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.
Why first impressions should be ignored
It seems that Ashleigh and I encountered the town idiots on our first day in Livingston, and now we know that the real face of this town is open and radiant with love.
My first impressions of Livingston was that it reminded me, ethnically and culturally, of Guyana, where I took an anthropology course four years ago. The biggest difference here, however, is the presence and acceptance of outsiders, whether as tourists or long-term visitors. The next biggest difference might be the ethnic relations. At first glance, I wondered if there was a reason I only saw groups of black kids hanging out with each other, and Latinos on another street corner, and groups of Mayans again separate. Then, I realized that maybe I was looking for the separation. As we continued exploring, we met biracial couples, mixed families, groups of neighbors chatting without regard to any visible differences.
Quickly, Livingston has opened up its treasure chest to Ashleigh and I, revealing an overwhelming spirit of music, dance, laughter, and sharing.
My first impressions of Livingston was that it reminded me, ethnically and culturally, of Guyana, where I took an anthropology course four years ago. The biggest difference here, however, is the presence and acceptance of outsiders, whether as tourists or long-term visitors. The next biggest difference might be the ethnic relations. At first glance, I wondered if there was a reason I only saw groups of black kids hanging out with each other, and Latinos on another street corner, and groups of Mayans again separate. Then, I realized that maybe I was looking for the separation. As we continued exploring, we met biracial couples, mixed families, groups of neighbors chatting without regard to any visible differences.
Quickly, Livingston has opened up its treasure chest to Ashleigh and I, revealing an overwhelming spirit of music, dance, laughter, and sharing.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Livingston
Livingston, Guatemala, where the living is very good... yet quite complicated. That may be the best way to initially describe a place that in many ways is paradise--coconut trees lining miles of clean sandy shores on the Caribbean Sea, fresh catches of fish and shrimp every day, and rum that flows like the river that cuts through the city--but at the same time, has its share of complications and frustrations.
The first thing one notices as an outsider in Livingston is that every one wears a mask to you. The human behind the mask holds back, and instead chooses to reveal only certain things to you, depending on what his or her intentions are. Each amigo who approaches you on the street knows the best beach, and the best restaurant to eat at, because behind your back he is being paid to tell you where to go. In this way, as tourists in Livingston it is very easy for your experiences to be owned by the locals, as they will show you what they think you want to see.
To arrive at Livingston, we took a boat from Puerto Barrios, a city founded and constructed by none less than the United Fruit Company themselves--the barons of globalized unfair trade who even today bring bananas and pineapples to our grocery stores in the United States. Thanks to these friendly business men, Guatemala has been through countless coup d'etats and military government. Hence the phrase: banana republic.
Livingston was founded by a group of slaves who freed themselves from their Spanish captors, and today the population is a colorful mixture of Mayan, African, and Hindu ethnicities and cultures. The local culture and language is known as Garifuna. The language is a mixture of Spanish, English, French, Yoruba, and Quiche.
Our meanderings through the town and beaches yesterday were peppered by encounters with some of the town´s more, um, colorful characters, to be polite. We did our best to show them that we are not what they expect us to be, whatever that is--uneducated in the ways of Latin American culture, unpracticed in Spanish, unable to make our own decisions. Once that was established, we met a lively and warm family drinking the local hooch, Guifiri, in a bar that was perhaps one of my favorite places so far in Guatemala. A dance party commenced, with sister Epiphanía giving dance lessons to Ashleigh and el viejo whirling me in salsa circles. The walls were sparse, the juke box was blaring, the drunks kept wandering in from the streets and had to be thrown out repeatedly, and the beer was cold, and yes, I do think this was one of the best places we have stumbled into in Guatemala.
The first thing one notices as an outsider in Livingston is that every one wears a mask to you. The human behind the mask holds back, and instead chooses to reveal only certain things to you, depending on what his or her intentions are. Each amigo who approaches you on the street knows the best beach, and the best restaurant to eat at, because behind your back he is being paid to tell you where to go. In this way, as tourists in Livingston it is very easy for your experiences to be owned by the locals, as they will show you what they think you want to see.
To arrive at Livingston, we took a boat from Puerto Barrios, a city founded and constructed by none less than the United Fruit Company themselves--the barons of globalized unfair trade who even today bring bananas and pineapples to our grocery stores in the United States. Thanks to these friendly business men, Guatemala has been through countless coup d'etats and military government. Hence the phrase: banana republic.
Livingston was founded by a group of slaves who freed themselves from their Spanish captors, and today the population is a colorful mixture of Mayan, African, and Hindu ethnicities and cultures. The local culture and language is known as Garifuna. The language is a mixture of Spanish, English, French, Yoruba, and Quiche.
Our meanderings through the town and beaches yesterday were peppered by encounters with some of the town´s more, um, colorful characters, to be polite. We did our best to show them that we are not what they expect us to be, whatever that is--uneducated in the ways of Latin American culture, unpracticed in Spanish, unable to make our own decisions. Once that was established, we met a lively and warm family drinking the local hooch, Guifiri, in a bar that was perhaps one of my favorite places so far in Guatemala. A dance party commenced, with sister Epiphanía giving dance lessons to Ashleigh and el viejo whirling me in salsa circles. The walls were sparse, the juke box was blaring, the drunks kept wandering in from the streets and had to be thrown out repeatedly, and the beer was cold, and yes, I do think this was one of the best places we have stumbled into in Guatemala.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Traveling is, like, so totally sweet.
Ummm, this hostel sucks. Seriously, are we really paying, like, 10 dollars a night to stay here? It´s so gross. I thought this was supposed to be a good party town. I mean, the bars here close at like 1. That is so lame.
Guatemala is totally boring. Costa Rica was way cooler. I feel like everybody here just tries to cheat you. I mean, in the market, they tried to sell me some blanket for, like 15 dollars. I mean, it´s a blanket. I have more important things to spend 15 dollars on, like alchohol.
