday, July 13, 2007
Mas que meets the Ojo.
So we saw a foreign film here in Guatemala. It was an edge-of-your-seat thriller with non-stop action, romantic subplots and tales of heroism and humor. Maybe you've heard of it -- it was called "Transformers." Tony and I understood about two percent of the lines in the movie, while Steph boasted of having comprehended about 40 or 50 percent. Luckily, the dialogue isn't "needed" in the movie. Surprisingly, the plot wasn't terribly complicated, and we understood what we needed to, like when Megatron called the main (mortal) character, "muchacho," and threatened him with "Dame el cubo, chico." Bone-chilling. Overall, I loved the movie and we'll be seeing it again in English to see what Socratic undertones or subtleties we may have missed out on in the Spanish version. The theater was crowded, hot and hosted some of the loudest snackers we have ever heard.
Yesterday, we went to "Proyeto de las Niños y Familias," a social project or effort maintained by our school. I'll post those photos next week, when I next upload. Basically, a portion of each of our school's student's tuition is set aside to buy clothes, food and activity materials for a collection of children in families living on the outskirts of Xela, of running water and of electricity. After our lunch break in the afternoon, all the students, some teachers and our school's owners went over to this neighborhood to a cluster of houses that shelters about 10 female caretakers and at least 20 children from ages 1 to 14. We presented each of the caretakers with a bag of groceries (vegetables, etc.) and each of the younger children with at least one "new" article of clothing. In turn, we got to see the houses and hang out with the children. As I am generally terrified of kids, I didn't know how swimmingly this day was going to go, but was amazed at how fun it turned out to be. Thank God for outgoing and aggressive children is all I have to say.
The houses that we saw were of mud brick and corrugated iron, each with two or three beds, each of which slept three or four children or adults. There was a separate building that served as a kitchen and housed a table, two chairs and a mud-brick, open-fire stove in the corner. All of the children were ridiculously outgoing, friendly and patient with our ailing Spanish. We colored with los niños, played games, jumped rope and played soccer with them next to a nearby cornfield, between two cows, which I was praying someone would use as goalpost markers. We stayed for a few hours, and before we left, they thanked us with a song.
It was a great experience that I hope we get to do again before we leave. I had a great conversation with one of the girls:
Roxanna: Do you have a boyfriend or a husband?
Me: Yes, that's my boyfriend over there with the beard. And you? Do you have a husband?
Roxanna: Ay, no!
Me: Why not?!
Roxanna: Because I'm 10!
Me: What about him (pointing to a nearby GENIUS child named Henry)? He's handsome!
Roxanna: No! He's gross. Plus, I like to study.
Two seconds later, I found out that "gross" meant "my cousin," and I was not trying to endorse that marriage.
Poverty is obviously a problem here, as it is to some extent everywhere. It was interesting and jarring to see how within a 20-minute walk, you can stumble into a completely different, perhaps ignored economic bracket. I talked about it with my Spanish tutor today, as she knows her country just a tad bit better than I, and she said that maybe 40 percent of Guatemala was in a similar situation as el proyeto. In Xela, houses are multi-leveled, we have malls and movie theaters, everyone has cars, beggars are few. Yet 20 minutes away, it's such a different story. Food for thought.
Alright, that's about all for now...as you can see, I've posted new photos and there will be more to come next week. Steph flies out tomorrow, so I'll be getting up at 3.30 a.m. to say goodbye and go with her to the bus station. Then, we're set to go on a hike all day and on Sunday we're aiming for Chichicastenango (the market town). This said, I might not be able to post this weekend, but definitely will try!
Take care, all.
Yesterday, we went to "Proyeto de las Niños y Familias," a social project or effort maintained by our school. I'll post those photos next week, when I next upload. Basically, a portion of each of our school's student's tuition is set aside to buy clothes, food and activity materials for a collection of children in families living on the outskirts of Xela, of running water and of electricity. After our lunch break in the afternoon, all the students, some teachers and our school's owners went over to this neighborhood to a cluster of houses that shelters about 10 female caretakers and at least 20 children from ages 1 to 14. We presented each of the caretakers with a bag of groceries (vegetables, etc.) and each of the younger children with at least one "new" article of clothing. In turn, we got to see the houses and hang out with the children. As I am generally terrified of kids, I didn't know how swimmingly this day was going to go, but was amazed at how fun it turned out to be. Thank God for outgoing and aggressive children is all I have to say.
The houses that we saw were of mud brick and corrugated iron, each with two or three beds, each of which slept three or four children or adults. There was a separate building that served as a kitchen and housed a table, two chairs and a mud-brick, open-fire stove in the corner. All of the children were ridiculously outgoing, friendly and patient with our ailing Spanish. We colored with los niños, played games, jumped rope and played soccer with them next to a nearby cornfield, between two cows, which I was praying someone would use as goalpost markers. We stayed for a few hours, and before we left, they thanked us with a song.
It was a great experience that I hope we get to do again before we leave. I had a great conversation with one of the girls:
Roxanna: Do you have a boyfriend or a husband?
Me: Yes, that's my boyfriend over there with the beard. And you? Do you have a husband?
Roxanna: Ay, no!
Me: Why not?!
Roxanna: Because I'm 10!
Me: What about him (pointing to a nearby GENIUS child named Henry)? He's handsome!
Roxanna: No! He's gross. Plus, I like to study.
Two seconds later, I found out that "gross" meant "my cousin," and I was not trying to endorse that marriage.
Poverty is obviously a problem here, as it is to some extent everywhere. It was interesting and jarring to see how within a 20-minute walk, you can stumble into a completely different, perhaps ignored economic bracket. I talked about it with my Spanish tutor today, as she knows her country just a tad bit better than I, and she said that maybe 40 percent of Guatemala was in a similar situation as el proyeto. In Xela, houses are multi-leveled, we have malls and movie theaters, everyone has cars, beggars are few. Yet 20 minutes away, it's such a different story. Food for thought.
Alright, that's about all for now...as you can see, I've posted new photos and there will be more to come next week. Steph flies out tomorrow, so I'll be getting up at 3.30 a.m. to say goodbye and go with her to the bus station. Then, we're set to go on a hike all day and on Sunday we're aiming for Chichicastenango (the market town). This said, I might not be able to post this weekend, but definitely will try!
Take care, all.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
"Turd" it was my birthday?
So yesterday was my birthday...my second one in three years celebrated internationally. The year before last was in Benin, West Africa and was celebrated by Steph visiting me there and heavily chocolated pancakes for breakfast. I don't remember the rest of that birthday, but my day yesterday surely put it to shame. Here we go...
It started out with Tony's opening words to me being "happy birthday" first thing that morning -- touching. Then we went to classes where Steph and Tony surprised me (and the school) with a birthday cake they got around the corner from our school and a riling rendition of "Feliz Cumpleanos." The cake was chocolate and awesome, but more importantly had strawberries on it. This latter fact nearly forced me to plunge headfirst into the baked delight as soon as I saw it, which, being from a height of one flight of stairs up, would have been one hell of a nosedive.
