the colors of GuatemalaSunday, September 13, 2009
Here is, alas, the final post for Holly Goes South. Holly is now north and adjusting to changes in climate, home and work. Big sigh. I am happy to see my family; I am happy to know that I still remember how to drive a car; I am even happy to be thinking about school (well, at least about
teaching. SSCC is not my happy place right now. But I won't go into all of that. Let me just say that my boxes of books & stuff are somewhere on campus and I am sure that I will see them before 2010). If all goes correctly, this last entry will be chock full of pictures for you to peruse at your leisure. Thanks for sharing this journey with me. See you all soon, I hope!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Tomorrow I leave for Guatemala City so that I can catch my 7 AM, Saturday morning flight. I have turned away for only a moment, but a moment is all that it takes for something to pass; I am spending my last full day in Antigua. I miss my husband and my kid (to say nothing of the cats--will they even remember me?!?) so much that I can't hardly think about them without wanting to rush to the door so as to hurry my departure. I long for the sensation of being cold--really, really cold. I am thirsty for a drink of water straight from the tap and a toothbrush that doesn't look like it needs to be boiled clean. I yearn to put toilet paper in the toilet instead of the little trash basket that sits discreetly (never discreet enough, though, for a North American) between toilet and wall. I want to sleep with the windows wide open without fear of my mortal enemy, the mosquito. And I am looking forward to throwing the last of my 6th bottle of bug repellent into the trash--the one right next to the toilet. And yet...
I walk around one last time sucking in all that I can absorb of the colors and busyness that are Antigua Guatemala (factoid: in Spanish, city name and country name are not separated by a comma). I stand at the place where the chicken buses depart and listen for the conductors' calls to their various destinations. As one calls out "Ciudad Vieja," I swallow so that my heart falls back into my chest where it belongs. I think of the nineteen faces that I never thought I would be able to distinguish one from the other and I wonder how they could possibly be learning without me. A vain thought, I know, and I am crying just a bit even as I write this because, really, I am probably wrestling with the reality of departure the more than they are.
I will be home in close ot 48 hours. I will begin to do all of the things that come with September: basil needs to be turned into pesto (I hope so, anyway); if I am lucky there will still be a fig or two waiting to be dehydrated. And syllabi need to be written ( I am NOT looking forward to the mess that awaits me at SSCC--my office got moved while I was here in Antigua. Does anyone know where my books are?!?). In addition, my house needs to be put back into order because Richard undertook a home project that turned into un gran lio (closest equivilent to "cluster fuck" in Spanish). These are all things that I want to do, love to do, and right now struggle to imagine doing, as I sit here one last time in Antigua Guatemala telling you of my journey.
Thanks for reading and thanks also to those of you who wrote messages--they were sustenance at times. I am so looking forward to seeing you guys!!!!! When I get home I will post a LOT of pictures as a final entry.
Paz,
Jali
I walk around one last time sucking in all that I can absorb of the colors and busyness that are Antigua Guatemala (factoid: in Spanish, city name and country name are not separated by a comma). I stand at the place where the chicken buses depart and listen for the conductors' calls to their various destinations. As one calls out "Ciudad Vieja," I swallow so that my heart falls back into my chest where it belongs. I think of the nineteen faces that I never thought I would be able to distinguish one from the other and I wonder how they could possibly be learning without me. A vain thought, I know, and I am crying just a bit even as I write this because, really, I am probably wrestling with the reality of departure the more than they are.
I will be home in close ot 48 hours. I will begin to do all of the things that come with September: basil needs to be turned into pesto (I hope so, anyway); if I am lucky there will still be a fig or two waiting to be dehydrated. And syllabi need to be written ( I am NOT looking forward to the mess that awaits me at SSCC--my office got moved while I was here in Antigua. Does anyone know where my books are?!?). In addition, my house needs to be put back into order because Richard undertook a home project that turned into un gran lio (closest equivilent to "cluster fuck" in Spanish). These are all things that I want to do, love to do, and right now struggle to imagine doing, as I sit here one last time in Antigua Guatemala telling you of my journey.
Thanks for reading and thanks also to those of you who wrote messages--they were sustenance at times. I am so looking forward to seeing you guys!!!!! When I get home I will post a LOT of pictures as a final entry.
Paz,
Jali
Sunday, August 23, 2009
As promised below:Pictures!
This is susana--my hijada (goddaughter). I love her.
upper left is a volcano that sits next to Lake Atitlan.just to the left is Juan Antonio--Richard's god son. I love him, too.
above is Volcan Agua. I took this picture from my room. It is the volcano where ciudad viaja is.To the right is 7 Altares (read the previous but still new entry)
Below is a pic from Livingston
Below is a pic from Livingston
These are somes of the marchers in the parade that I wrote about a few weeks ago, before the rain started
this thing is an electric water heater that is attached to the shower. A sure-fire way to die by electricity
Lake Atitlan
I will post more later. Love,Holly
Smoke is every where in Guatemala. The volcanoes occasionally send plumes of smoke mixed with ash up into the sky. On Volcan Pacaya, hot, flowing lava incinerates everything that touches it, including the dropped cameras and backpacks of the lines of tourists who climb up Pacaya daily so that they can say they climbed a volcano. The lava bubbles under its thin, slightly cooled-off crust and people plod on, dropping stuff as they go and counting the loss as their possessions turn into smoke. But they get great pictures, as long as the thing lost is not the camera. I am not going to climb Pacaya. I have heard enough stories about injuries caused by falling on razor-sharp lava and burns from flying globules that I just don't think I need to climb up in order to say I cooked a hotdog over flowing lava, which is, by one account, the best reason to climb. I guess if I ate meat, I would see things differently. Still, seeing plumes of smoke and ash is oddly thrilling. Nothing like 1980 when Mount St. Helens did her thing, but nonetheless, thrilling.
There is also something ironic about the displays that the volcanoes put on, for they are are reminders of the immense geothermal power that sits just below the surface of the pueblos and ciudades of Guatemala. If tapped, the geothermal power could provide enough power to keep the entire country lit up forever. Yet there doesn't seem to be much of a plan in place, mostly because the cost is prohibitive. So instead of cheap, natural and available fuel, people pay electricity bills that are higher than their mortgages and poorer people live without the use of electricity. The most common source of fuel is lena (tilde on the n, which means the word is pronounced lay-nia)--firewood. And firewood means smoke. Walking in Antigua, one is often met with a smell that, for most North Americans, brings up memories of family camping trips or cold winter nights in front of the fireplace and roasting marshmallows. For me, the smell reminds me of the firepit Richard bought a year or so ago that we occasionally like to nestle up to while he burns scrapwood from his projects.