Speaking of, I have this horrible hangover, and if the bus driver doesn´t stop going over potholes, I am going to vomit. I don´t know how these people ride in these buses. These are not safe at all. I think I am just going to take a private shuttle from now on. I mean, it´s only like 10 dollars more usually, and it´s just so much better, because you don´t have to sit next to like three Guatemalan men who are probably holding a machete and smell like mud.
Yeah, so I am dying for McDonald´s by the way. If I eat rice and beans one more time I am going to freak out. Oh my god, the hostel in Antigua had the best food. We just came here because we heard you can do, like, jungle tours and stuff like that. But this place is so not fun. At least in Antigua there were bars where you could, like, meet people who speak English and stuff. Nobody here even speaks English!
I really wish we´d just stayed in Costa Rica.
Guatemala is totally boring. Costa Rica was way cooler. I feel like everybody here just tries to cheat you. I mean, in the market, they tried to sell me some blanket for, like 15 dollars. I mean, it´s a blanket. I have more important things to spend 15 dollars on, like alchohol.
Speaking of, I have this horrible hangover, and if the bus driver doesn´t stop going over potholes, I am going to vomit. I don´t know how these people ride in these buses. These are not safe at all. I think I am just going to take a private shuttle from now on. I mean, it´s only like 10 dollars more usually, and it´s just so much better, because you don´t have to sit next to like three Guatemalan men who are probably holding a machete and smell like mud.
Yeah, so I am dying for McDonald´s by the way. If I eat rice and beans one more time I am going to freak out. Oh my god, the hostel in Antigua had the best food. We just came here because we heard you can do, like, jungle tours and stuff like that. But this place is so not fun. At least in Antigua there were bars where you could, like, meet people who speak English and stuff. Nobody here even speaks English!
I really wish we´d just stayed in Costa Rica.
From another perspective
My house is the wooden one there with the blue shutters. You go inside and the floor is gravel, but smoothed over by years of feet passing over it.
It faces the road that goes through town. I like to look out the window and watch the passing people and trucks.
Every day, my neighbor passes by on the way to work. He labors all day in the corn fields, up the mountain. Also his wife goes by, carrying baskets of dough on her head. My mother goes out to meet her with a basket of banana leaves. They go around to restaurants and houses, selling the dough and leaves to people for making tortillas and tamales.
In the mornings, after I watch my mother and father leave, a truck comes by and my brother and I climb on back with some other boys. My brother is bigger so he goes to work in the fields. He picks lettuce now, it is the season. I go to the bilingual school. It is bilingual because we are supposed to learn Spanish there. My language is Kaq´chi. Spanish is hard for me. I like music class, though. I play the drums.
Sometimes after school I go to the town store to buy a tamal or some candy. There is one place I like to go. Next to it there is a new restaurant that just opened. I went there once with my mother when she was selling dough for tortillas. They told her they didn´t want tortillas, that the people who eat there don´t like tortillas. These people, they are not from here. They are from someplace else, afuera. They have light hair, like the color of maíz, and eyes the color of the sky when it´s not raining--I swear, they do.
When we went in, all the people there were drinking beer and eating big plates of food, and laughing. They had strange clothes with bright colors. I think maybe they do not have baths where they come from, because they all looked like they did not clean themselves usually.
They were speaking in a language I did not understand, and I realized that one of them was speaking to me. I was scared because I didn´t know how to talk to her. She was waving something black at me, and I thought it was a radio, but then she held it up to me and it made a big light in my face. She laughed and showed me the thing, and there was a photo of me on it, suddenly. I had never seen a camera like that before. I only saw a camera once, in school, when someone from the government came to take pictures of us in class one day.
Then the girl took another picture, of my feet. She was pointing at them, and saying something. I was barefoot. I only have one pair of shoes, and I keep them at school, so I don´t get them dirty when I am walking outside or playing soccer. I will wear them out too soon if I wear them all the time.
Now, I see these people every morning when I am watching out my window. They come in their own special buses, not the same ones we use to go to town. They always go to that restaurant, or sometimes to the internet café. Once, I was sitting outside the internet, just waiting for my mother, and one of them gave me a Quetzal for no reason. I was confused, because I was not selling anything, and I wanted to tell him, but he patted me on the head and smiled and walked away.
My friend at school says these people from afuera are very rich, the richest people in the world, and so we should steal from them. I don´t really want to steal. But when I see how fat they are, and how much beer they drink, and all the cameras they have, I believe they really must be the richest people in the world. They even have their own buses. And I have never seen them selling anything, like tortillas, or blankets, so maybe they don´t even have to work.
To me, it´s not important. I just go to school and play soccer in the evenings. I help my father get the firewood, and I help my mother make the dough, and when I am big I will go work in the fields with my brother. If these rich people want to come to my town, I don´t care. But, I would not mind if I could ride in my own special bus. And I would like to have some of these brightly colored clothes that look like they are so brand new, you could wear them to school and to soccer and they would never get holes in them. And maybe, just some day, I could have a camera, just to see what it´s like to press that button on the box and make my very own picture.
It faces the road that goes through town. I like to look out the window and watch the passing people and trucks.
Every day, my neighbor passes by on the way to work. He labors all day in the corn fields, up the mountain. Also his wife goes by, carrying baskets of dough on her head. My mother goes out to meet her with a basket of banana leaves. They go around to restaurants and houses, selling the dough and leaves to people for making tortillas and tamales.
In the mornings, after I watch my mother and father leave, a truck comes by and my brother and I climb on back with some other boys. My brother is bigger so he goes to work in the fields. He picks lettuce now, it is the season. I go to the bilingual school. It is bilingual because we are supposed to learn Spanish there. My language is Kaq´chi. Spanish is hard for me. I like music class, though. I play the drums.
Sometimes after school I go to the town store to buy a tamal or some candy. There is one place I like to go. Next to it there is a new restaurant that just opened. I went there once with my mother when she was selling dough for tortillas. They told her they didn´t want tortillas, that the people who eat there don´t like tortillas. These people, they are not from here. They are from someplace else, afuera. They have light hair, like the color of maíz, and eyes the color of the sky when it´s not raining--I swear, they do.
