There is an organization based in the Livingston-Río Dulce area (we are now in Río Dulce) that is a school of sustainable tourism. Young indigenous students come from all over Guatemala to study ¨sustainable tourism¨there. Today, Ashleigh and I visited the school briefly. The students study there for two weeks, then do a week of ¨practica¨in one of the organization´s business entities. For example, there is a restaurant in Livingston, where Ashleigh and I have eaten, where the students work. They also work at the Spanish fortress in Río Dulce that Ashleigh and I visited today. It´s nice that we have gotten a good glimpse at this organization, Associación Ak´Tenamit (Translation of Quiché is Pueblo Nuevo, or New People), in three different places.
One question I hold is, what exactly is ¨sustainable tourism¨? My instinct tells me that it would try to put tourism in the hands of the locals, and give them the tools to invent their own futures through tourism. But I wonder, are they developing creativity and entrepreneurship through their studies? I would really like to see the school in action, and watch the students working together, and learn about the philosophy behind sustainable tourism. Next trip to Guatemala, maybe!
Now we are staying in the Hotel Backpackers in Río Dulce, a place that is the business arm of an organization called Casa Guatemala. This is a home and school for abandoned or neglected children, where they can study and develop life skills. It is financially supported by donations, and most of the work is carried out by volunteers from abroad. Ashleigh and I have had some great conversations with the people here at the hotel about what Casa Guatemala is like, how the children end up there and how they benefit from being there.
Next, we move on to Guatemala City, for a brief stay there, and then we will go back to San Marcos at Lago Atitlán for a bit. I have decided to try to take a break from blogging, since I only have about two weeks left in my trip and I definitely want to aprovechar of every minute! So, I don´t expect I will be on the computer much, if at all. See you all back in the U.S.!
Peace, love, and light to all.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Dreams deferred
Drum lessons on the beach with Alex, Noja, and the crew; we learned the second (bass) drum beat for Garífuna music, and talked about life in Livingston. Turns out that these musical friends, who have known each other their entire lives and live in the name neighborhood right on the beach, have watched their families and friends migrate in droves to New York City. No wonder everyone´s Spanish here is interlaced with bits of street English, like "You know what I mean?" or "It´s like that, man."
Alex played reggae songs from his favorite bands on his iPod, telling us which island each singer was from. He didn´t say it, but you got the feeling that as he looked out at the ocean and sang along, he dreamed of traveling to these islands with his drums and jamming with these musicians, sharing songs and recording together.
I met Najo, a reggae singer, who hopes to travel soon to the States to visit his father and siblings, who live in the Bronx. He dreams of doing a professional recording, in a studio (does not exist here in Livingston, and with the racism many Guatemalans feel toward the Garífuna culture, fat chance of it happening in Guate City), and being a famous singer.
It appears that many Garífuna have migrated to New York City in search of economic opportunities. How sad is it that the most soulful, deep-rooted cultures in this world are dissipating so rapidly? What will happen in 20 years, when the young generation is not here to replace the elders? Who will lead the town forward and continue to celebrate it´s culture? And what if, one day, tourism here disappeared; where would the cash flow come from then?
Despite the lack of promising economic opportunities, however, these people keep on dreaming as they go about life, smiling and singing to each new day.
Jesus dreams of returning to Germany where his wife and children are living, and being with them. Claudia´s daughter, Sadie, dreams of becoming a world-class volleyball player and going around the globe. And Claudia herself told us yesterday, over coffee, after we shared stories of how our parents met and she admitted her own boldness--she ran away at the age of 15 with an older boy from the Garífuna culture, so unlike her own Latino culture, and today he is her husband and father of five children--of her own dream: to travel, to meet other cultures, and learn from them. She discovered she loved this when she moved to Livingston from Morales, where she grew up, and encountered the cosmology and rituals of the Garífuna, like nothing she had ever seen before. And now, us travelers bring her a little piece of our own cultures whenever we visit with her and chat, as we watch her son Lester make a kite out of newspaper, sticks, and string, and we share stories like old friends.
Livingston is so beautiful: the pelicans, the water, the seafood and coconut trees lining the beach, the old African ladies in their simple frocks, the rastamen with their drums, the Mayans with their quite pride and long hair. The family celebrations in the streets, the school marchingband walking around playing drums in the afternoons, the families drinking together and dancing in bars after dark, all make Livingston such a colorful and lively place. Claudia´s family, full of spunk and inquisitiveness. Alex and his friends, who play music that comes from their souls, and their ancestors´ souls, their hands flying across the drums in a blur. Lester and his friends, flying their homemade kites on the beach after school.