In Ciudad Viaja, though, smoke is not an occasional smell, but a constant one. As I trudge up the Volcan Agua towards the school, the smell that often brings a sense of nostalgia is not my friend. I am sucking in air as it is (volcanoes, after all, are a type of mountain), and when the air is mingled with smoke, my lungs rebel.
Okay, so for those of you who don't want to read about the realities of life in Ciudad Vieja for kids, you can skip this part. For the rest of you (please, somebody read on:)), here is the reality:
These kids at Nuestro Futuro all have runny noses and coughs. At first, my germaphobic North American self thought,"Crap--swine flu." I got over myself, though because my health care provider on Vashon said that the early attacks were expected to be very mild forms of the virus. Also, these kids didn't have fevers and it seemed really implausible that 71 kids would all have the same bug at the exact same stage. Duh--I did a very small bit of remembering--lung disease is one of the most prevelant reasons for death under the age of 5 in this country. People live in very small homes where wood is burned constantly for the purposes of cooking. With only an open hole in the ceiling for ventilation, open fires means that kids breath in smoke ALL THE TIME. These kids might be sick, but it is nothing that I am going to catch.
Okay, now the preachy part. There is a project underway here that is changing this situation one home at a time. For a relatively small fee ( I think it is around $200), these open-fire stoves can be outfitted with an easy-to-install ventilation system that takes the smoke straight up and out, so that, at least while at home ,the air is much cleaner for the family and the small lungs of kids who spend their first 5 years, mostly at their mothers' sides as they cook. Let me know if you are interested in more info...
There is another type of smoke that is prevelant in particular places here in Guatemala. Livingston (which is pronounced, appropriately, "Leeveenstone") is a Garifuna community on the Caribbean coast of Guatemala. Garifunas are decendants of slaves from Africa and most people in Livingston speak, yes Spanish, but also their very own language. I went to Livngston last weekend, and felt as though I had crosseed into another reality. The town is a fishing village that sits at the mouth of Rio Dulce and is bordered by uncrossable selva, so the only real way to get there is by boat (but nothing like getting to Vashon!!!!!). People there live with wet feet. The climate is very humid and hot, so the formality that infiltrates life inland is nonexistent in Livingston. The food is amazing for it is filled with just-caught seafood, coupled with tons of fresh fruits and vegetables, and of course plenty fo rice and black beans.
From Livingston, a short 20 minute lancha trip lands at a place called "Siete Altares"--seven altars--which is a series of waterfalls. There is a swimming spot that we were told had "very cold water." Clearly, the guy had never been in the Puget Sound. The couple I spent that day with were from Denmark. They, too, wanted to know when we would get to the place with the cold water.
After a half hour, we moved back into the lancha, and headed for our real destination for the day: Playa Blanca (white beach). OMG--I have found heaven. Okay, for Richard, I'll say it sucked b/c, while I was basking in warm Caribbean water, sipping cold coconut milk straight out of a coconut, I think he was painting our living room. So really, it was just okay;).
Oh, yea--the smoke part. Like I said, "Leeveenstone." Everywhere wafts a faint odor from my distant past. We're Jammin'. Yellow Green and Red. 'Nuff said, except that I chose not to seek out the source of the smoke:).
Tomorrow I start my last week at Nuestro Futuro. I am going to bring 6 kids back with me for the afternoon. Sylivia, the social worker & I are going to buy them some clothes. For three weeks, they have had on the same things, and no, they are not wearing their good school clothes. Old flannel PJ pants from Old Navy that smell like pee because there is no toilet paper at home, do not count as good school clothes. Sorry, I am starting to sound like Sally Struthers on those old commercials where she whines on and on and on about the children.
I almost have the picture thing figured out--so my next entry will be lost of pictures, God and technology willing! Stop laughing, Lisa, and I can see your eyes rolling
Next week I wil be going to Tikal, which is a Mayan ruin, and then I will spend three days on the beach in EL Salvador. After that, home.
Peace, Holly
There is also something ironic about the displays that the volcanoes put on, for they are are reminders of the immense geothermal power that sits just below the surface of the pueblos and ciudades of Guatemala. If tapped, the geothermal power could provide enough power to keep the entire country lit up forever. Yet there doesn't seem to be much of a plan in place, mostly because the cost is prohibitive. So instead of cheap, natural and available fuel, people pay electricity bills that are higher than their mortgages and poorer people live without the use of electricity. The most common source of fuel is lena (tilde on the n, which means the word is pronounced lay-nia)--firewood. And firewood means smoke. Walking in Antigua, one is often met with a smell that, for most North Americans, brings up memories of family camping trips or cold winter nights in front of the fireplace and roasting marshmallows. For me, the smell reminds me of the firepit Richard bought a year or so ago that we occasionally like to nestle up to while he burns scrapwood from his projects.
In Ciudad Viaja, though, smoke is not an occasional smell, but a constant one. As I trudge up the Volcan Agua towards the school, the smell that often brings a sense of nostalgia is not my friend. I am sucking in air as it is (volcanoes, after all, are a type of mountain), and when the air is mingled with smoke, my lungs rebel.
Okay, so for those of you who don't want to read about the realities of life in Ciudad Vieja for kids, you can skip this part. For the rest of you (please, somebody read on:)), here is the reality:
These kids at Nuestro Futuro all have runny noses and coughs. At first, my germaphobic North American self thought,"Crap--swine flu." I got over myself, though because my health care provider on Vashon said that the early attacks were expected to be very mild forms of the virus. Also, these kids didn't have fevers and it seemed really implausible that 71 kids would all have the same bug at the exact same stage. Duh--I did a very small bit of remembering--lung disease is one of the most prevelant reasons for death under the age of 5 in this country. People live in very small homes where wood is burned constantly for the purposes of cooking. With only an open hole in the ceiling for ventilation, open fires means that kids breath in smoke ALL THE TIME. These kids might be sick, but it is nothing that I am going to catch.