When we went in, all the people there were drinking beer and eating big plates of food, and laughing. They had strange clothes with bright colors. I think maybe they do not have baths where they come from, because they all looked like they did not clean themselves usually.
They were speaking in a language I did not understand, and I realized that one of them was speaking to me. I was scared because I didn´t know how to talk to her. She was waving something black at me, and I thought it was a radio, but then she held it up to me and it made a big light in my face. She laughed and showed me the thing, and there was a photo of me on it, suddenly. I had never seen a camera like that before. I only saw a camera once, in school, when someone from the government came to take pictures of us in class one day.
Then the girl took another picture, of my feet. She was pointing at them, and saying something. I was barefoot. I only have one pair of shoes, and I keep them at school, so I don´t get them dirty when I am walking outside or playing soccer. I will wear them out too soon if I wear them all the time.
Now, I see these people every morning when I am watching out my window. They come in their own special buses, not the same ones we use to go to town. They always go to that restaurant, or sometimes to the internet café. Once, I was sitting outside the internet, just waiting for my mother, and one of them gave me a Quetzal for no reason. I was confused, because I was not selling anything, and I wanted to tell him, but he patted me on the head and smiled and walked away.
My friend at school says these people from afuera are very rich, the richest people in the world, and so we should steal from them. I don´t really want to steal. But when I see how fat they are, and how much beer they drink, and all the cameras they have, I believe they really must be the richest people in the world. They even have their own buses. And I have never seen them selling anything, like tortillas, or blankets, so maybe they don´t even have to work.
To me, it´s not important. I just go to school and play soccer in the evenings. I help my father get the firewood, and I help my mother make the dough, and when I am big I will go work in the fields with my brother. If these rich people want to come to my town, I don´t care. But, I would not mind if I could ride in my own special bus. And I would like to have some of these brightly colored clothes that look like they are so brand new, you could wear them to school and to soccer and they would never get holes in them. And maybe, just some day, I could have a camera, just to see what it´s like to press that button on the box and make my very own picture.
A bumpy road
At 5 am in Nebaj we climbed into the minibus that was headed toward Cobàn. The sky was still dark as Ashleigh and I sat ourselves behind four women dressed in the intensely colorful outfits and head scarves worn by the Ixil women. I marveled at the intricate braids the wraps made around the women´s heads, and I wondered how long it took them to weave one.
The famed highway from Nebaj to Cobàn passes through the mountain range that encompasses most of Guatemala. Landslides, general lack of development, and lack of finances render it one of the bumpiest roads that could possibly exist. The trip lasted hours, and our muscles ached, and our stomachs lurched. Finally, we arrived in Cobàn, a beautiful mid-sized town surrounded by incredible, lush forests.
We spent the day running the trails of the town´s national park, and when the daily afternoon rainstorm came, we were happy to see that the mosquitos took cover. It was a beautiful rain, washing the forest and us all at once.
Later, refreshed, we took a tour of a coffee finca, a plantation for growing coffee. It was interesting to learn how coffee is grown, especially considering that it is my particularly adored drug of choice.
In the evening, we passed through the town market to pick up some fresh produce and queso fresco for our evening meal. It did not really hit us until possibly that moment how many changes we had been through in such a short time. Being in Nebaj and Acul was incredibly intense. It was like Ashleigh and I both felt the town still reeling from the violence that ended so recently.
That was yesterday. We now feel like we are in a very touristy place, Cobán, and a feeling of superficiality--the realization that we are no longer volunteers, as we were in San Marcos, but instead we are verified backpackers, a.k.a. tourists--has come over us quite a bit.
Today we went to an incredibly beautiful natural park outside Cobàn, but the stunning waterfalls were somewhat tainted by the fact that we felt like pure tourists for the first time since we´ve arrived in Guatemala. Taking this into account, we´ve decided to skip Flores and Tikal for the time being, and instead head toward Livingston, the city of Guatemala´s Afro-American culture, the Garifuna.
The famed highway from Nebaj to Cobàn passes through the mountain range that encompasses most of Guatemala. Landslides, general lack of development, and lack of finances render it one of the bumpiest roads that could possibly exist. The trip lasted hours, and our muscles ached, and our stomachs lurched. Finally, we arrived in Cobàn, a beautiful mid-sized town surrounded by incredible, lush forests.
We spent the day running the trails of the town´s national park, and when the daily afternoon rainstorm came, we were happy to see that the mosquitos took cover. It was a beautiful rain, washing the forest and us all at once.
Later, refreshed, we took a tour of a coffee finca, a plantation for growing coffee. It was interesting to learn how coffee is grown, especially considering that it is my particularly adored drug of choice.
In the evening, we passed through the town market to pick up some fresh produce and queso fresco for our evening meal. It did not really hit us until possibly that moment how many changes we had been through in such a short time. Being in Nebaj and Acul was incredibly intense. It was like Ashleigh and I both felt the town still reeling from the violence that ended so recently.
That was yesterday. We now feel like we are in a very touristy place, Cobán, and a feeling of superficiality--the realization that we are no longer volunteers, as we were in San Marcos, but instead we are verified backpackers, a.k.a. tourists--has come over us quite a bit.
Today we went to an incredibly beautiful natural park outside Cobàn, but the stunning waterfalls were somewhat tainted by the fact that we felt like pure tourists for the first time since we´ve arrived in Guatemala. Taking this into account, we´ve decided to skip Flores and Tikal for the time being, and instead head toward Livingston, the city of Guatemala´s Afro-American culture, the Garifuna.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Acul
The endless green of the mountainside, with cornfields scattered all along, and other gifts of nature like wildflowers and crystal clear streams, were our partners along the path from Nabaj to Acul.