I was given birthday cards from Steph and some of the other students. Steph's was a card that said "turd it was your birthday" (har har, and loads of fun to explain in Spanish to one's tutor) on the inside with a cartoon poo peeking out of a cartoon toilet. That kind of wit can only be bought at Target. Apparently Steph knew this and purchased the card before leaving the States. It's getting framed and put on our wall at home as soon as we get back. After the break between classes, Tony and I went on a gift-buying extravaganza with our teachers and knocked about four more people off of our 20-something person list. In the market, I spotted this store selling this...unconventional-at-best model of pants that I have been searching the globe for for almost two years now. Needless to say, a fantastic birthday surprise. The pants are a dark-green cotton material, handmade, and are accented by bands of white, Mayan-ish embroidery. Yeah, I know, you're all thinking, "Hey..yeah..no, they sound really...great and stylish and..yeah. Have fun with those." But they're great. Me and my pants will take Cruces by storm when we return. You just wait.
Moving on, after classes, the school's afternoon excursion was to some nearby volcanic hot springs. I've always wanted to go to natural hot springs -- believe it or not, there are none on the Lower East Side of Manhattan or in Springfield, VA, where I've lived most of my life -- so it was a happy coincidence that this trip was chosen for this day. After a 30-minute drive up nauseatingly winding mountain roads through wafts of (volcanic) sulfur, we arrived. The springs were GORGEOUS (pictures before week's end, I promise), warm and amazing despite the fact that I had no bathing suit. Word to the wise: if you plan on improvising a bathing suit with jersey shorts, might I suggest some Underarmor beneath them to counter any of the material's breezy and unpredictable underwater moves. I spent a lot of my time crabwalking backwards through the water so I could keep an eye on the hem of my shorts at all times. For what I believe is the first time in my life, I found myself audibly screaming for spandex, and that is a fate I wish upon no one.
To wrap up the night, we went to my new favorite place, which you'll remember is "The Blue Angel Cafe." The show movies every night at 8 p.m., and last night was "Amor Es Perro," fittingly in Spanish. I watched it with a Moza (the stout beer sold here -- pretty tasty), nestled between Steph and Tony. A perfect birthday wrap-up.
Today, we kicked off the day with a morning hike, which apparently was slightly forbidden by our schoolmasters, I found out later. But I woke before the streetlights went out with the rising of the sun, took a bloody FREEZING shower and toddled off to school with Steph to meet the other hiking students and our tutor who was to be our guide. The views were great (again, pictures by week's end) and we were about 30 minutes late for our 8 o'clock lesson. Oops. I would tell you all what the plan is for tonight, but again...I don't want to turn out to be a mentirosa. So..hasta manana or Friday!
It started out with Tony's opening words to me being "happy birthday" first thing that morning -- touching. Then we went to classes where Steph and Tony surprised me (and the school) with a birthday cake they got around the corner from our school and a riling rendition of "Feliz Cumpleanos." The cake was chocolate and awesome, but more importantly had strawberries on it. This latter fact nearly forced me to plunge headfirst into the baked delight as soon as I saw it, which, being from a height of one flight of stairs up, would have been one hell of a nosedive.
I was given birthday cards from Steph and some of the other students. Steph's was a card that said "turd it was your birthday" (har har, and loads of fun to explain in Spanish to one's tutor) on the inside with a cartoon poo peeking out of a cartoon toilet. That kind of wit can only be bought at Target. Apparently Steph knew this and purchased the card before leaving the States. It's getting framed and put on our wall at home as soon as we get back. After the break between classes, Tony and I went on a gift-buying extravaganza with our teachers and knocked about four more people off of our 20-something person list. In the market, I spotted this store selling this...unconventional-at-best model of pants that I have been searching the globe for for almost two years now. Needless to say, a fantastic birthday surprise. The pants are a dark-green cotton material, handmade, and are accented by bands of white, Mayan-ish embroidery. Yeah, I know, you're all thinking, "Hey..yeah..no, they sound really...great and stylish and..yeah. Have fun with those." But they're great. Me and my pants will take Cruces by storm when we return. You just wait.
Moving on, after classes, the school's afternoon excursion was to some nearby volcanic hot springs. I've always wanted to go to natural hot springs -- believe it or not, there are none on the Lower East Side of Manhattan or in Springfield, VA, where I've lived most of my life -- so it was a happy coincidence that this trip was chosen for this day. After a 30-minute drive up nauseatingly winding mountain roads through wafts of (volcanic) sulfur, we arrived. The springs were GORGEOUS (pictures before week's end, I promise), warm and amazing despite the fact that I had no bathing suit. Word to the wise: if you plan on improvising a bathing suit with jersey shorts, might I suggest some Underarmor beneath them to counter any of the material's breezy and unpredictable underwater moves. I spent a lot of my time crabwalking backwards through the water so I could keep an eye on the hem of my shorts at all times. For what I believe is the first time in my life, I found myself audibly screaming for spandex, and that is a fate I wish upon no one.
To wrap up the night, we went to my new favorite place, which you'll remember is "The Blue Angel Cafe." The show movies every night at 8 p.m., and last night was "Amor Es Perro," fittingly in Spanish. I watched it with a Moza (the stout beer sold here -- pretty tasty), nestled between Steph and Tony. A perfect birthday wrap-up.
Today, we kicked off the day with a morning hike, which apparently was slightly forbidden by our schoolmasters, I found out later. But I woke before the streetlights went out with the rising of the sun, took a bloody FREEZING shower and toddled off to school with Steph to meet the other hiking students and our tutor who was to be our guide. The views were great (again, pictures by week's end) and we were about 30 minutes late for our 8 o'clock lesson. Oops. I would tell you all what the plan is for tonight, but again...I don't want to turn out to be a mentirosa. So..hasta manana or Friday!
Monday, July 9, 2007
Full nelsons speak louder than words
Well hello again, all. Sorry for not having written yesterday, but it was a heavy day of traveling. While looking for a new place to eat breakfast yesterday in San Pedro (which grew on all of us tremendously before leaving, by the way -- as soon as you quit the main strip and climb a few hills, you find a much more pleasant lake-side town and atmosphere), we had to fight off about 11 million men asking us if we wanted to go kayaking, hiking or on horseback rides.
Us: "Good morning!" (to our "hotel" owner)
Him: "Want to kayak?"
Us: "No thanks, we're going to get breakfast."
Him: "We can go hiking...want to go hiking to the volcano?"
Us: "Hm...no, still working on...eating that 'breakfast' meal we've heard so much about"
Him: "So hiking at 4:30 tomorrow morning?"
Us: "No...pretty much eggs...now...is what we're anticipating. Bye!"
Him: (now muted by the distance between us) "So a hike then kayaking?"
or
Us: "This place looks good for breakfast."
Evesdropping man: "It's closed."
Us: "Oh, thanks." (Turning to each other) "So where else can we go to eat?"
Evesdropping man: "You want a horseback ride?"
Us: "Let´s eat at that place over there, it looks good."
Evesdropping man: "Horseback ride?"
Us: "Yeah, OK, let's go there!"