Okay, now the preachy part. There is a project underway here that is changing this situation one home at a time. For a relatively small fee ( I think it is around $200), these open-fire stoves can be outfitted with an easy-to-install ventilation system that takes the smoke straight up and out, so that, at least while at home ,the air is much cleaner for the family and the small lungs of kids who spend their first 5 years, mostly at their mothers' sides as they cook. Let me know if you are interested in more info...
There is another type of smoke that is prevelant in particular places here in Guatemala. Livingston (which is pronounced, appropriately, "Leeveenstone") is a Garifuna community on the Caribbean coast of Guatemala. Garifunas are decendants of slaves from Africa and most people in Livingston speak, yes Spanish, but also their very own language. I went to Livngston last weekend, and felt as though I had crosseed into another reality. The town is a fishing village that sits at the mouth of Rio Dulce and is bordered by uncrossable selva, so the only real way to get there is by boat (but nothing like getting to Vashon!!!!!). People there live with wet feet. The climate is very humid and hot, so the formality that infiltrates life inland is nonexistent in Livingston. The food is amazing for it is filled with just-caught seafood, coupled with tons of fresh fruits and vegetables, and of course plenty fo rice and black beans.
From Livingston, a short 20 minute lancha trip lands at a place called "Siete Altares"--seven altars--which is a series of waterfalls. There is a swimming spot that we were told had "very cold water." Clearly, the guy had never been in the Puget Sound. The couple I spent that day with were from Denmark. They, too, wanted to know when we would get to the place with the cold water.
After a half hour, we moved back into the lancha, and headed for our real destination for the day: Playa Blanca (white beach). OMG--I have found heaven. Okay, for Richard, I'll say it sucked b/c, while I was basking in warm Caribbean water, sipping cold coconut milk straight out of a coconut, I think he was painting our living room. So really, it was just okay;).
Oh, yea--the smoke part. Like I said, "Leeveenstone." Everywhere wafts a faint odor from my distant past. We're Jammin'. Yellow Green and Red. 'Nuff said, except that I chose not to seek out the source of the smoke:).
Tomorrow I start my last week at Nuestro Futuro. I am going to bring 6 kids back with me for the afternoon. Sylivia, the social worker & I are going to buy them some clothes. For three weeks, they have had on the same things, and no, they are not wearing their good school clothes. Old flannel PJ pants from Old Navy that smell like pee because there is no toilet paper at home, do not count as good school clothes. Sorry, I am starting to sound like Sally Struthers on those old commercials where she whines on and on and on about the children.
I almost have the picture thing figured out--so my next entry will be lost of pictures, God and technology willing! Stop laughing, Lisa, and I can see your eyes rolling
Next week I wil be going to Tikal, which is a Mayan ruin, and then I will spend three days on the beach in EL Salvador. After that, home.
Peace, Holly
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Every morning I get up at 5:30 so that I can catch the chicken bus to Ciudad Vieja. Ciudad Vieja, which means "old city," was once the capital of Guatemala, as was Antigua. One was destroyed by a flood caused by volcanic erruption (in Spanish, "to errupt" is "vomitar"), the other by earthquake (look it up--I can't remember right now). The similarities between the two towns pretty much ends with their shared historical distinctions. While Antigua is charming and quaint and designed to cater to tourists, Ciudad Vieja, a seven-minute bus ride away, is none of those things. It is charmless and void of all the restaurants, bars and mercados artisenias (artistan markets) that supply foreigners with all of the colorful textiles and art that we take home to remind us of the true wonders that are Guatemalan. Ciudad Vieja sits on the the foot of Volcan Agua that nearly obliterated the city. As the town moves up the hill, homes get poorer and sevices less available. Further up, there is no electricity, water, or phone service yet many of Guatemala's poorest people live on the rise of the hill. There is a line of demarcation between service and no service, and it is on this line of demarcation that the school Nuestro Futuro sits. This school is where I work.
Nuestro Futuro is a project of "Ninos de Guatemala" (NDG). NDG is an NGO started by the Dutch. If you look on the net, you will be able to read all about this project and what it does/plans to do in the future. You will also see pictures of the school and there is also a picture that shows the faces of Clara and Gabi--two of the 19 kids with whom I spend 32 hours a week. The kids at the school have been chosen for significant reasons: 1) they are very poor, and 2) they and their families are committed to making this rare opportunity to get an education work. There are only 2 public schools in Ciudad Vieja, and they both require basic stuff like, oh, I don't know, shoes and lunch money and backpacks, in order to be able to attend. The families of the kids at Nuestro Futuro don't have these things.
I think I will pause here for just a moment to evangelize: if you are wondering what you might be able to do to really help in a tangible, important and satisfying way, NDG has a padrino/madrina program. For $45 a month you can make sure that a kid who is in school gets to stay in school. This also means that the kid will get at least 1 meal a day and health services and a whole lot of hands-on people to love and support them. If you sign on now, I will be able to tell your kid all about you and I will also be able to tell you all about your kid. If your recession-strapped budget can't allow a monthly commitment, one-time donations go a very long way. And if you speak Spanish and are looking for a very cool way to spend some time, come to Guatemala:). I promise you will win Jesus points and/or really good karma and/or a fine sense of having done something that is nothing other than pure good. Sermon over.
Working with 19 kids, ages six to probably eight or nine is really hard, tiring work. Anyone who gushes nauseatingly about how much they can't wait to get back to the children and gee, aren't they cute and wonderful and oh so clever, isn't really paying attention. Jose occasionally punches Carlos in the stomach and I haven't yet figured out why and Julia and Gabi don't like Marcela so they are mean to her at recess and Fransisco, omygod Fransisco, he can't shut up or stop moving and he is always late and his clothes, the same clothes he wears every day, are filthy and his right hand is covered in what looks like warts, as is his face, and he can count to 200 and can do simple arithmatic and can also sound out the confusing differences between "gue" and "ge" and he drives me crazy because he is also a little liar and constantly seeks attention, any attention at all, and when he didn't show up on Friday, oh it was so much more peaceful and easy but where was the little hellion because dammit he should be in school. And yet...