Upon arrival after our three and a half hour walk up and over the mountain, we encountered grazing cows, chickens, ducks, brightly painted houses, a few ¨tiendas¨with no shopkeepers in sight, and bright-eyed children who screamed ¨Hola!¨at us as we passed by. Men and women carrying abundant loads of chopped wood, leaves, and other items from the forest nodded to us and returned our greeting of ¨Buenas tardes.¨
Acul was orginally created by the Guatemalan government as a ¨model village,¨referring to the way land is distrubted and how houses and streets are arranged. It it situated in a valley, conveniently visible for surveillance purposes. I wish I knew a bit more about the history of the model village system in Guatemala, and later on I will try to do some research on this.
Just outside Acul there are two ¨fincas,¨or farms, where fresh cheese is made. We reached one of the fincas just in time to watch the daily afternoon downpour coming into the valley. As the storm blessed the hillsides and cattle with a healthy shower, Ashleigh and I sipped tea and ate firm, fresh cheese with hot corn tortillas, and felt glad for our trek through the mountains, and for our time thus far in Guatemala.
Trees bleed just like us
Red stained trunk turned upside-down
Corn god is greedy
Red stained trunk turned upside-down
Corn god is greedy
Upon arrival after our three and a half hour walk up and over the mountain, we encountered grazing cows, chickens, ducks, brightly painted houses, a few ¨tiendas¨with no shopkeepers in sight, and bright-eyed children who screamed ¨Hola!¨at us as we passed by. Men and women carrying abundant loads of chopped wood, leaves, and other items from the forest nodded to us and returned our greeting of ¨Buenas tardes.¨
Loads of chopped wood born
On backs of men and women
Downhill they must go
On backs of men and women
Downhill they must go
Acul was orginally created by the Guatemalan government as a ¨model village,¨referring to the way land is distrubted and how houses and streets are arranged. It it situated in a valley, conveniently visible for surveillance purposes. I wish I knew a bit more about the history of the model village system in Guatemala, and later on I will try to do some research on this.
Hush they are watching
Banana republic schemes
None are innocent
Banana republic schemes
None are innocent
The current rainy season had made the mountainside quite muddy and we slipped repeatedly as we wound down toward the village. Cool streams welcomed our hot and winded bodies.
Gushing, cold water
Cows murmer and growl at us
Muddy slip sliding
Cows murmer and growl at us
Muddy slip sliding
Just outside Acul there are two ¨fincas,¨or farms, where fresh cheese is made. We reached one of the fincas just in time to watch the daily afternoon downpour coming into the valley. As the storm blessed the hillsides and cattle with a healthy shower, Ashleigh and I sipped tea and ate firm, fresh cheese with hot corn tortillas, and felt glad for our trek through the mountains, and for our time thus far in Guatemala.
Rainy afternoon
Firm, milky cheese and hot tea
The storm passes by
Firm, milky cheese and hot tea
The storm passes by
Nabaj and the Ixil Triangle
In the streets, the people of Nabaj seem distant, untouchable--perhaps more worried about feeding their families, due to the rising costs of foods, than greeting a stranger who is only passing through. A few opening words, however, bring a rush of energy, smiles, and laughter, and words, eager to be spoken, to you, because it is so infrequent that outsiders--aside from Peace Corps volunteers--spend time getting to know this small highland town.
The beautiful mountains, crowned with cloudy halos, surround the streets of Nabaj. Lively groups of schoolchildren, women holding hands with their children and balancing baskets on their heads, men in their farm boots and sombreros, and boys riding their motos, crisscross the stone streets of Nabaj.
Nabaj is part of the Ixil Triangle, the region in Guatemala that saw the worst violence and government oppression during the civil war. That is partly because the Guerilla Army of the Poor, the indigenous guerilla movement, was based in the mountains surrounding the towns here. The Guatemalan army pursued what was known as a ¨scorched earth policy¨in order to deal with the guerrilla presence here. This meant assuming that all of the residents of these three tiny towns were supporters of the guerrillas, and killing entire families or anyone who was suspected for being remotely against the government.
Today as Ashleigh and I began our hike over the mountains to the neighboring village of Acul, we started the path next to the town cemetary. Among the brightly painted tombstones, marked by the Mayan cross, was a stone memorial with 50 names of people who were murdered during the violence of the civil war. The monument states that ¨la reconciliación es la cosecha de la paz y el amor¨... Reconciliation is the harvest of peace and love.
***********************************************************************
El Termascal
The ritual of cleansing oneself, of purifying the body and soul at once, of sweating out and rinsing off your anxieties, the world´s fears held captive under your skin.
The ancient Mayan ritual, practiced in an old stone and clay sitting room, with hot coals emitting heat in the center of the cavern.
María, our kind and youthful hostess, showing us her best hospitality and explaining the various steps of the ritual to us as her young son plays with balled up paper at her heels. She checks on us frequently to see if we are okay. We are. We are purring with ecstasy, breating in the hot air, letting our lungs fill with its moist energy. We are mixing with nature´s four elements, all in one place and moment, our own pure beings, free of all burdens.
Only a candle, lit in the corner, lets us catch glimpses of the reality around us, while otherwise it exists invisibly, a powerful force that radiates purity and wholesomeness.
The beautiful mountains, crowned with cloudy halos, surround the streets of Nabaj. Lively groups of schoolchildren, women holding hands with their children and balancing baskets on their heads, men in their farm boots and sombreros, and boys riding their motos, crisscross the stone streets of Nabaj.
Nabaj is part of the Ixil Triangle, the region in Guatemala that saw the worst violence and government oppression during the civil war. That is partly because the Guerilla Army of the Poor, the indigenous guerilla movement, was based in the mountains surrounding the towns here. The Guatemalan army pursued what was known as a ¨scorched earth policy¨in order to deal with the guerrilla presence here. This meant assuming that all of the residents of these three tiny towns were supporters of the guerrillas, and killing entire families or anyone who was suspected for being remotely against the government.
Today as Ashleigh and I began our hike over the mountains to the neighboring village of Acul, we started the path next to the town cemetary. Among the brightly painted tombstones, marked by the Mayan cross, was a stone memorial with 50 names of people who were murdered during the violence of the civil war. The monument states that ¨la reconciliación es la cosecha de la paz y el amor¨... Reconciliation is the harvest of peace and love.