Evesdropping man: "You want a horse? Perhaps a ride? On it's back?"
Then I think Tony put this last guy in a full-nelson and took him down. Some say music, sports or laughter is the universal language, but you'd be surprised how well wrestling moves transcend the language barrier, too.
So anyway after breakfast, we got on a boat back to Panajachel -- nicknamed "Gringotenango" (basically "white person village") for all the European "settlers," shall we call them? -- and then hopped a bus back to Xela, which was then followed by a 20-minute walk to our host-home.
"But," you may ask, "what happened to your planned adventure to Chichicastenango?" Well, my friends, it would have resulted in a massive loss of money and time, and possibly would have stranded us in Gringotown overnight. As we arrived with a list of 26-plus people to buy gifts for (which ah...might be cut down a bit as our bank account declines), any unexpected stays are a large blow to our financial situation and so we're planning on going next weekend.
"But Erin," you may now be nagging, "last time you told us you were going to do something, like with this Chichi thing, you didn´t follow through. How are we to believe you, now?" In this I say you're right. I have deceived you not once, but twice. Last week, I said we were going to go Salsa dancing, and we turned out to be EXHAUSTED that night and spend that night as recluses in our host-bedroom. The moral of this story is that I should stop telling you about my future plans, as it can only lead to deception and misinformation. So...forget I ever mentioned Chichi, and what´s Salsa dancing?
Last night we also found this amazing new cafe in Xela called "The Blue Angel," which is a cafe, mini-cinema and my new favorite place all rolled into one. We went early in the evening for a coffee and some studying and went later in the evening for a showing of "Frida" (in English with Spanish subtitles). The movie was excellent, and the subtitles were perfect for learning how to more appropriately use verbs and vocabulary we know, as well as teaching us a few new tricks (also known simply as "vocabulary words"). We plan to start going about once a week now, but as we've learned, my promises of the future should be taken with a grain of salt.
That's about all for now. My Spanish is still trudging along...slowly, but Tony and I have made a pact to speak Spanish to each other as our primary means of communication. This is off to a slow and non-comittal start, but we'll see what happens!
Us: "Good morning!" (to our "hotel" owner)
Him: "Want to kayak?"
Us: "No thanks, we're going to get breakfast."
Him: "We can go hiking...want to go hiking to the volcano?"
Us: "Hm...no, still working on...eating that 'breakfast' meal we've heard so much about"
Him: "So hiking at 4:30 tomorrow morning?"
Us: "No...pretty much eggs...now...is what we're anticipating. Bye!"
Him: (now muted by the distance between us) "So a hike then kayaking?"
or
Us: "This place looks good for breakfast."
Evesdropping man: "It's closed."
Us: "Oh, thanks." (Turning to each other) "So where else can we go to eat?"
Evesdropping man: "You want a horseback ride?"
Us: "Let´s eat at that place over there, it looks good."
Evesdropping man: "Horseback ride?"
Us: "Yeah, OK, let's go there!"
Evesdropping man: "You want a horse? Perhaps a ride? On it's back?"
Then I think Tony put this last guy in a full-nelson and took him down. Some say music, sports or laughter is the universal language, but you'd be surprised how well wrestling moves transcend the language barrier, too.
So anyway after breakfast, we got on a boat back to Panajachel -- nicknamed "Gringotenango" (basically "white person village") for all the European "settlers," shall we call them? -- and then hopped a bus back to Xela, which was then followed by a 20-minute walk to our host-home.
"But," you may ask, "what happened to your planned adventure to Chichicastenango?" Well, my friends, it would have resulted in a massive loss of money and time, and possibly would have stranded us in Gringotown overnight. As we arrived with a list of 26-plus people to buy gifts for (which ah...might be cut down a bit as our bank account declines), any unexpected stays are a large blow to our financial situation and so we're planning on going next weekend.
"But Erin," you may now be nagging, "last time you told us you were going to do something, like with this Chichi thing, you didn´t follow through. How are we to believe you, now?" In this I say you're right. I have deceived you not once, but twice. Last week, I said we were going to go Salsa dancing, and we turned out to be EXHAUSTED that night and spend that night as recluses in our host-bedroom. The moral of this story is that I should stop telling you about my future plans, as it can only lead to deception and misinformation. So...forget I ever mentioned Chichi, and what´s Salsa dancing?
Last night we also found this amazing new cafe in Xela called "The Blue Angel," which is a cafe, mini-cinema and my new favorite place all rolled into one. We went early in the evening for a coffee and some studying and went later in the evening for a showing of "Frida" (in English with Spanish subtitles). The movie was excellent, and the subtitles were perfect for learning how to more appropriately use verbs and vocabulary we know, as well as teaching us a few new tricks (also known simply as "vocabulary words"). We plan to start going about once a week now, but as we've learned, my promises of the future should be taken with a grain of salt.
That's about all for now. My Spanish is still trudging along...slowly, but Tony and I have made a pact to speak Spanish to each other as our primary means of communication. This is off to a slow and non-comittal start, but we'll see what happens!
Saturday, July 7, 2007
On Friday, we kind cut out of school early (30 minutes) to sprint home, pack our bags and dash off to the bus station next to the main Xela market and get on a bus heading towards a lake town called San Pedro.
Six of us (Steph, Tony, Kathleen and two sisters named Dina and Talia and myself) met at the school where Dina and Talia's host couple gave us a ride to the bus station. This was FANTASTIC as this cross-town trip would have otherwise taken us a good 20 or 30 minutes, walking. All was well and fine until we hit the speed bumps. With a total of eight people and luggage in a five-seater car, it was no surprise -- yet still a bloody surprise altogether -- when we bottomed out going over a speed hump, almost getting completely stuck with the car scraping its undercarriage rather roughly as the car kind of teetered on the bump for a couple of seconds. So, in an astounding demonstration of class, suaveness and subtlety, those of us in the back seat piled out and ran, flailing, up the hill past the two remaining speedbumps, and met our "chauffeurs" at the top of the hill where we merrily hopped back in and continued our trip. There, we again filed out of the vehicle, clown-car style to music provided by a market speaker store, which was appropriately blaring the song lyrics, "Americano! Americano!" We bring the spectacle.
Finally, we got on a bus, sat, got off the bus, booked it onto another bus as it was leaving and going to what we thought was the same destination but sooner, got two minutes down the road, discovered it was the wrong bus and hurried back to our other bus where we were greeted and healthily mocked by our original bus' driver. "Otra vez?" Har har.
Two hours later, we were off the bus and on a 30-minute boat ride through the lake and eventually ended our voyage in San Pedro, off of Lake Atitlan, where we remain at present. We're paying the equivalent of about $4.50 per person, per night at a bare-bones but comfy "hotel" with private baths and hot water. As our rooms are on the second floor, we also have a great view of the beautiful lake, which we can take in from our beds if we leave the door open or from one of the hammocks hanging on our level's balcony. Life is good0. And cheap.