Jose is probably the smartest kid in the class. He works hard and his homework is not only always done, it is also always perfect and neat. And sweet Carlos is, even to my untrained eyes, clearly dyslexic and yet Lisseth, the teacher, doesn't seem to be familiar with the term and what difference would it make anyway because it is not like there is anything such as a special ed teacher here who would know what to do to help the kid out. and Juan Antonio (not to be confused wth Juan Fernando or just plain Juan) is absolutely the best reader in the class and has the most charming and genuine smile. Maria Alejandra ( not to be confused with Maria Antonia) is quiet but astute--she was the first one to master counting by fives on Friday. Susana is a chubby kid, but damn, she can run and catch a ball better than most of the kids and is therefore always a score when there are teams during P.E.
Every day I collect 19 hugs times two. Every day my heart breaks and fills up and fills up and fills up. Every day I am so glad when it is finally time to get back on the chicken bus. And yes, every morning I can't wait to get to the school to see the kids.
I love seeing your comments--please keep them coming. I have been here for over 4 weeks now, and am getting a bit homesick. Time to do laundry...
some things never change!
Nuestro Futuro is a project of "Ninos de Guatemala" (NDG). NDG is an NGO started by the Dutch. If you look on the net, you will be able to read all about this project and what it does/plans to do in the future. You will also see pictures of the school and there is also a picture that shows the faces of Clara and Gabi--two of the 19 kids with whom I spend 32 hours a week. The kids at the school have been chosen for significant reasons: 1) they are very poor, and 2) they and their families are committed to making this rare opportunity to get an education work. There are only 2 public schools in Ciudad Vieja, and they both require basic stuff like, oh, I don't know, shoes and lunch money and backpacks, in order to be able to attend. The families of the kids at Nuestro Futuro don't have these things.
I think I will pause here for just a moment to evangelize: if you are wondering what you might be able to do to really help in a tangible, important and satisfying way, NDG has a padrino/madrina program. For $45 a month you can make sure that a kid who is in school gets to stay in school. This also means that the kid will get at least 1 meal a day and health services and a whole lot of hands-on people to love and support them. If you sign on now, I will be able to tell your kid all about you and I will also be able to tell you all about your kid. If your recession-strapped budget can't allow a monthly commitment, one-time donations go a very long way. And if you speak Spanish and are looking for a very cool way to spend some time, come to Guatemala:). I promise you will win Jesus points and/or really good karma and/or a fine sense of having done something that is nothing other than pure good. Sermon over.
Working with 19 kids, ages six to probably eight or nine is really hard, tiring work. Anyone who gushes nauseatingly about how much they can't wait to get back to the children and gee, aren't they cute and wonderful and oh so clever, isn't really paying attention. Jose occasionally punches Carlos in the stomach and I haven't yet figured out why and Julia and Gabi don't like Marcela so they are mean to her at recess and Fransisco, omygod Fransisco, he can't shut up or stop moving and he is always late and his clothes, the same clothes he wears every day, are filthy and his right hand is covered in what looks like warts, as is his face, and he can count to 200 and can do simple arithmatic and can also sound out the confusing differences between "gue" and "ge" and he drives me crazy because he is also a little liar and constantly seeks attention, any attention at all, and when he didn't show up on Friday, oh it was so much more peaceful and easy but where was the little hellion because dammit he should be in school. And yet...
Jose is probably the smartest kid in the class. He works hard and his homework is not only always done, it is also always perfect and neat. And sweet Carlos is, even to my untrained eyes, clearly dyslexic and yet Lisseth, the teacher, doesn't seem to be familiar with the term and what difference would it make anyway because it is not like there is anything such as a special ed teacher here who would know what to do to help the kid out. and Juan Antonio (not to be confused wth Juan Fernando or just plain Juan) is absolutely the best reader in the class and has the most charming and genuine smile. Maria Alejandra ( not to be confused with Maria Antonia) is quiet but astute--she was the first one to master counting by fives on Friday. Susana is a chubby kid, but damn, she can run and catch a ball better than most of the kids and is therefore always a score when there are teams during P.E.
Every day I collect 19 hugs times two. Every day my heart breaks and fills up and fills up and fills up. Every day I am so glad when it is finally time to get back on the chicken bus. And yes, every morning I can't wait to get to the school to see the kids.
I love seeing your comments--please keep them coming. I have been here for over 4 weeks now, and am getting a bit homesick. Time to do laundry...
some things never change!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Well, I must say that the bed & breakfast was muy agradable ("very nice," for those of you who don't wish to refer to your online Spanish to English dictionaries), but I knew that it was a very temporary arrangement--kind of like a vacation in the middle of, well, my vacation, really, although this isn't really a beach-and-a-book kind of experience. I moved into the school last Tuesday, and I finally feel as at home as I can feel in a space that isn't really my own. There are enough creature comforts (a GREAT shower being at the top of the list (how completely gringa of me:))) that I am no longer in fear of my intestinal health plus I can cook my own meals and do my own laundry. The women who were doing these things for me are utterly sweet, but no thank you, I really don't need my underwear ironed, and, gee, how about NOT frying those bananas, and just letting me eat them raw?
Another common occurrence that makes me feel at home is the occasional loss of power. For those of you who do not live on or near Vashon Island, we who do live there are very used to candles and cold showers, especially during the holiday season. So when the school "forgot" to pay its power bill, we went 36 hours in the dark. I got a lot of sleep. Before Anne left, we had also lost power, but only for about 4 hours. Still, all the little touches of home help:).
Also be fore Anne left, we went on an actividad (figure it out--it is a cognate) to a place of spiritual importance for many Guatemaltecos, especially some of those of Mayan descent. I think I want to tell about this place, and Anne, if you have a different take, feel free to add to my observations. Here goes:
Maximon (pronounced Maa-she-moan), also sometimes called San Simon, is a revered figure who purportedly lived in Guatemala at some very unclear time in the Past. Some legends say he was a Catholic saint gone a bit renegade, others that he was an indigenous person who did good things. Still others trace the origins of Maximon to ancient Mayan religious figures/dieties. Anyway, we got on the camioneta (chicken bus) in Antigua and traveled for about 1/2 hour to a pueblo whose name I cannot remember. We entered a compound of sorts that had a grass field and a very large cement-paved courtyard that was completely covered in the black, charcoaled remains of small fires. In one corner of the courtyard, a man was burning something (maybe clothes?!?) and chanting prayers. Next to him stood a woman and child, and behind him two men played guitars and sang. Our teacher said that most likely it was the man's birthday, and he was praying to Maximon (actually, here he is called San Simon, but I like the sound of Maximon better) for health and prosperity in the coming year. She went on to explain that those who follow Maximon believe that he can grant both good and bad requests. She then pointed to a place on a sidewalk off to the left. It also has the remains of sacrificial fires, but is much smaller that the courtyard. It is place supplicants go to offer sacrifices to support requests for things like pain and injury to an unfaithful lover, or financial ruin to an enemy. I think she also said that whores and dealers and other less repsectable folk used that particular spot to make sacrifices. Apparently, Maximon, like Jesus, hangs out with sinners.