***********************************************************************
El Termascal
The ritual of cleansing oneself, of purifying the body and soul at once, of sweating out and rinsing off your anxieties, the world´s fears held captive under your skin.
The ancient Mayan ritual, practiced in an old stone and clay sitting room, with hot coals emitting heat in the center of the cavern.
María, our kind and youthful hostess, showing us her best hospitality and explaining the various steps of the ritual to us as her young son plays with balled up paper at her heels. She checks on us frequently to see if we are okay. We are. We are purring with ecstasy, breating in the hot air, letting our lungs fill with its moist energy. We are mixing with nature´s four elements, all in one place and moment, our own pure beings, free of all burdens.
Only a candle, lit in the corner, lets us catch glimpses of the reality around us, while otherwise it exists invisibly, a powerful force that radiates purity and wholesomeness.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Chichi on Market Day
The Wall Street of Central America.
Families come piled onto the back ends of pick up trucks with their handmade fabrics, earrings, carvings, their spices, fishheads, incense, ceramics...whatever they want to sell.
In makeshift kitchens, hungry vendors, locals, and tourists crowd onto wooden benches to consume bowls of soup, fried chicken and potatoes, and rice.
The bargaining is hard and swift, but the atmosphere is calm nonetheless, as if everyone knows that the right buyer will come along eventually, and if he's a typical tourist, he will be sure to spend too much and the vendor will be glad for the earnings.
So much color, intensity, and smells all at once!
============================================
The best part about our time in Chichi, however, was not the market itself, but an encounter we had with two brothers, Juan and Mario, who manage an art gallery called Proyecto Guggenheim. Here, they not only display breathtaking paintings that capture the indigenous essense of Chichicastenango and the further reaches of Guatemala´s western highlands, but they also run an art school that provides classes for the town´s youths, often with the help of foreign volunteers.
Juan was eager to read to Ashleigh and me our Mayan horoscopes, so we watched as he looked up our birthdays in his Mayan calendar. We learned that Ashleigh is Aaj, which is the Mayan diety of spirituality and pedagogy, and I am Aq ´ab ´al, the diety that represents newness, light, and the dawning of a new day. Aqabal also represents duality, the earthly element of fire, and the chance to strive for peace and harmony anew. Aqabal represents the escape from routine and monotony, and the beginning of a ¨nuevo rumbo.¨ My personality enables me to achieve what I propose, once I dedicate myself to the task, as I tend to look forward and never backward once I am on the path to something. Aqabal is a leader, but more likely to be so from the shadows, being the power behind the scenes. I am realistic about life, and I become frustrated when I don´t finish what I start. I am exremist. I am very likely to live a life of poverty (economic, that would be). I maintain my youthfulness throughout my life. I am protected by what could be called an invisible force while I am realizing activities.
Juan and Mario are trying to develop an artistic consciousness, with a focus on the beauty of indigenous Mayan culture, in a place where about 1 percent of public schools have any artistic curriculum, and where for centuries indigenous communities were discriminated againsts and forced to assimlate as much as possible to the colonial standards. But with will, anything is possible, if people come together to make it a reality.
Families come piled onto the back ends of pick up trucks with their handmade fabrics, earrings, carvings, their spices, fishheads, incense, ceramics...whatever they want to sell.
In makeshift kitchens, hungry vendors, locals, and tourists crowd onto wooden benches to consume bowls of soup, fried chicken and potatoes, and rice.
The bargaining is hard and swift, but the atmosphere is calm nonetheless, as if everyone knows that the right buyer will come along eventually, and if he's a typical tourist, he will be sure to spend too much and the vendor will be glad for the earnings.
So much color, intensity, and smells all at once!
============================================
The best part about our time in Chichi, however, was not the market itself, but an encounter we had with two brothers, Juan and Mario, who manage an art gallery called Proyecto Guggenheim. Here, they not only display breathtaking paintings that capture the indigenous essense of Chichicastenango and the further reaches of Guatemala´s western highlands, but they also run an art school that provides classes for the town´s youths, often with the help of foreign volunteers.
Juan was eager to read to Ashleigh and me our Mayan horoscopes, so we watched as he looked up our birthdays in his Mayan calendar. We learned that Ashleigh is Aaj, which is the Mayan diety of spirituality and pedagogy, and I am Aq ´ab ´al, the diety that represents newness, light, and the dawning of a new day. Aqabal also represents duality, the earthly element of fire, and the chance to strive for peace and harmony anew. Aqabal represents the escape from routine and monotony, and the beginning of a ¨nuevo rumbo.¨ My personality enables me to achieve what I propose, once I dedicate myself to the task, as I tend to look forward and never backward once I am on the path to something. Aqabal is a leader, but more likely to be so from the shadows, being the power behind the scenes. I am realistic about life, and I become frustrated when I don´t finish what I start. I am exremist. I am very likely to live a life of poverty (economic, that would be). I maintain my youthfulness throughout my life. I am protected by what could be called an invisible force while I am realizing activities.
Juan and Mario are trying to develop an artistic consciousness, with a focus on the beauty of indigenous Mayan culture, in a place where about 1 percent of public schools have any artistic curriculum, and where for centuries indigenous communities were discriminated againsts and forced to assimlate as much as possible to the colonial standards. But with will, anything is possible, if people come together to make it a reality.
Chichicastenango
'Antes de la tormenta'...
Like a volcano at the point of eruption is Chichicastenango on the eve of the Sunday market. The early arrivals have set up their booths and are now sitting down to eat hot corn tortillas, freshly made by hand, topped with vegetables and meat. In front of the church, worshippers burn incense and say prayers over lit candles. Everyone is in waiting, saving their energies for tomorrow's show. The backpackers trickle in, in search of hostels. Women carrying wrapped bundles on their heads or shoulders pass by men bearing loads on their backs, stooped over under the weight, all for the exchange and barter of goods.