The community here is a little hippy haven. Within our first 45 minutes in San Pedro, we were offered a variety of drugs or drug runs by a spectrum of strangers, and saw about five white people or tourists for every one Guatemalan. Astounding. Dreadlocks are like the national flag here, and after dark, frequenting any bar will run you the risk of leaving with a contact high.
But beside these more depressing or irritating aspects, the lake is freaking beautiful. The streets are hilly and cobblestoned; the taxis are pickups, three-wheelers (a picture to come) or motorcycles and the food ranges from Guatemalan fare (black beans, chicken, tortillas, etc.) to falafel and pizza. The weather here is also a lot warmer and has fewer mood swings than the temperatures in Xela where it can go into the 50s at night and into the mid-70s during the day. Here, the sun shines into a pleasant mid- to upper-70s with a beautiful lilting breeze. Prices here are also a little steeper because of the massive innundation of tourists. For example, Internet here is about three to five Quetzals in Xela, but 7 to 10 here. (Note: there are about 6.5 or 7 Quetzals to the dollar.)
Today, after a breakfast of omelettes, beans, tortillas and tea, peppered with cannon fire -- I know, we didn't see that one coming either, but apparently a festival is going on or is about to start -- we journied into the back streets and walked through the open-air market, which sold old clothes, toiletries, produce, CDs and trinkets at original prices probably tripled for tourists, but 100 percent negotiable.
We also went into tiendas (stores) that sold traditional Mayan fabrics -- as Western fashions are sparse here for women -- as well as small art shops and browsed the jewelry selections displayed by stationary vendors with tables and the cloth selections of women carrying their products on their heads, speaking English and advertising their (high) original prices in dollars.
Tomorrow, we're planning on going to Chichicastenango -- which the Lonely Planet guide says boasts one of the biggest markets of its kind -- and we'll return to Xela tomorrow and be ready to return to classes by Monday!
Six of us (Steph, Tony, Kathleen and two sisters named Dina and Talia and myself) met at the school where Dina and Talia's host couple gave us a ride to the bus station. This was FANTASTIC as this cross-town trip would have otherwise taken us a good 20 or 30 minutes, walking. All was well and fine until we hit the speed bumps. With a total of eight people and luggage in a five-seater car, it was no surprise -- yet still a bloody surprise altogether -- when we bottomed out going over a speed hump, almost getting completely stuck with the car scraping its undercarriage rather roughly as the car kind of teetered on the bump for a couple of seconds. So, in an astounding demonstration of class, suaveness and subtlety, those of us in the back seat piled out and ran, flailing, up the hill past the two remaining speedbumps, and met our "chauffeurs" at the top of the hill where we merrily hopped back in and continued our trip. There, we again filed out of the vehicle, clown-car style to music provided by a market speaker store, which was appropriately blaring the song lyrics, "Americano! Americano!" We bring the spectacle.
Finally, we got on a bus, sat, got off the bus, booked it onto another bus as it was leaving and going to what we thought was the same destination but sooner, got two minutes down the road, discovered it was the wrong bus and hurried back to our other bus where we were greeted and healthily mocked by our original bus' driver. "Otra vez?" Har har.
Two hours later, we were off the bus and on a 30-minute boat ride through the lake and eventually ended our voyage in San Pedro, off of Lake Atitlan, where we remain at present. We're paying the equivalent of about $4.50 per person, per night at a bare-bones but comfy "hotel" with private baths and hot water. As our rooms are on the second floor, we also have a great view of the beautiful lake, which we can take in from our beds if we leave the door open or from one of the hammocks hanging on our level's balcony. Life is good0. And cheap.
The community here is a little hippy haven. Within our first 45 minutes in San Pedro, we were offered a variety of drugs or drug runs by a spectrum of strangers, and saw about five white people or tourists for every one Guatemalan. Astounding. Dreadlocks are like the national flag here, and after dark, frequenting any bar will run you the risk of leaving with a contact high.
But beside these more depressing or irritating aspects, the lake is freaking beautiful. The streets are hilly and cobblestoned; the taxis are pickups, three-wheelers (a picture to come) or motorcycles and the food ranges from Guatemalan fare (black beans, chicken, tortillas, etc.) to falafel and pizza. The weather here is also a lot warmer and has fewer mood swings than the temperatures in Xela where it can go into the 50s at night and into the mid-70s during the day. Here, the sun shines into a pleasant mid- to upper-70s with a beautiful lilting breeze. Prices here are also a little steeper because of the massive innundation of tourists. For example, Internet here is about three to five Quetzals in Xela, but 7 to 10 here. (Note: there are about 6.5 or 7 Quetzals to the dollar.)
Today, after a breakfast of omelettes, beans, tortillas and tea, peppered with cannon fire -- I know, we didn't see that one coming either, but apparently a festival is going on or is about to start -- we journied into the back streets and walked through the open-air market, which sold old clothes, toiletries, produce, CDs and trinkets at original prices probably tripled for tourists, but 100 percent negotiable.
We also went into tiendas (stores) that sold traditional Mayan fabrics -- as Western fashions are sparse here for women -- as well as small art shops and browsed the jewelry selections displayed by stationary vendors with tables and the cloth selections of women carrying their products on their heads, speaking English and advertising their (high) original prices in dollars.
Tomorrow, we're planning on going to Chichicastenango -- which the Lonely Planet guide says boasts one of the biggest markets of its kind -- and we'll return to Xela tomorrow and be ready to return to classes by Monday!
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Hello, all! So I can´t remember if I´ve already mentioned it, but besides Taco Bell, Wendy´s, Domino´s, etc., Wal-Mart has also made it to not only Guatemala, but to Xela. Today, for our second portion of morning classes (usually we do 2.5 hours, break, and then have another 2.5 or go on a walkabout), we went to the mall, Hiper Pais, which happens to be owned in part by Wal-Mart. So what does a Guatemalan Wal-Mart look like? Go on down to Valley Drive, walk in there, and imagine everyone as Guatemalan-- either in indigenous dress or sporting more western styles -- looking at the day´s deal on tube socks. It was surreal, but not in an enlightening or inspiring way.
Almost ironically, but perhaps somewhat painfully, right outside the Hiper Pais mall (which also boasts a Laccoste, a Champs Sports and a Radio Shack), is an open-air market with some of the most gorgeous produce I have ever seen; broccoli and cauliflower the size of a corpulent man´s head, Lacostte jeans for less expensive, traditional fabrics and quite a few fruits I have never seen before in my life. One of our teachers, Juan, bought us all fruits of which he didn´t even know the name. We saw a Guatemalan woman gnoshing on this fruit in the minibus on the way to the mall, and therefore had to try it. It´s almost difficult to describe, but Tony´s attempt was, "it looks like the rebellious kid of strawberries," and another student, Kathleen, commented, "if you found this in your back yard, how would you even think that it was edible?" Both are apt. It´s basically, oval, about the size of a large strawberry, its color hovering between red and yellow through alteration, never really becoming orange. It´s also covered in "hair," but about four times as long as a peach´s and about an eightieth of the concentration. It...basically looks like a fruity sea creature. Anyway, to eat it, you break away the semi-hard exterior and within is like this...albino, peeled grape. That´s the best I can do on describing it. Its taste compared to its appearance is like a Jeckyl and Hyde transofmation; wild on the outside with a ridiculously mild flavor. It´s not bitter, but only borders on sweet.