On the opposite side of the courtyard stands a building,which is the local shrine/temple/church where people also go to worship. There are no actual services, but I think they do have meetings of some sort. Here's where the blurring of things Catholic and things pagan occurs: in the front of the room stands what I can only say resembles the front of a Catholic church, where, instead of a crucifix, a huge imagen (life size dolls, in Lisa's vernacular) of Maximon sits on a chair, elevated high enough to be in full view of the entire building. Directly to his left, only slightly less elevated, is another imagen, kind of like the Virgin Mary but not, in regalia as fully ornate as those found in La Iglesia de La Merced in Antigua. Furthermore, the entire room was filled, not with pews, but metal tables lined up just like pews in a church, covered with candles of various colors. And now I want to describe the imagen of Maximon, cuz, omigod, not at all like Jesus, or San Fransisco or Saint John Vianny or any other venerated Catholic VIP. Maximon is decked out in a black suit, kind of like the ones that Ackroyd and Belushi wore in Blues Brothers. Now that I think of it, Maximon looks like a third triplet, because he also wears a black hat and, yes, sunglasses. And around his feet are strewn the offerings that please him most: people leave money and bottles of booze and packages of cigarettes for him to enjoy, and carved into his face where his lips would be is a hole the circumference of a cigar. With a cigar in it. I have not had success in determining why the booze and smokes, and no one is really clear about what actually happens to the stuff, but they are the things that please Maximon.
I am not sure why a most of the Spanish language schools take students to the place where Maximon is worshipped because I have yet to have a conversation with anyone who actually believes in him. In fact, most people areveryquicktopointout that they DO NOT believe in him. My own teacher, Elsa (I just have to say again that she is the BEST teacher in Antigua), a Mayan woman, told me that her very Catholic church in San Antonio believes and teaches that Maximon is Judas Iscariot reborn. A curious belief indeed for a church that decidely does not hold to the idea of reincarnation. The spiritual world is a crazy place.
All of this sounds like I am making fun of another creed, so let me please point out that some of those who worship Maximon are dualists in that they also faithfully serve the Catholic church (but decidedly not Elsa--she is 100% catolica). Furthermore, the faces of those whom we saw worshiping were intensely ingrained with awe and reverence and deep sincerity in their supplications. I was hugely embarrassed by a couple of my fellow students who chose to take close-up photos of worshippers and the two young kids who decided to play with the melting candles and wax. It was kind of like if a couple of Buddhists came in and decided to play catch over the heads of Sunday morning worshippers because it was raining outside and they were, after all, bored.
I do not hold to the creed of Maximon. I do believe that the God and Creator of all things hears our prayers, no matter where we are when we voice them; thus, I lit a pink candle--the color of healing--and prayed for the health of my husband, daughters, sisters, mother, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, son-in-law and brothers-in-law and everyone else I could think of.
Tomorrow morning at 7, Gabi from the escuela, Nuestra Futura (Our Future) will come by to show me how to get there. I begin work as a teacher's aide/tutor. So once again, my life here in Guatemala is about to change...
!paz a todos de vosotros!
Jali (Spanishly phonetic for Holly)
Another common occurrence that makes me feel at home is the occasional loss of power. For those of you who do not live on or near Vashon Island, we who do live there are very used to candles and cold showers, especially during the holiday season. So when the school "forgot" to pay its power bill, we went 36 hours in the dark. I got a lot of sleep. Before Anne left, we had also lost power, but only for about 4 hours. Still, all the little touches of home help:).
Also be fore Anne left, we went on an actividad (figure it out--it is a cognate) to a place of spiritual importance for many Guatemaltecos, especially some of those of Mayan descent. I think I want to tell about this place, and Anne, if you have a different take, feel free to add to my observations. Here goes:
Maximon (pronounced Maa-she-moan), also sometimes called San Simon, is a revered figure who purportedly lived in Guatemala at some very unclear time in the Past. Some legends say he was a Catholic saint gone a bit renegade, others that he was an indigenous person who did good things. Still others trace the origins of Maximon to ancient Mayan religious figures/dieties. Anyway, we got on the camioneta (chicken bus) in Antigua and traveled for about 1/2 hour to a pueblo whose name I cannot remember. We entered a compound of sorts that had a grass field and a very large cement-paved courtyard that was completely covered in the black, charcoaled remains of small fires. In one corner of the courtyard, a man was burning something (maybe clothes?!?) and chanting prayers. Next to him stood a woman and child, and behind him two men played guitars and sang. Our teacher said that most likely it was the man's birthday, and he was praying to Maximon (actually, here he is called San Simon, but I like the sound of Maximon better) for health and prosperity in the coming year. She went on to explain that those who follow Maximon believe that he can grant both good and bad requests. She then pointed to a place on a sidewalk off to the left. It also has the remains of sacrificial fires, but is much smaller that the courtyard. It is place supplicants go to offer sacrifices to support requests for things like pain and injury to an unfaithful lover, or financial ruin to an enemy. I think she also said that whores and dealers and other less repsectable folk used that particular spot to make sacrifices. Apparently, Maximon, like Jesus, hangs out with sinners.