The sky darkens. The streetlights come on. The smell of incense floats through the air. The people get ready. The birds sing each other to sleep.
Like a volcano at the point of eruption is Chichicastenango on the eve of the Sunday market. The early arrivals have set up their booths and are now sitting down to eat hot corn tortillas, freshly made by hand, topped with vegetables and meat. In front of the church, worshippers burn incense and say prayers over lit candles. Everyone is in waiting, saving their energies for tomorrow's show. The backpackers trickle in, in search of hostels. Women carrying wrapped bundles on their heads or shoulders pass by men bearing loads on their backs, stooped over under the weight, all for the exchange and barter of goods.
The sky darkens. The streetlights come on. The smell of incense floats through the air. The people get ready. The birds sing each other to sleep.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Moving on
It is hard to believe that we´ve only been in San Marcos for a week. I think that because we have found such a rewarding way to experience this place--through volunteer work at La Cambalacha--and an inviting community as well, we have really felt at home. As a result, it feels like we have been here much longer.
Now we are getting ready to saddle up our backpacks again, hop the boat back over to Panajachel, and get on a bus to Chichicastenango, home of the biggest outdoor market in Central America. Vendors come from all around the Western Guatemalan highlands to hawk their goods to locals and tourists alike. We are ready for our senses to be overwhelmed.
Now we are getting ready to saddle up our backpacks again, hop the boat back over to Panajachel, and get on a bus to Chichicastenango, home of the biggest outdoor market in Central America. Vendors come from all around the Western Guatemalan highlands to hawk their goods to locals and tourists alike. We are ready for our senses to be overwhelmed.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
San Pablo
Working with children in the town of San Pablo yesterday was an incredible experience. The main difference between San Marcos (where I am staying at La Cambalacha) and San Pablo is economic. The presence of tourism in San Marcos provides a much larger cash flow. Even more noticeable, however, is the difference in the way the ecosystem is incorporated into each village. In San Marcos, everything is green and lush, with small foot paths and only a few roads up in the hills, providing for a jungle-like atmosphere. By contrast, San Pablo is a concrete jungle, with ramshackle houses constructed from cement and tin scattered over pot-holed concrete roads.
There is a small center for arts instruction in San Pablo where La Cambalacha brings about 20 or 30 of the village´s children twice a week. To pick up the children, we literally used a pick up truck, driving around the roads and yelling, ¨La Cambalacha...vengan a jugar!¨The children came running from their homes, or jumped up from the streetside where they were sitting with family and weaving clothes or working on the day´s meal.
Barefoot, the children dove into the first game, which consisted of ¨racing¨ bottlecaps over a chalk-drawn race course. Then, we had an African culture day, focusing on acting, dancing, singing, drumming, and learning folktalkes from Africa. It went pretty well. The most striking thing was the difference in the way the girls in San Pablo acted compared to the girls who come to La Cambalacha to play and study. Even though many of the girls at La Cambalacha are actually from San Pablo, when they are here they change into playclothes and interact quite well with other children. In San Pablo itself, however, the girls were quiet, and barely spoke, and only moved when urged to. None of them changed out of their traditional dresses into playclothes. They seemed to enjoy the games anyway: there were no shortages of smiles and giggles. But there was definitely less involvement.
Back at La Cambalacha, we are already a few hours into another day of dance, yoga, and theater. During our time off from these activities, Ashleigh and I are dedicating ourselves to harvesting the basil plant and making pesto sauce. Last night, we had the pleasure of enjoying a bright, full moon shining over Lago Atitlán, reminding us of the sacredness and unparalleled natural beauty of this place we are in.
There is a small center for arts instruction in San Pablo where La Cambalacha brings about 20 or 30 of the village´s children twice a week. To pick up the children, we literally used a pick up truck, driving around the roads and yelling, ¨La Cambalacha...vengan a jugar!¨The children came running from their homes, or jumped up from the streetside where they were sitting with family and weaving clothes or working on the day´s meal.
Barefoot, the children dove into the first game, which consisted of ¨racing¨ bottlecaps over a chalk-drawn race course. Then, we had an African culture day, focusing on acting, dancing, singing, drumming, and learning folktalkes from Africa. It went pretty well. The most striking thing was the difference in the way the girls in San Pablo acted compared to the girls who come to La Cambalacha to play and study. Even though many of the girls at La Cambalacha are actually from San Pablo, when they are here they change into playclothes and interact quite well with other children. In San Pablo itself, however, the girls were quiet, and barely spoke, and only moved when urged to. None of them changed out of their traditional dresses into playclothes. They seemed to enjoy the games anyway: there were no shortages of smiles and giggles. But there was definitely less involvement.
Back at La Cambalacha, we are already a few hours into another day of dance, yoga, and theater. During our time off from these activities, Ashleigh and I are dedicating ourselves to harvesting the basil plant and making pesto sauce. Last night, we had the pleasure of enjoying a bright, full moon shining over Lago Atitlán, reminding us of the sacredness and unparalleled natural beauty of this place we are in.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Teaching...and learning.
Sustainable development is a very popular catch word these days, often associated with a movement toward social justice and environmental preservation in the ¨developing¨world (I won´t get into the political connotations of development here). Here I am up close and personal with a community based on the principles of sustainable development, La Cambalacha.
In this small town on Lake Atitlán, La Cambalacha serves as a center for the study and practice of the arts: theater, clowning, dance, yoga, painting, and drawing. Woven into all of these practices are values of respect toward all people and toward Mother Earth.
Ashleigh and I have been privileged to work a bit with some of La Cambalacha´s students. They come in the morning and do their ¨chores,¨which keep the place clean and orderly. Then they change into their playclothes and get ready to move.
We are teaching dance, yoga, and theater to students of various ages. Our first class was a dance class for 14 to 17 year-olds, and we managed to teach them an absract movement routine we choreographed to a Guatemalan song. Later that day, I worked with Darragh and his student, Giovanni, on a monologue that Giovanni is hoping to use one day to audition for an acting school or a play. It was a powerful piece from a Guatemalan playwright, a political satire intended to show the inequity between the poor and the rich elites in Central America. Giovanni is also writing his own piece, about violence--again within a political context.