On the minibus ride back to school, we talked about the Guatemalan public school system (education is free, books aren´t always), the price of goat milk compared to cow milk (goat milk is more expensive, or "caro") and then proceeded to loosely outline a plan between Tony, Kathleen and I to go buy goats and set up shop selling their milk.
In the afternoon, after lunch, Tony´s teacher, Marina, gave a presentation on Mayan fabric and the messages within it. It was extremely interesting. We learned how the fashion of folding a wrap skirt or loose blouse (into the skirt) could tell a man if a woman was single or available and how the colors and patterns of traditional fabric indicate where a person is from. For example, a base of blue most probably indicates the person lives near a lake or river, and green and yellow could speak to the person´s dwelling´s proximity to maize or corn fields. Animal patterns woven in -- such as the depiction of deer, fish or snakes -- can also indicate the location of their village. Traditionally dressed women here also wrap a band of woven fabric -- about as wide as a belt, but often many times longer -- around their head. Ususally, it circles their head nine times before fastening to signify the nine months of creation, which speaks to the purpose of women´s traditional clothing. It was said by our teachers that basically a woman is the walking creation story. The head wrap is for the cycle of pregnancy and creation, as mentioned. Often on the skirts, there is a large cross pattern woven in, which is not that of Christianity, but rather a representation of a spiritual apex between "worlds" testimonial to original Mayan beliefs. The presentation was so interesting, and I can only imagine how much more interesting it would have been had I understood every last word -- the entire thing was in Spanish, and I´m on, what, day four of the language?
The lecture wrapped up (no pun intended, but...what the hey, let´s take this all the way) when I was wrapped up (ha...ha?) in the traditional skirt and donned a respective blouse. I´ll post the pictures later, but let´s just say it´s not my most attractive look. I don´t know how many of you have read "Out of Africa" by Isak Dinesen (a penname), but there´s a part in the book where the narrator sees a Kenyan or East African child wearing a turquoise bracelette. The narrator wants it so badly because of how brilliant the turquoise is that she has it bought for her to wear. When the narrator puts it on, the bracelette looks dull and out of place, and she realizes that the color was so much more vibrant and srtriking on the child´s wrist because of the perfect contrast of the color against the youth´s dark skin. I´m reminded of this passage because not only did I look completely out of place in the clothes, but they also just...did not look proper on my body, on my skin. To be more dramatic, maybe because they didn´t tell my story?
Anyway, a very informative and amazing day. I also successfully explained to my mama in Spanish BY MYSELF that we had a presentation at the school at 3 p.m. and that Tony, Steph and I (all living in teh same host family, now) were planning to meet some friends at 7.45 p.m. at the school for an 8 p.m. Salsa class at a nearby club. Therefore, could we please have dinner at 7 p.m.? Not only did my moma understand, she obliged, clapped and yelled for me, saying that "Tona" (my new name in the family...a joke and variation on "Tony") has learned so much Spanish this week! I´m not going to lie; it felt great. So tonight we celebrate with the dance of Salsa. No tengo that kind of coordination, so this should be more hilarious than me and Tony´s blooper reel of a ping-pong match after a few beers at the bar last night, but who cares? Here goes nothing!
Almost ironically, but perhaps somewhat painfully, right outside the Hiper Pais mall (which also boasts a Laccoste, a Champs Sports and a Radio Shack), is an open-air market with some of the most gorgeous produce I have ever seen; broccoli and cauliflower the size of a corpulent man´s head, Lacostte jeans for less expensive, traditional fabrics and quite a few fruits I have never seen before in my life. One of our teachers, Juan, bought us all fruits of which he didn´t even know the name. We saw a Guatemalan woman gnoshing on this fruit in the minibus on the way to the mall, and therefore had to try it. It´s almost difficult to describe, but Tony´s attempt was, "it looks like the rebellious kid of strawberries," and another student, Kathleen, commented, "if you found this in your back yard, how would you even think that it was edible?" Both are apt. It´s basically, oval, about the size of a large strawberry, its color hovering between red and yellow through alteration, never really becoming orange. It´s also covered in "hair," but about four times as long as a peach´s and about an eightieth of the concentration. It...basically looks like a fruity sea creature. Anyway, to eat it, you break away the semi-hard exterior and within is like this...albino, peeled grape. That´s the best I can do on describing it. Its taste compared to its appearance is like a Jeckyl and Hyde transofmation; wild on the outside with a ridiculously mild flavor. It´s not bitter, but only borders on sweet.
On the minibus ride back to school, we talked about the Guatemalan public school system (education is free, books aren´t always), the price of goat milk compared to cow milk (goat milk is more expensive, or "caro") and then proceeded to loosely outline a plan between Tony, Kathleen and I to go buy goats and set up shop selling their milk.
In the afternoon, after lunch, Tony´s teacher, Marina, gave a presentation on Mayan fabric and the messages within it. It was extremely interesting. We learned how the fashion of folding a wrap skirt or loose blouse (into the skirt) could tell a man if a woman was single or available and how the colors and patterns of traditional fabric indicate where a person is from. For example, a base of blue most probably indicates the person lives near a lake or river, and green and yellow could speak to the person´s dwelling´s proximity to maize or corn fields. Animal patterns woven in -- such as the depiction of deer, fish or snakes -- can also indicate the location of their village. Traditionally dressed women here also wrap a band of woven fabric -- about as wide as a belt, but often many times longer -- around their head. Ususally, it circles their head nine times before fastening to signify the nine months of creation, which speaks to the purpose of women´s traditional clothing. It was said by our teachers that basically a woman is the walking creation story. The head wrap is for the cycle of pregnancy and creation, as mentioned. Often on the skirts, there is a large cross pattern woven in, which is not that of Christianity, but rather a representation of a spiritual apex between "worlds" testimonial to original Mayan beliefs. The presentation was so interesting, and I can only imagine how much more interesting it would have been had I understood every last word -- the entire thing was in Spanish, and I´m on, what, day four of the language?
The lecture wrapped up (no pun intended, but...what the hey, let´s take this all the way) when I was wrapped up (ha...ha?) in the traditional skirt and donned a respective blouse. I´ll post the pictures later, but let´s just say it´s not my most attractive look. I don´t know how many of you have read "Out of Africa" by Isak Dinesen (a penname), but there´s a part in the book where the narrator sees a Kenyan or East African child wearing a turquoise bracelette. The narrator wants it so badly because of how brilliant the turquoise is that she has it bought for her to wear. When the narrator puts it on, the bracelette looks dull and out of place, and she realizes that the color was so much more vibrant and srtriking on the child´s wrist because of the perfect contrast of the color against the youth´s dark skin. I´m reminded of this passage because not only did I look completely out of place in the clothes, but they also just...did not look proper on my body, on my skin. To be more dramatic, maybe because they didn´t tell my story?