On the opposite side of the courtyard stands a building,which is the local shrine/temple/church where people also go to worship. There are no actual services, but I think they do have meetings of some sort. Here's where the blurring of things Catholic and things pagan occurs: in the front of the room stands what I can only say resembles the front of a Catholic church, where, instead of a crucifix, a huge imagen (life size dolls, in Lisa's vernacular) of Maximon sits on a chair, elevated high enough to be in full view of the entire building. Directly to his left, only slightly less elevated, is another imagen, kind of like the Virgin Mary but not, in regalia as fully ornate as those found in La Iglesia de La Merced in Antigua. Furthermore, the entire room was filled, not with pews, but metal tables lined up just like pews in a church, covered with candles of various colors. And now I want to describe the imagen of Maximon, cuz, omigod, not at all like Jesus, or San Fransisco or Saint John Vianny or any other venerated Catholic VIP. Maximon is decked out in a black suit, kind of like the ones that Ackroyd and Belushi wore in Blues Brothers. Now that I think of it, Maximon looks like a third triplet, because he also wears a black hat and, yes, sunglasses. And around his feet are strewn the offerings that please him most: people leave money and bottles of booze and packages of cigarettes for him to enjoy, and carved into his face where his lips would be is a hole the circumference of a cigar. With a cigar in it. I have not had success in determining why the booze and smokes, and no one is really clear about what actually happens to the stuff, but they are the things that please Maximon.
I am not sure why a most of the Spanish language schools take students to the place where Maximon is worshipped because I have yet to have a conversation with anyone who actually believes in him. In fact, most people areveryquicktopointout that they DO NOT believe in him. My own teacher, Elsa (I just have to say again that she is the BEST teacher in Antigua), a Mayan woman, told me that her very Catholic church in San Antonio believes and teaches that Maximon is Judas Iscariot reborn. A curious belief indeed for a church that decidely does not hold to the idea of reincarnation. The spiritual world is a crazy place.
All of this sounds like I am making fun of another creed, so let me please point out that some of those who worship Maximon are dualists in that they also faithfully serve the Catholic church (but decidedly not Elsa--she is 100% catolica). Furthermore, the faces of those whom we saw worshiping were intensely ingrained with awe and reverence and deep sincerity in their supplications. I was hugely embarrassed by a couple of my fellow students who chose to take close-up photos of worshippers and the two young kids who decided to play with the melting candles and wax. It was kind of like if a couple of Buddhists came in and decided to play catch over the heads of Sunday morning worshippers because it was raining outside and they were, after all, bored.
I do not hold to the creed of Maximon. I do believe that the God and Creator of all things hears our prayers, no matter where we are when we voice them; thus, I lit a pink candle--the color of healing--and prayed for the health of my husband, daughters, sisters, mother, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, son-in-law and brothers-in-law and everyone else I could think of.
Tomorrow morning at 7, Gabi from the escuela, Nuestra Futura (Our Future) will come by to show me how to get there. I begin work as a teacher's aide/tutor. So once again, my life here in Guatemala is about to change...
!paz a todos de vosotros!
Jali (Spanishly phonetic for Holly)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Lesson for the day (quiz to follow):
Macadamia nut are not indigneous to Guatemala. Yet nestled in the hills very close to Antigua is Valhalla, a macadamia finca (farm) that was started some years ago with starts from the California Macadamia Association. There are ten varieties of macadamias, seven of which are poisonous. Here in Guatemala is an edible hybrid unique to the farm on which it grows. Valhalla is a green enterprise--there is no electricity and absolutely no pesticides or chemicals are used, not even organic ones, because they would detroy the delicate organisims that live in the soil and help the trees grow. Unlike many introduced species around the world, the macadamia tree neither crowds out other necessary species nor does it produce anything that is toxic to the natural environment. In fact, macadamia trees are great for cleaning the air. They are likewise very resistant to all kinds of pests. Macadamia trees take about 4 or 5 years to begin producing nuts, but they can be planted right in the middle of corn, coffee, and bean fields. Macadamia oil is high in omega 3s and is an excellent humectant. It absorbs easily into the skin and is resitant to whatever it is you call it when oils go bad (my ability to think in English is rapidly deteriorating. Not that I am thinking any better in spanish).
The finca has provided thousands of starts to many people to plant on their own lands. Initially, the finca bought the nuts from the growers, but soon discovered that the growers could get more money selling the produce themselves. Valhalla no longer accepts volunteers because they were way more work than they were worth and the farm isn't set up to care for somewhat pampered travelers looking for a cheap place to stay.
Interesting but totally useless factoid for the day: Guatemala is the number one exporter of cardomom, mostly because, although it grows abundantly here, no one from here can stand the stuff.
I am telling you this while I enjoy my last moments in the b & b de las capuchinas, eating, what else, but chocolate covered macadamia nuts.
Macadamia nut are not indigneous to Guatemala. Yet nestled in the hills very close to Antigua is Valhalla, a macadamia finca (farm) that was started some years ago with starts from the California Macadamia Association. There are ten varieties of macadamias, seven of which are poisonous. Here in Guatemala is an edible hybrid unique to the farm on which it grows. Valhalla is a green enterprise--there is no electricity and absolutely no pesticides or chemicals are used, not even organic ones, because they would detroy the delicate organisims that live in the soil and help the trees grow. Unlike many introduced species around the world, the macadamia tree neither crowds out other necessary species nor does it produce anything that is toxic to the natural environment. In fact, macadamia trees are great for cleaning the air. They are likewise very resistant to all kinds of pests. Macadamia trees take about 4 or 5 years to begin producing nuts, but they can be planted right in the middle of corn, coffee, and bean fields. Macadamia oil is high in omega 3s and is an excellent humectant. It absorbs easily into the skin and is resitant to whatever it is you call it when oils go bad (my ability to think in English is rapidly deteriorating. Not that I am thinking any better in spanish).
The finca has provided thousands of starts to many people to plant on their own lands. Initially, the finca bought the nuts from the growers, but soon discovered that the growers could get more money selling the produce themselves. Valhalla no longer accepts volunteers because they were way more work than they were worth and the farm isn't set up to care for somewhat pampered travelers looking for a cheap place to stay.
Interesting but totally useless factoid for the day: Guatemala is the number one exporter of cardomom, mostly because, although it grows abundantly here, no one from here can stand the stuff.
I am telling you this while I enjoy my last moments in the b & b de las capuchinas, eating, what else, but chocolate covered macadamia nuts.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
My friend Anne left yesterday to go back to the States. I am spending the weekend in a bed & breakfast because the student house is now very empty and not very comfortable--my room there is cave-like with no windows. A single lightbulb hangs out of reach. There is a bed and a small wooden table with no chair: very institutional feeling. So here I am in a very comfortable room with wifi. And windows. And a chair.