Before I get more into an explanation of La Cambalacha, I want to do some investigative work, so I am going to interview the founder, Gabi, and her partner Charlie who helps run the place. I am also going to interview some of the volunteers.
Before any of that, however, I am going to go to yoga class, which Ashleigh is teaching this morning. Gabi is a former dancer, and she has built a beautiful studio here for the students to use.
More to come soon.
In this small town on Lake Atitlán, La Cambalacha serves as a center for the study and practice of the arts: theater, clowning, dance, yoga, painting, and drawing. Woven into all of these practices are values of respect toward all people and toward Mother Earth.
Ashleigh and I have been privileged to work a bit with some of La Cambalacha´s students. They come in the morning and do their ¨chores,¨which keep the place clean and orderly. Then they change into their playclothes and get ready to move.
We are teaching dance, yoga, and theater to students of various ages. Our first class was a dance class for 14 to 17 year-olds, and we managed to teach them an absract movement routine we choreographed to a Guatemalan song. Later that day, I worked with Darragh and his student, Giovanni, on a monologue that Giovanni is hoping to use one day to audition for an acting school or a play. It was a powerful piece from a Guatemalan playwright, a political satire intended to show the inequity between the poor and the rich elites in Central America. Giovanni is also writing his own piece, about violence--again within a political context.
Before I get more into an explanation of La Cambalacha, I want to do some investigative work, so I am going to interview the founder, Gabi, and her partner Charlie who helps run the place. I am also going to interview some of the volunteers.
Before any of that, however, I am going to go to yoga class, which Ashleigh is teaching this morning. Gabi is a former dancer, and she has built a beautiful studio here for the students to use.
More to come soon.
Monday, July 14, 2008
A Walk in Paradise at Lago Atitlan
The three of us--Darragh, an Irish theatre student at Columbia University, Maria, a psychology student from Spain, and myself--set out on a walk yesterday morning to enjoy the day´s blue skies and sweet air. Over a few hours, we walked through magical forests of coffee trees, corn fields, leafy trees and wildflowers. Passing through tiny villages, we greeted people with ¨Buenos dias,¨or the local greeting, ¨Sacar.¨Everyone smiled and returned the greeting. As is the reality of Guatemala, in between villages where women wear traditional, colorful dresses and carry baskets of fruits on their heads, we passed by mansions designed by New York architects where famous people live on their vacations.
Going down the path, we marveled quietly at the magnificence of the lake, and we smiled with this feeling of awe as we crossed paths with villagers going about their daily business: hauling purified water brought in by boat from Panajachel, the nearest town, or bags of flour, or walking with machetes to trim the path.
The path ended at a town called Jaibalito, where we sat down to a delicious meal of meat and potatoes in a peaceful local restaurant. All around us we heard the musical celebrations coming from the village´s churches. Everywhere we went, in fact, the churches boomed with the saxophones, trumpets, guitars, drums, and singing of the villagers celebrating their own version of Christianity. Even late into the night, the music and chanting continued--a low, deep moan, a somber chant to the Lord. The most interesting thing about the church services is, if you listen closely, you´ll notice an almost seamless transition between Spanish and the native language, Kakchikel.
After the walk, we hopped the lancha, the little boat service between the lake´s various towns (about 7 or 8 in all), back to San Marcos. Here we are staying and working at a community project known as La Cambalacha, which is Kakchikel for ¨exchange.¨
Going down the path, we marveled quietly at the magnificence of the lake, and we smiled with this feeling of awe as we crossed paths with villagers going about their daily business: hauling purified water brought in by boat from Panajachel, the nearest town, or bags of flour, or walking with machetes to trim the path.
The path ended at a town called Jaibalito, where we sat down to a delicious meal of meat and potatoes in a peaceful local restaurant. All around us we heard the musical celebrations coming from the village´s churches. Everywhere we went, in fact, the churches boomed with the saxophones, trumpets, guitars, drums, and singing of the villagers celebrating their own version of Christianity. Even late into the night, the music and chanting continued--a low, deep moan, a somber chant to the Lord. The most interesting thing about the church services is, if you listen closely, you´ll notice an almost seamless transition between Spanish and the native language, Kakchikel.
After the walk, we hopped the lancha, the little boat service between the lake´s various towns (about 7 or 8 in all), back to San Marcos. Here we are staying and working at a community project known as La Cambalacha, which is Kakchikel for ¨exchange.¨
Thursday, July 10, 2008
¨Quedan Muchos Retos¨ (Many Challenges Remain)
Today´s ¨La Prensa Libre¨published an interview by Luisa F. Rodriguez with the U.S. Ambassador to Guatemala.
http://www.prensalibre.com/pl/2008/julio/10/249703.html
I have just a couple of reactions.
The ambassador, James Derham, claims that the U.S.´s main mission in Guatemala is to help the country create more opportunities for its citizens so that they do not have to leave to immigrate (illegally) to the U.S.
Okay. I´m fine with that (even though it is a selfish motive, intended to prevent the U.S. from losing jobs and becoming too bilingual).
What I have a problem with is what Derham says later in the interview. He proposes that one of the solutions to the problem of migrant workers leaving Guatemala is a free trade agreement with the United States. However, free trade, as many scholars and economists have pointed out, serves primarily to create low-wage jobs for unskilled workers. In a country like Guatemala, where the large majority of the population is illiterate even in Spanish--not to mention English, the language of negocios, there are precious few ways for the people here to benefit from reduced tariffs on exporting to the U.S. Instead, what will happen (as has happened in Chile, and as will probably happen in Colombia and Peru now) is that the elites who already have the benefits of good educations and business skills (and connections) will be able to exploit Guatemalan labor even further, and keep all the profits for themselves.