Why should they have to move to NYC, and leave this place and their loved ones, in order to be successful? Is it an attraction to materiality, to possess Nike shoes and gold chains they never could afford if they stayed here? Is it a sense of responsibility, to send cash and useful household goods back to family here? Is it to live a different life, one of fresh clothes instead of second-hand, of playing music to a youthful, rowdy crowd of fellow Africans instead of a bunch of unknowing, foreign, white tourists?
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-- And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Alex played reggae songs from his favorite bands on his iPod, telling us which island each singer was from. He didn´t say it, but you got the feeling that as he looked out at the ocean and sang along, he dreamed of traveling to these islands with his drums and jamming with these musicians, sharing songs and recording together.
I met Najo, a reggae singer, who hopes to travel soon to the States to visit his father and siblings, who live in the Bronx. He dreams of doing a professional recording, in a studio (does not exist here in Livingston, and with the racism many Guatemalans feel toward the Garífuna culture, fat chance of it happening in Guate City), and being a famous singer.
It appears that many Garífuna have migrated to New York City in search of economic opportunities. How sad is it that the most soulful, deep-rooted cultures in this world are dissipating so rapidly? What will happen in 20 years, when the young generation is not here to replace the elders? Who will lead the town forward and continue to celebrate it´s culture? And what if, one day, tourism here disappeared; where would the cash flow come from then?
Despite the lack of promising economic opportunities, however, these people keep on dreaming as they go about life, smiling and singing to each new day.
Jesus dreams of returning to Germany where his wife and children are living, and being with them. Claudia´s daughter, Sadie, dreams of becoming a world-class volleyball player and going around the globe. And Claudia herself told us yesterday, over coffee, after we shared stories of how our parents met and she admitted her own boldness--she ran away at the age of 15 with an older boy from the Garífuna culture, so unlike her own Latino culture, and today he is her husband and father of five children--of her own dream: to travel, to meet other cultures, and learn from them. She discovered she loved this when she moved to Livingston from Morales, where she grew up, and encountered the cosmology and rituals of the Garífuna, like nothing she had ever seen before. And now, us travelers bring her a little piece of our own cultures whenever we visit with her and chat, as we watch her son Lester make a kite out of newspaper, sticks, and string, and we share stories like old friends.
Livingston is so beautiful: the pelicans, the water, the seafood and coconut trees lining the beach, the old African ladies in their simple frocks, the rastamen with their drums, the Mayans with their quite pride and long hair. The family celebrations in the streets, the school marchingband walking around playing drums in the afternoons, the families drinking together and dancing in bars after dark, all make Livingston such a colorful and lively place. Claudia´s family, full of spunk and inquisitiveness. Alex and his friends, who play music that comes from their souls, and their ancestors´ souls, their hands flying across the drums in a blur. Lester and his friends, flying their homemade kites on the beach after school.
Why should they have to move to NYC, and leave this place and their loved ones, in order to be successful? Is it an attraction to materiality, to possess Nike shoes and gold chains they never could afford if they stayed here? Is it a sense of responsibility, to send cash and useful household goods back to family here? Is it to live a different life, one of fresh clothes instead of second-hand, of playing music to a youthful, rowdy crowd of fellow Africans instead of a bunch of unknowing, foreign, white tourists?
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-- And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
-Langston Hughes
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The poetry of self.
The poetry of nature is the poetry of self.
We are nature eating nature,
wearing nature,
sitting on nature.
To question ourselves and our existence
is to enter the battle
between the snake and the rat,
is to feminize the moon
and masculinize the sun,
is to traverse up the mountain
and swim under the sea.
When we eat an apple
we are devouring
the flesh and bones
of our ancestors;
we are savoring the sweetness
of their souls, their passions, their laughter,
and we are choking on the bitter seeds
of their dispair,
their heartbreaks,
their dreams laid to rest unfulfilled.
The poetry of self
is the song of searching
for the most daunting cliff
and then jumping off,
or the steepest climb
and then pushing upward,
letting the wind and gravity guide you
to the safety of the water below,
or trusting in your feet to listen to the mountain
-for she will tell you the path to take.
The nature of poetry
is the poetry of life;
a pelican stretching his wings to cruise the horizon,
a snake sensing the warmth of a rock below his belly,
an army of ants marching to conquer a pile of ripe, green leaves-
-are all our own selves,
flying with ease,
pulling ourselves over an uncharted course,
finding the materials to build our homes and make our lives
through our conversations
with nature.
-if we should only choose to listen.