This weekend is the celebration of the founding of Antigua, so it is very crowded with lots of tourists from all over and just as many men carrying obnoxious and scary shotguns of some sort.
Late this afternoon I heard the drums of a parade, and I set out to watch. The sky was dark, so I grabbed my REI rain jacket and followed the sound of the drums. Three different marching bands followed each other through the streets of Antigua. As I was walking along side, the rhythm of three separate beats pulsed through the air and seemed to rearrange the molecules of my body. At the tail end followed a large wooden platform, ornately carved and carried on the shoulders of 16 men and women, all clad in black suits. The platform was the vehicle of a large, finely dressed image of Jesus. Life size dolls, my daughter Lisa calls these old-fashioned Catholic statues, but they are not really dolls and are also much bigger than life-sized. I am not able to fully put into words what the experience was like, what with the drums, the dedication and utter seriousness of the men and women shouldering such a heavy weight, and the rain. It began to pour in that wierd, warm way that makes no sense to Pacific Northwesterners: heavy sheets that should chill a body to the bone, but don't.
The three bands of young people marched on, rapidly gettintg saturated. Jesus was covered with a Hefty bag, yet his carriers didn't miss a step. People crowded into store fronts and under inadequate overhangs in unsuccessful attempts to stay dry. Some gave up and settled into the restaurants of Antigua, but watching those musicians in their startlingly white uniforms valiantly marching through the small rivers that earlier had been the cobbled streets of the town, I felt compelled to stick it out. So I plowed on. The parade finally made it to the final destination, the cathedral, which sits on the main plaza of Antigua. Each band put on a final show, and then Jesus was solemnly carried in and placed in his glass fronted show case where he will wait out the year until it is time to do it all over again. Kind of like the Thriftway drill team that marches in the Strawberry Festival parade on Vashon Island, only not.
Next week I will be moving into the school, which will feel a bit like starting over, I think. I am falling a bit more in love with Guatemala every day.
This weekend is the celebration of the founding of Antigua, so it is very crowded with lots of tourists from all over and just as many men carrying obnoxious and scary shotguns of some sort.
Late this afternoon I heard the drums of a parade, and I set out to watch. The sky was dark, so I grabbed my REI rain jacket and followed the sound of the drums. Three different marching bands followed each other through the streets of Antigua. As I was walking along side, the rhythm of three separate beats pulsed through the air and seemed to rearrange the molecules of my body. At the tail end followed a large wooden platform, ornately carved and carried on the shoulders of 16 men and women, all clad in black suits. The platform was the vehicle of a large, finely dressed image of Jesus. Life size dolls, my daughter Lisa calls these old-fashioned Catholic statues, but they are not really dolls and are also much bigger than life-sized. I am not able to fully put into words what the experience was like, what with the drums, the dedication and utter seriousness of the men and women shouldering such a heavy weight, and the rain. It began to pour in that wierd, warm way that makes no sense to Pacific Northwesterners: heavy sheets that should chill a body to the bone, but don't.
The three bands of young people marched on, rapidly gettintg saturated. Jesus was covered with a Hefty bag, yet his carriers didn't miss a step. People crowded into store fronts and under inadequate overhangs in unsuccessful attempts to stay dry. Some gave up and settled into the restaurants of Antigua, but watching those musicians in their startlingly white uniforms valiantly marching through the small rivers that earlier had been the cobbled streets of the town, I felt compelled to stick it out. So I plowed on. The parade finally made it to the final destination, the cathedral, which sits on the main plaza of Antigua. Each band put on a final show, and then Jesus was solemnly carried in and placed in his glass fronted show case where he will wait out the year until it is time to do it all over again. Kind of like the Thriftway drill team that marches in the Strawberry Festival parade on Vashon Island, only not.
Next week I will be moving into the school, which will feel a bit like starting over, I think. I am falling a bit more in love with Guatemala every day.
Monday, July 20, 2009
I have 27 mosquito bites on my stomach alone. For all of you who recommended stuff like vitamin b, fabric softener sheets and organic repellant, GTH (if you try, you can figure it out:)). Gimme the real stuff and let me bathe in it, please.
Okay, now that I have gotten that one off my chest (which, BTW, is the only part of me that is mosquito bite free), I can maybe provide a quick update on the wonders that are Guatemalan.
First, the nasty stuff: let me just say that the antibiotic Cipro is a godsend. I spent 24 hours making passsionate love to a toilet that did not flush at night. "Gross" is an understatment. I am not sure what I did b/c I have been very careful with the water, but who knows. Anyway, I am fully recovered and able to eat all of the rice, beans and papaya that I want.
The school I am attending is fabulous. My profesora is a 26 year old Mayan named Elsa who is studying to be an accountant. She is very exacting and patient & is helping me clean up a lot of really bad habits. I get a whole bunch of homework every night & I am happy to report that I can now read Spanish really well at the 4th grade level. I am also learning some stuff about Spanish punctuation that will help me a lot when I am working with students who are hispanohablantes. I promise I will not go off on an English teacher tear, but I will be happy to share with any of my coworkers who are interested when I get home. Let me just say that Spanish really doesn't seem to have such a thing as a comma splice.
Last Thursday our school had an activity that took us to an out-lying village named San Antonio. It is a pueblo that specializes in textiles and needle work. We went into a family compound where the residents/co-op members showed us all kinds of typical aspects of their lives--everything from a corn fertility dance to a mock wedding ceremony. And of course, when all was finished, we were invited to spend as much money as we liked. I think "Buen precio, mi amiga," is how you say Holly in Spanish because so many people have looked me lovingly in the eye and uttered those exact words.
The textilework is utterly amazing. Elsa told me that she spent two years working on a piece of needle work that she wears to special functions at church and fiestas. Seeing how much time these women spend on their knees in order to make a few dollars is humbling. My friend Anne, who returns to the US on Saturday, is doing her best to help those women up off their knees--she is buying a lot of cool stuff.
Anne and I spent the weekend traveling to Lago Atitlan with Jason, a former professional ballet dancer turned middle school English and history teacher we met at our school. We spent the night in a little pueblo named San Marcos. According to the Mayans, the location is a vortex of healing. Hippies and new-age types have picked up on this & have started to build healing centers & yoga studios and places where people smoke a lot of pot. Still, it is a very tranquil place that is not really touched by the incredible lure of the dollar and we spent a day swimming and jumping off rocks (okay, i didn't jump, but Anne and Jason did) with a whole bunch of little boys in their underpants. It was very cool.