Anyway, a very informative and amazing day. I also successfully explained to my mama in Spanish BY MYSELF that we had a presentation at the school at 3 p.m. and that Tony, Steph and I (all living in teh same host family, now) were planning to meet some friends at 7.45 p.m. at the school for an 8 p.m. Salsa class at a nearby club. Therefore, could we please have dinner at 7 p.m.? Not only did my moma understand, she obliged, clapped and yelled for me, saying that "Tona" (my new name in the family...a joke and variation on "Tony") has learned so much Spanish this week! I´m not going to lie; it felt great. So tonight we celebrate with the dance of Salsa. No tengo that kind of coordination, so this should be more hilarious than me and Tony´s blooper reel of a ping-pong match after a few beers at the bar last night, but who cares? Here goes nothing!
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Look out, Xela
Today was pretty uneventful except for a trip to a lookout point here in Xela with a few of our school's tutors and other students after our first two-and-a-half hours of Spanish lessons. The hike up there was a demonstration of physical fitness, but I loved it as I have not had any doses of calisthenics in roughly three months. Color me lazy.
The trip up there was great, though, and was followed by a daring invasion (aka we ... ah ... dodged the docents and didn't pay) of the local museum. The museum was modest, but had a lot of Mayan artifacts and photos of old school Xela, which were interesting. After that, Stephanie and I took a quick tour of the market with our respective teachers in search of jade necklaces. Little did we realize, Steph's teacher was in heels, and after our 4 million (OK, maybe two) mile hike in a straight vertical vector to the lookout point, she was not too pleased with our burst of spontaneity. Lo siento, Rosario!
Our uneventful day is drawing to a close here in the Internet cafe after a visit to Cafe Luna for a coffee (stale Nescafe, to be fair) and homework session. The plan for the rest of the evening is to meet up at a local salsa club and bar to celebrate American Independence Day with two Guatemalans (my teacher, Paola, and another teacher named Juan) and a Brit who is another student here. I think we're celebrating her "liberation" from Tony Blair? That's the best we could come up with.
Alright, that's about it. I have set up a link to a photo album site today, as well, so feel free to stop by for a peek at what we've been up to!
The trip up there was great, though, and was followed by a daring invasion (aka we ... ah ... dodged the docents and didn't pay) of the local museum. The museum was modest, but had a lot of Mayan artifacts and photos of old school Xela, which were interesting. After that, Stephanie and I took a quick tour of the market with our respective teachers in search of jade necklaces. Little did we realize, Steph's teacher was in heels, and after our 4 million (OK, maybe two) mile hike in a straight vertical vector to the lookout point, she was not too pleased with our burst of spontaneity. Lo siento, Rosario!
Our uneventful day is drawing to a close here in the Internet cafe after a visit to Cafe Luna for a coffee (stale Nescafe, to be fair) and homework session. The plan for the rest of the evening is to meet up at a local salsa club and bar to celebrate American Independence Day with two Guatemalans (my teacher, Paola, and another teacher named Juan) and a Brit who is another student here. I think we're celebrating her "liberation" from Tony Blair? That's the best we could come up with.
Alright, that's about it. I have set up a link to a photo album site today, as well, so feel free to stop by for a peek at what we've been up to!
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
A trip to Zunil and an abbreviated spanking
I'll start today's entry with a summary of last night when Tony, my friend Stephanie and I commemmerated our first day of classes with some toasts made over bottles of Gallo, the national beer of Guatemala. We hung around at "La Playa," a local bar, and watched as students from other immersion programs filed past -- unmistakable and instantly recognizable by either looks of confusion or a fashion sense (or lack thereof) not native to these parts. A couple of estudiantes from our program dropped in for a round of beers and the complimentary appetizers that come with each round (our first one was a kind of vegetable spread on crisps resembling tortilla chips, our second almost a seafood bisque). We left as that particular bar closed at 6.30 p.m. and returned home for a dinner of a piece of beef, potatoes and carrots in a red sauce over rice or egg and warm corn tortillas; a smaller, reheated portion of that day's lunch.
After dinner the whole family (mama, papa, Sandra, Tony, another student in our house named Angela and I) walked to the central park here, which is lined by a summary of Xela's diversity. On one side of the park, there´s a beautiful kind of pedestrian mall, closed in and an ex-patriot's haven of European and Western cuisine, drinks and an underground drug market, so we were told, if one were to be looking for it. The "mall" is adjacent to hotels priced according to the aforementioned clientele, a room for the night chiming in at the tune of $70 to $120 a night. Across the way, down the street from the McDonald´s (apparently in our local mall, which is rumored to be 40 percent owned by Wal-Mart, also boasts a Taco Bell and Radio Shack), there is a great Catholic church with two huge, exposed bells emerging from the facade. Near the park is also the Xela museum and the theater. We shoved our way into the theater in time to dash up the stairs to the balcony level and catch the last few moments of a local performing arts high school´s music recital.
After leaving the crowded concert hall, our dad bought us all lollypops from the vendors outside and together we made our way home, said goodnight and "hasta mañana" and went to bed.
As per usual, my five-hour block of Spanish classes started at 8 a.m. with my teacher, Paoula. After only two days here, I can conjugate multiple useful verbs, name parts of the body, days of the week, months of the year, hours on the clock and...almost make a sentence. My speed is far from neck-breaking, but it´s progress and I´ll take it.
After classes, we returned home for a lunch of a cold, off-color but interesting brocolli salad, sausage patties and blue corn tortillas and then dashed to the ATM near McDonald´s to withdraw money for our afternoon trip to the nearby puebla (village) of Zunil.
We met one of our teachers at the school and took off for a "chicken bus" stop behind the market. (A chicken bus is no more than a public bus usually painted brightly that, well, functions as a normal bus does, taking people where they want to go. I think it´s called a chicken bus because people will load on whatever baggage they may have, which sometimes includes a chicken or two.)
Anywho, we took this bus to Zunil, toured a church, walked the steeply slanted streets, looked at some colorful, woven Mayan fabric and hopped right back on another chicken bus to return to Xela. For reasons still unclear, once slightly outside Xela, we switched to a minibus, which was crammed with people -- two women even had to stand, hunched over, to get their ride. The highlight of that ride was definitely having no collective idea of where the deuce we were supposed to sit (we were traveling in a group of seven or eight students and a teacher), and having kids laugh at our assinine efforts. As if to drive the point home, a tiny Guatemalan boy of about 4 or 5 years old smacked me on the bottom as I was bent over to squeeze out the minibus´sliding door. I turned around and he was just smiling...perfectly punctuating the unspoken yet communally felt sentence, "you guys are idiots." It was perfect.
The plan for tonight is homework, dinner with the family and discussion of how to celebrate the Fourth of July -- I don´t think the goings-ons of Xela, Guate. were listed in our last issue of the Las Cruces Sun-News "Pulse," so we´re kind of on our own here. Also, hopefully tomorrow I´ll be able to upload photos here so everyone back home can get a taste of what amazing sights Guate has to offer!
Hasta luego!