The voice of nature
is our own voice,
speaking softly but surely,
and,
even in times of mumbles and stutters,
always using her own, true voice,
and in times of laughter and song,
shouting to all her brothers and sisters,
every tree,
each rock,
all the insects,
the animals, the water, and the sky,
the poetry of self.
We are nature eating nature,
wearing nature,
sitting on nature.
To question ourselves and our existence
is to enter the battle
between the snake and the rat,
is to feminize the moon
and masculinize the sun,
is to traverse up the mountain
and swim under the sea.
When we eat an apple
we are devouring
the flesh and bones
of our ancestors;
we are savoring the sweetness
of their souls, their passions, their laughter,
and we are choking on the bitter seeds
of their dispair,
their heartbreaks,
their dreams laid to rest unfulfilled.
The poetry of self
is the song of searching
for the most daunting cliff
and then jumping off,
or the steepest climb
and then pushing upward,
letting the wind and gravity guide you
to the safety of the water below,
or trusting in your feet to listen to the mountain
-for she will tell you the path to take.
The nature of poetry
is the poetry of life;
a pelican stretching his wings to cruise the horizon,
a snake sensing the warmth of a rock below his belly,
an army of ants marching to conquer a pile of ripe, green leaves-
-are all our own selves,
flying with ease,
pulling ourselves over an uncharted course,
finding the materials to build our homes and make our lives
through our conversations
with nature.
-if we should only choose to listen.
The voice of nature
is our own voice,
speaking softly but surely,
and,
even in times of mumbles and stutters,
always using her own, true voice,
and in times of laughter and song,
shouting to all her brothers and sisters,
every tree,
each rock,
all the insects,
the animals, the water, and the sky,
the poetry of self.
Claudia`s family
Sitting in front of Claudia`s store front, two young women sipped rum and coconut juice out of hefty coconut shells, held in their laps. Claudia`s daughters, 13 year-old Sadie, and 15 year-old Mariela, lined up chairs alongside the women for a curbside chat.
Where are you from? How long will you be here? What does your jewelry mean? What kind of religion do you have? How old are you? Is there water where you live?
We are not speaking with little girls, we are talking to women who carry on a conversation proudly and without shyness. Sadie is a volleyball player and wants to try out for the national team so she can one day travel the world with her favorite sport. She also loves dancing. Mariela is stubborn, and argues with her sister over whether Livingston is an island.
Their mother, Claudia, joins us, exhausted after four hours of washing clothes by hand. Her face is radiant with energy, however, and she is eager to chat with us about everything and nothing.
Sitting there, we are not strangers or tourists, we are part of Claudia`s family.
We meet her son, Lester, and their neighbors, Angela and Andy. Soon we are swapping stories about life, from childhood or work, even movie plots. We gossip about the troublesome townies we encountered a few days ago, and Claudia tells us their long histories. Lester tells us the best place to get our hair braided, and how much we should pay for it. Claudia assures us that she offers the best tortilla in town, and we promise to come back for the savory meat, bean, and rice topped tortilla dish.
Meanwhile, Sadie and Andy break into a spontaneous drum session, beating sticks on the chairs with African and Latin rhythms weaved tightly together.
The day takes off it`s work clothes and slips into evening wear as we continue talking and laughing, sometimes only starting into space or greeting passers-by. We feel like these people are somehow reflections of ourselves, of our loved ones at home, and that we have always been a part of each others` lives.
Livingston is a place of old, well-traveled souls; they know who you are before they have met you. And you know them, too, as you always have.
Where are you from? How long will you be here? What does your jewelry mean? What kind of religion do you have? How old are you? Is there water where you live?
We are not speaking with little girls, we are talking to women who carry on a conversation proudly and without shyness. Sadie is a volleyball player and wants to try out for the national team so she can one day travel the world with her favorite sport. She also loves dancing. Mariela is stubborn, and argues with her sister over whether Livingston is an island.
Their mother, Claudia, joins us, exhausted after four hours of washing clothes by hand. Her face is radiant with energy, however, and she is eager to chat with us about everything and nothing.
Sitting there, we are not strangers or tourists, we are part of Claudia`s family.
We meet her son, Lester, and their neighbors, Angela and Andy. Soon we are swapping stories about life, from childhood or work, even movie plots. We gossip about the troublesome townies we encountered a few days ago, and Claudia tells us their long histories. Lester tells us the best place to get our hair braided, and how much we should pay for it. Claudia assures us that she offers the best tortilla in town, and we promise to come back for the savory meat, bean, and rice topped tortilla dish.