The only thing I wonder when I read things like this interview is this: do policy makers actually know all of this, and just not care? Or do they really not actually get it?
http://www.prensalibre.com/pl/2008/julio/10/249703.html
I have just a couple of reactions.
The ambassador, James Derham, claims that the U.S.´s main mission in Guatemala is to help the country create more opportunities for its citizens so that they do not have to leave to immigrate (illegally) to the U.S.
Okay. I´m fine with that (even though it is a selfish motive, intended to prevent the U.S. from losing jobs and becoming too bilingual).
What I have a problem with is what Derham says later in the interview. He proposes that one of the solutions to the problem of migrant workers leaving Guatemala is a free trade agreement with the United States. However, free trade, as many scholars and economists have pointed out, serves primarily to create low-wage jobs for unskilled workers. In a country like Guatemala, where the large majority of the population is illiterate even in Spanish--not to mention English, the language of negocios, there are precious few ways for the people here to benefit from reduced tariffs on exporting to the U.S. Instead, what will happen (as has happened in Chile, and as will probably happen in Colombia and Peru now) is that the elites who already have the benefits of good educations and business skills (and connections) will be able to exploit Guatemalan labor even further, and keep all the profits for themselves.
The only thing I wonder when I read things like this interview is this: do policy makers actually know all of this, and just not care? Or do they really not actually get it?
Misty mountain town
That is Antigua.
A misty mountain town.
With LOTS of gringos, smiling from ear to ear, because the food is good, there are plenty of things to do, and the locals are friendly.
It´s a good place to start out in Guatemala. Our hostel is a gorgeous nineteenth-century era mansion that has been renovated, so it has that shabby chic feel. Antigua may be uber-touristy, but we are happy to be here while we plan out our trip a little bit more. It looks like we will be heading next to a small town called San Marcos, near Lake Atitlan, where there is a great community development project going on involving using art, theater, and dance as methods of intercultural activity.
Here in the colonial Spanish capital of Central America, cobblestone streets and Baroque architecture set the stage for a throwback to the sixteenth century, when the city was founded. Volcanoes surround Antigua like a circle of friends standing guard over the city. And indeed, it has truly been watched over and preserved, with diligent restoration of historical facades and churches. The main plaza is the life of the town, where students gather to gossip and munch on chocolate-covered bananas after school, and indigenous women hawk handmade jewelry to sandal and bandanna clad tourists.
Moving to a totally different topic, I read an article in the local newspaper today that really upset me. I´ll make that into a separate post, though.
A misty mountain town.
With LOTS of gringos, smiling from ear to ear, because the food is good, there are plenty of things to do, and the locals are friendly.
It´s a good place to start out in Guatemala. Our hostel is a gorgeous nineteenth-century era mansion that has been renovated, so it has that shabby chic feel. Antigua may be uber-touristy, but we are happy to be here while we plan out our trip a little bit more. It looks like we will be heading next to a small town called San Marcos, near Lake Atitlan, where there is a great community development project going on involving using art, theater, and dance as methods of intercultural activity.
Here in the colonial Spanish capital of Central America, cobblestone streets and Baroque architecture set the stage for a throwback to the sixteenth century, when the city was founded. Volcanoes surround Antigua like a circle of friends standing guard over the city. And indeed, it has truly been watched over and preserved, with diligent restoration of historical facades and churches. The main plaza is the life of the town, where students gather to gossip and munch on chocolate-covered bananas after school, and indigenous women hawk handmade jewelry to sandal and bandanna clad tourists.
Moving to a totally different topic, I read an article in the local newspaper today that really upset me. I´ll make that into a separate post, though.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
What awaits the wanderer.
This blog is about a few things. It is firstly about a country called Guatemala, located in Central America, where decades of civil war wreaked havoc among a society that is still struggling to break the chains of colonialism and ethnic strife. Secondly, this blog tells the story of a young woman who believes in the power of something called anthropology, a lifestyle that combines book learning with the practice of experiencing other cultures in a grassroots fashion. And last of all, it is an account of self-searching: a search for what one person calls the "poetic self" (Ruth Behar, http://www.ruthbehar.com/AboutRuth.htm).
Guatemala has called to me for some time now, whispering to me many centuries of Mayan wisdom, as well as contemporary stories of difficult battles within its own society. Perhaps half of my motivation to go there stems from the aching in my legs that tells me I need to climb a mountain, or a volcano, very soon, before I forget how it feels to have that kind of a conversation with nature. But a great reason for this trip is a desire to understand the situation of the American Indian, forever marginalized and trapped in underdevelopment, and left behind as globalization moves forward giving benefits only to those who are most educated and privileged.
On Wednesday, I depart with Ashleigh, a long time friend with a similar background in anthropology and an equal thirst for a self-revolutionizing adventure. I expect that Ashleigh will be in Guatemala for some time, while I of course will be returning in August to begin the much anticipated Graduate School--a different kind of search for my poetic self, but in many ways the same journey.
I hope to be able to write frequently whenever we stumble upon internet cafes. Most of all, it is my wish that this trip opens me up to new ways of looking at life, and to new friends.
Guatemala has called to me for some time now, whispering to me many centuries of Mayan wisdom, as well as contemporary stories of difficult battles within its own society. Perhaps half of my motivation to go there stems from the aching in my legs that tells me I need to climb a mountain, or a volcano, very soon, before I forget how it feels to have that kind of a conversation with nature. But a great reason for this trip is a desire to understand the situation of the American Indian, forever marginalized and trapped in underdevelopment, and left behind as globalization moves forward giving benefits only to those who are most educated and privileged.
On Wednesday, I depart with Ashleigh, a long time friend with a similar background in anthropology and an equal thirst for a self-revolutionizing adventure. I expect that Ashleigh will be in Guatemala for some time, while I of course will be returning in August to begin the much anticipated Graduate School--a different kind of search for my poetic self, but in many ways the same journey.
I hope to be able to write frequently whenever we stumble upon internet cafes. Most of all, it is my wish that this trip opens me up to new ways of looking at life, and to new friends.
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