After dinner the whole family (mama, papa, Sandra, Tony, another student in our house named Angela and I) walked to the central park here, which is lined by a summary of Xela's diversity. On one side of the park, there´s a beautiful kind of pedestrian mall, closed in and an ex-patriot's haven of European and Western cuisine, drinks and an underground drug market, so we were told, if one were to be looking for it. The "mall" is adjacent to hotels priced according to the aforementioned clientele, a room for the night chiming in at the tune of $70 to $120 a night. Across the way, down the street from the McDonald´s (apparently in our local mall, which is rumored to be 40 percent owned by Wal-Mart, also boasts a Taco Bell and Radio Shack), there is a great Catholic church with two huge, exposed bells emerging from the facade. Near the park is also the Xela museum and the theater. We shoved our way into the theater in time to dash up the stairs to the balcony level and catch the last few moments of a local performing arts high school´s music recital.
After leaving the crowded concert hall, our dad bought us all lollypops from the vendors outside and together we made our way home, said goodnight and "hasta mañana" and went to bed.
As per usual, my five-hour block of Spanish classes started at 8 a.m. with my teacher, Paoula. After only two days here, I can conjugate multiple useful verbs, name parts of the body, days of the week, months of the year, hours on the clock and...almost make a sentence. My speed is far from neck-breaking, but it´s progress and I´ll take it.
After classes, we returned home for a lunch of a cold, off-color but interesting brocolli salad, sausage patties and blue corn tortillas and then dashed to the ATM near McDonald´s to withdraw money for our afternoon trip to the nearby puebla (village) of Zunil.
We met one of our teachers at the school and took off for a "chicken bus" stop behind the market. (A chicken bus is no more than a public bus usually painted brightly that, well, functions as a normal bus does, taking people where they want to go. I think it´s called a chicken bus because people will load on whatever baggage they may have, which sometimes includes a chicken or two.)
Anywho, we took this bus to Zunil, toured a church, walked the steeply slanted streets, looked at some colorful, woven Mayan fabric and hopped right back on another chicken bus to return to Xela. For reasons still unclear, once slightly outside Xela, we switched to a minibus, which was crammed with people -- two women even had to stand, hunched over, to get their ride. The highlight of that ride was definitely having no collective idea of where the deuce we were supposed to sit (we were traveling in a group of seven or eight students and a teacher), and having kids laugh at our assinine efforts. As if to drive the point home, a tiny Guatemalan boy of about 4 or 5 years old smacked me on the bottom as I was bent over to squeeze out the minibus´sliding door. I turned around and he was just smiling...perfectly punctuating the unspoken yet communally felt sentence, "you guys are idiots." It was perfect.
The plan for tonight is homework, dinner with the family and discussion of how to celebrate the Fourth of July -- I don´t think the goings-ons of Xela, Guate. were listed in our last issue of the Las Cruces Sun-News "Pulse," so we´re kind of on our own here. Also, hopefully tomorrow I´ll be able to upload photos here so everyone back home can get a taste of what amazing sights Guate has to offer!
Hasta luego!
Monday, July 2, 2007
Esta vida es puro camote...
So we made it! On Sunday, July 1, we landed in Guatemla City at around 12.35 p.m. and immeditely claimed our bagage and found a taxi. After driving through trucks of soldiers (who Domingo, our taxi driver, told us were permeated throughout the city because presidents of different nations -- including Gorbachev, whose death apparently proves no handicap -- were coming to visit...), some McDonald´s, a Burger King, a Wendy's, a Chucky Cheese and some Kia and Volkswagen dealerships, we arrived at the Greyhound bus station -- no exaggeration -- and put our names on the roster for the 2.30 bus to Xela. The bus terminal was across from a few government centers and larger banks, all of which were built in architecture or decorated by edifaces more suggestive of the country´s own culture, and were surrounded by soaring Guatemalan flags. It sounds corny, but seeing those flags was like seeing a celebrity -- before, I had only seen the flag in pictures on the internet when I was setting up my blog, and now here they were in the flesh.
As we sat in the bus station, we met about five other Americans who were headed to Xela to study at two other schools in the area. We had been told that the bus ride to Xela should take about six hours. Normally, our school director had told us when we were still states-side, the ride was four hours, but the road had been under repair for years. At 2.30 p.m., we climbed aboard an old Greyhound and proceeded to get stuck in traffic for about half an hour. Vendors took advantage of our pauses to board the bus at random, selling cookies, wafers, ice cream and packaged peanuts.
Once out of the city, escorted all the way by deserted open-air markets and pedestrian overpasses, we started going through small towns and villages. Men, women, children and more vendors (this time selling ice cream, chicken and chiles) stepped on and off our bus as our journey continued. What was expected to be a somewhat manageable ride turned into a harrowing NASCAR-paced game of "chicken" up mountain roads. Had anything resembling speed limits existed or been enforced, the drive may have taken us an extra two hours, at least, but chances are my heart rate and blood pressure would have also remained in acceptable ranges -- passing 18-wheelers on two-lane roads rounding hilly corners at what felt like 80 mph on something with the center of gravity of a disproportionately huge Twinkie on wheels is an adventure I can always pass up.
As afternoon slipped into evening, and evening to dusk, towns slid into only memories of the beginning of our journey. The country side opened up into some of the most gorgeous rises of earth I have ever seen. If you like Ruidoso -- which, don´t get me wrong, I do -- the Guatemalan country side comparatively makes it seem like the sulking child that came in last place in a beauty contest.
We saw hill after hill slopingly decorated in a patchwork of cultivated fields; forrests verged on jungles. As evening and dusk progressed and as the sun set, mists gathered from the rainy season´s air nestled themselves in valleys beneath one of the most imaginary sunsets I´ve ever seen.
But the trip wasn´t all enchantment. The road repairs ended up stalling us for about an hour under the hot sun, dust and exhaust fumes of other busses and cars; starvation drew Tony towards a cold yet cooked sweet potato on a tray whose wrapper was enthusiastically animated by a crawling spider (a delectable treat that may actually still be hovering in the vacinity of our bus seat with 1.5 bites missing); we felt like we were going to pencil roll off a cliff at every turn and the latter condition only worsened and became more Evil-Kenevilesque for the last darkeness-drenched hour or two of our journey. Sweet lord, if Tony and I lacked religion before, every corner turned that night got its own prayer.
Finally, we arrived completely wiped out at around 8.30 p.m., which, after our trip from Miami that same day, felt like hour 47 of a 24-hour day. We were met by the school director's wife, Nora, and the day finally ended at our host family's adoreable labrynth of a house. We met our papa, Reymundo; one of our sisters, Sandra; our dog, Droopy and our mama, Lulu, who also led us to our bedroom upstairs where we bid the world a long-awaited adieu for eight hours of ridiculously anticipated sleep.
Today, July 2, was our first day of classes. Tony and my friend Stephanie emerged from the one-on-one five-hour sessions glowing. I was almost in tears. I learned nine groups of irregular verbs today, alongside about 30 regular verbs and yet still I'm rendered a bumbling mute when I have to form a sentence... See you tomorrow.