Meanwhile, Sadie and Andy break into a spontaneous drum session, beating sticks on the chairs with African and Latin rhythms weaved tightly together.
The day takes off it`s work clothes and slips into evening wear as we continue talking and laughing, sometimes only starting into space or greeting passers-by. We feel like these people are somehow reflections of ourselves, of our loved ones at home, and that we have always been a part of each others` lives.
Livingston is a place of old, well-traveled souls; they know who you are before they have met you. And you know them, too, as you always have.
Los Siete Altares
Sacred place
Guarded by African altar
Here blackness is celebrated
As nature
And nature
As blackness.
Forest and river
Overcome and silence the human voice
Here only nature speaks.
Whispering waterfall
Knows your name
You answer it, yes
And listen.
Of patience and wisdom
She speaks to you
Confronting the surfaces of rocks
And changing the course of the world.
Of faith and dedication
Always continuing on the path
With only the wind to guide.
Of silent and loving strength
Nourishing the flow
With the unconditional blessings of sun and rain.
The river does not only speak,
She listens.
Only touching her streams with the tip of the finger
You are changing the fate of the world
By the direction of her flow
Sitting in her waters
You are part of her majestic plan
And you sing the same song
As she.
The river is life
She charts the world`s path
You stroke her
And she senses your desires and passions
And they become a part of her
Destined course.
Guarded by African altar
Here blackness is celebrated
As nature
And nature
As blackness.
Forest and river
Overcome and silence the human voice
Here only nature speaks.
Whispering waterfall
Knows your name
You answer it, yes
And listen.
Of patience and wisdom
She speaks to you
Confronting the surfaces of rocks
And changing the course of the world.
Of faith and dedication
Always continuing on the path
With only the wind to guide.
Of silent and loving strength
Nourishing the flow
With the unconditional blessings of sun and rain.
The river does not only speak,
She listens.
Only touching her streams with the tip of the finger
You are changing the fate of the world
By the direction of her flow
Sitting in her waters
You are part of her majestic plan
And you sing the same song
As she.
The river is life
She charts the world`s path
You stroke her
And she senses your desires and passions
And they become a part of her
Destined course.
Jesus.
The other day, we met Jesus.
He wears wisdom in the wrinkles in his cheeks. As he walks through the streets, he greets all passers-by with a unique call; each person deserving his or her own joyful shout, either in Spanish, English, or Garífuna.
He walks like he was on water, his dreadlocks hanging loose down to the backs of his knees, showering him like a canopy.
Jesus is an artisan, and a musician. With his hands, he brings beauty into the world, transforming nature´s already sensuous forms into still more tantalizing visuals and sounds.
He shows us his wooden carvings: walking canes, birds, and figures. Like his artwork, his face too is carved with lines of laughter and the intensity of hunching over a branch to etch into it expressions of freedom and life.
He wears wisdom in the wrinkles in his cheeks. As he walks through the streets, he greets all passers-by with a unique call; each person deserving his or her own joyful shout, either in Spanish, English, or Garífuna.
He walks like he was on water, his dreadlocks hanging loose down to the backs of his knees, showering him like a canopy.
Jesus is an artisan, and a musician. With his hands, he brings beauty into the world, transforming nature´s already sensuous forms into still more tantalizing visuals and sounds.
He shows us his wooden carvings: walking canes, birds, and figures. Like his artwork, his face too is carved with lines of laughter and the intensity of hunching over a branch to etch into it expressions of freedom and life.
UBAFU
The Garífuna music is an intense drum roll that raises your knees and throws your arms up.
A pounding fist releases energy on the bongo drum, and a voice chants in African tones, with inflections of French and English woven into the lyrics.
UBAFU means power, and in this case it is the power of the African spirit that resonates in these musicians. Drums, the call to the ancestors, recall the homeland and reclaim heritage over nationhood.
............................................................................................................
The African intonation in Spanish is like water filtering through a flute, hopping through high-pitched tunnels of air and brushing softly against wooden walls. Garìfuna rhythms permeate each word, shaking it softly in a dance.
A pounding fist releases energy on the bongo drum, and a voice chants in African tones, with inflections of French and English woven into the lyrics.
UBAFU means power, and in this case it is the power of the African spirit that resonates in these musicians. Drums, the call to the ancestors, recall the homeland and reclaim heritage over nationhood.
............................................................................................................
The African intonation in Spanish is like water filtering through a flute, hopping through high-pitched tunnels of air and brushing softly against wooden walls. Garìfuna rhythms permeate each word, shaking it softly in a dance.
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