As we sat in the bus station, we met about five other Americans who were headed to Xela to study at two other schools in the area. We had been told that the bus ride to Xela should take about six hours. Normally, our school director had told us when we were still states-side, the ride was four hours, but the road had been under repair for years. At 2.30 p.m., we climbed aboard an old Greyhound and proceeded to get stuck in traffic for about half an hour. Vendors took advantage of our pauses to board the bus at random, selling cookies, wafers, ice cream and packaged peanuts.
Once out of the city, escorted all the way by deserted open-air markets and pedestrian overpasses, we started going through small towns and villages. Men, women, children and more vendors (this time selling ice cream, chicken and chiles) stepped on and off our bus as our journey continued. What was expected to be a somewhat manageable ride turned into a harrowing NASCAR-paced game of "chicken" up mountain roads. Had anything resembling speed limits existed or been enforced, the drive may have taken us an extra two hours, at least, but chances are my heart rate and blood pressure would have also remained in acceptable ranges -- passing 18-wheelers on two-lane roads rounding hilly corners at what felt like 80 mph on something with the center of gravity of a disproportionately huge Twinkie on wheels is an adventure I can always pass up.
As afternoon slipped into evening, and evening to dusk, towns slid into only memories of the beginning of our journey. The country side opened up into some of the most gorgeous rises of earth I have ever seen. If you like Ruidoso -- which, don´t get me wrong, I do -- the Guatemalan country side comparatively makes it seem like the sulking child that came in last place in a beauty contest.
We saw hill after hill slopingly decorated in a patchwork of cultivated fields; forrests verged on jungles. As evening and dusk progressed and as the sun set, mists gathered from the rainy season´s air nestled themselves in valleys beneath one of the most imaginary sunsets I´ve ever seen.
But the trip wasn´t all enchantment. The road repairs ended up stalling us for about an hour under the hot sun, dust and exhaust fumes of other busses and cars; starvation drew Tony towards a cold yet cooked sweet potato on a tray whose wrapper was enthusiastically animated by a crawling spider (a delectable treat that may actually still be hovering in the vacinity of our bus seat with 1.5 bites missing); we felt like we were going to pencil roll off a cliff at every turn and the latter condition only worsened and became more Evil-Kenevilesque for the last darkeness-drenched hour or two of our journey. Sweet lord, if Tony and I lacked religion before, every corner turned that night got its own prayer.
Finally, we arrived completely wiped out at around 8.30 p.m., which, after our trip from Miami that same day, felt like hour 47 of a 24-hour day. We were met by the school director's wife, Nora, and the day finally ended at our host family's adoreable labrynth of a house. We met our papa, Reymundo; one of our sisters, Sandra; our dog, Droopy and our mama, Lulu, who also led us to our bedroom upstairs where we bid the world a long-awaited adieu for eight hours of ridiculously anticipated sleep.
Today, July 2, was our first day of classes. Tony and my friend Stephanie emerged from the one-on-one five-hour sessions glowing. I was almost in tears. I learned nine groups of irregular verbs today, alongside about 30 regular verbs and yet still I'm rendered a bumbling mute when I have to form a sentence... See you tomorrow.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Old Mesilla, Guatemala
The time is 8:51 p.m. Friday night, June 29. Some friends have just left our house in Mesilla, having wished us a good trip. My boyfriend, Tony, and I are merrily packing our huge backpacks for our trip and battling over whose choice would triumph as our packing anthem; his choice was an old "Bevis and Butthead" episode randomly on TV, mine was a Jill Scott CD. And then....my phone rings.
Through the dodgy cell phone reception often found in Mesilla, an automated voice asks that I stay on the line for information on my flight, which at that point was set to leave in just under 12 hours.
Our flights from El Paso to Miami, due to leave at 8:30 a.m. June 30, had been cancelled. Weather problems and thunderstorms in Houston, I would find out later.
My mood and patience instantly plummeted as the stellar airline customer service agent remorselessly told me, yes, my flight was cancelled, but they had booked us on a flight leaving El Paso for Miami on Sunday. The rub (as if we needed another)? The new flight would land us in Miami at 7:30 p.m. ... seven-and-a-half hours AFTER our flight to Guatemala City was scheduled to leave...yet nothing had been done about that, because that flight hadn't been cancelled, yet. Outstanding.
So, to save you all from detailed accounts of the web of phone calls with step-fathers and friends and a longer story altogether, I angrily hung up on this customer representative who seemingly lacked both compassion and common sense and chose to play the lottery, call back and see who else I could get on the line. Try number two yielded me a bubbly -- if not morbidly chatty -- customer rep. who found us a new flight that would get us into Miami by 10.40 p.m. Saturday and would still allow us our already reserved hotel stay in Miami and our seats on our flight to Guatemala City. Emotionally spent for the night, Tony and I ditched our packing efforts and went to a $2 showing of "Blades of Glory" (review: one-and-three-quarters thumbs up). In the car, I explained the situation to my friend Stephanie, with whom we were planning on meeting up on our Miami flight to Guatemala City, as she will be joining us for the first two weeks of our Guatemalan immersion. We vowed only to do what we could do...to keep each 0ther posted on what was going on.
All said, the night ended with fingers crossed by all that our new itinerary would hold and the removal of 5 a.m. from our alarm clock.
Wish us luck; hopefully, we fly out in 4 hours!
Through the dodgy cell phone reception often found in Mesilla, an automated voice asks that I stay on the line for information on my flight, which at that point was set to leave in just under 12 hours.
Our flights from El Paso to Miami, due to leave at 8:30 a.m. June 30, had been cancelled. Weather problems and thunderstorms in Houston, I would find out later.
My mood and patience instantly plummeted as the stellar airline customer service agent remorselessly told me, yes, my flight was cancelled, but they had booked us on a flight leaving El Paso for Miami on Sunday. The rub (as if we needed another)? The new flight would land us in Miami at 7:30 p.m. ... seven-and-a-half hours AFTER our flight to Guatemala City was scheduled to leave...yet nothing had been done about that, because that flight hadn't been cancelled, yet. Outstanding.
So, to save you all from detailed accounts of the web of phone calls with step-fathers and friends and a longer story altogether, I angrily hung up on this customer representative who seemingly lacked both compassion and common sense and chose to play the lottery, call back and see who else I could get on the line. Try number two yielded me a bubbly -- if not morbidly chatty -- customer rep. who found us a new flight that would get us into Miami by 10.40 p.m. Saturday and would still allow us our already reserved hotel stay in Miami and our seats on our flight to Guatemala City. Emotionally spent for the night, Tony and I ditched our packing efforts and went to a $2 showing of "Blades of Glory" (review: one-and-three-quarters thumbs up). In the car, I explained the situation to my friend Stephanie, with whom we were planning on meeting up on our Miami flight to Guatemala City, as she will be joining us for the first two weeks of our Guatemalan immersion. We vowed only to do what we could do...to keep each 0ther posted on what was going on.
All said, the night ended with fingers crossed by all that our new itinerary would hold and the removal of 5 a.m. from our alarm clock.
Wish us luck; hopefully, we fly out in 4 hours!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