From San Marcos, we walked to a town called San Pedro--2 hours on an up and down road that we shared with tuktuks, horses, dog and pickups with beds filled with people. oh yea--also camionetas (chicken buses to most of you). San Pedro was everything San Marcos was not--kind of an icky, party-central mentality. We left the next morning for Chichicastenango, home to the biggest mercado tipico en Guatemala. I got carsick on the way, so the only thing I purchased there was dramamine. Still, we had fun, although it was very crowded.
I could really go on and on and on, but will stop here. The people we have met--indigenous & fellow travelers alike--have been wonderful so far! Tomorrow I will learn more about the volunteer work I will be doing--I think I will be in a school for los pobres doing what, I do not know.
I have loved reading comments from those of you who have chosen to respond. Would someone please let me know when Laura has her baby? I will light a candle at la iglesia de la merced:).
When I figure out how, I will post some pictures. Stay tuned...
Okay, now that I have gotten that one off my chest (which, BTW, is the only part of me that is mosquito bite free), I can maybe provide a quick update on the wonders that are Guatemalan.
First, the nasty stuff: let me just say that the antibiotic Cipro is a godsend. I spent 24 hours making passsionate love to a toilet that did not flush at night. "Gross" is an understatment. I am not sure what I did b/c I have been very careful with the water, but who knows. Anyway, I am fully recovered and able to eat all of the rice, beans and papaya that I want.
The school I am attending is fabulous. My profesora is a 26 year old Mayan named Elsa who is studying to be an accountant. She is very exacting and patient & is helping me clean up a lot of really bad habits. I get a whole bunch of homework every night & I am happy to report that I can now read Spanish really well at the 4th grade level. I am also learning some stuff about Spanish punctuation that will help me a lot when I am working with students who are hispanohablantes. I promise I will not go off on an English teacher tear, but I will be happy to share with any of my coworkers who are interested when I get home. Let me just say that Spanish really doesn't seem to have such a thing as a comma splice.
Last Thursday our school had an activity that took us to an out-lying village named San Antonio. It is a pueblo that specializes in textiles and needle work. We went into a family compound where the residents/co-op members showed us all kinds of typical aspects of their lives--everything from a corn fertility dance to a mock wedding ceremony. And of course, when all was finished, we were invited to spend as much money as we liked. I think "Buen precio, mi amiga," is how you say Holly in Spanish because so many people have looked me lovingly in the eye and uttered those exact words.
The textilework is utterly amazing. Elsa told me that she spent two years working on a piece of needle work that she wears to special functions at church and fiestas. Seeing how much time these women spend on their knees in order to make a few dollars is humbling. My friend Anne, who returns to the US on Saturday, is doing her best to help those women up off their knees--she is buying a lot of cool stuff.
Anne and I spent the weekend traveling to Lago Atitlan with Jason, a former professional ballet dancer turned middle school English and history teacher we met at our school. We spent the night in a little pueblo named San Marcos. According to the Mayans, the location is a vortex of healing. Hippies and new-age types have picked up on this & have started to build healing centers & yoga studios and places where people smoke a lot of pot. Still, it is a very tranquil place that is not really touched by the incredible lure of the dollar and we spent a day swimming and jumping off rocks (okay, i didn't jump, but Anne and Jason did) with a whole bunch of little boys in their underpants. It was very cool.
From San Marcos, we walked to a town called San Pedro--2 hours on an up and down road that we shared with tuktuks, horses, dog and pickups with beds filled with people. oh yea--also camionetas (chicken buses to most of you). San Pedro was everything San Marcos was not--kind of an icky, party-central mentality. We left the next morning for Chichicastenango, home to the biggest mercado tipico en Guatemala. I got carsick on the way, so the only thing I purchased there was dramamine. Still, we had fun, although it was very crowded.
I could really go on and on and on, but will stop here. The people we have met--indigenous & fellow travelers alike--have been wonderful so far! Tomorrow I will learn more about the volunteer work I will be doing--I think I will be in a school for los pobres doing what, I do not know.
I have loved reading comments from those of you who have chosen to respond. Would someone please let me know when Laura has her baby? I will light a candle at la iglesia de la merced:).
When I figure out how, I will post some pictures. Stay tuned...
Sunday, July 12, 2009
So far, I am impressed by how well I remember Antigua from my two-week stay here last year with Lisa. I haven't gotten lost yet, which is amazing as those of you who know me well will realize.
The house where we are staying is not a homestay but is filled with students from various places. There is a woman--Suzi--who comes in and cooks for us, but she leaves in the evening and we are left to our own devices. So far, It is a great arrangement, and all of us in the house seem to enjoy each other's company.
I don't really have much to say that feels deeply meaningful or profound, although I can report thay last night we went onto the roof of our house to watch an impressive lightning storm over one of the volcanoes in the ring that circles Antigua. The lightning was almost better than 4th of July fireworks, and a lot cheaper. The really cool part was, in one of the dark moments between lightning flashes, the top of volcan de agua lit up with lava like a match head. It only lasted for about 30 seconds, but we were all properly in awe.
Tomorrow our Spanish classes begin and I hope to have more interesting stuff to say as we prowl around.
Adios for now.
The house where we are staying is not a homestay but is filled with students from various places. There is a woman--Suzi--who comes in and cooks for us, but she leaves in the evening and we are left to our own devices. So far, It is a great arrangement, and all of us in the house seem to enjoy each other's company.
I don't really have much to say that feels deeply meaningful or profound, although I can report thay last night we went onto the roof of our house to watch an impressive lightning storm over one of the volcanoes in the ring that circles Antigua. The lightning was almost better than 4th of July fireworks, and a lot cheaper. The really cool part was, in one of the dark moments between lightning flashes, the top of volcan de agua lit up with lava like a match head. It only lasted for about 30 seconds, but we were all properly in awe.
Tomorrow our Spanish classes begin and I hope to have more interesting stuff to say as we prowl around.
Adios for now.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
This is Suki. She will miss me the most.Sunday, July 5, 2009
I am leaving for Guatemala on Friday with my very good friend, Anne. I will be gone for 2 months and this blog will be my way of feeling like I am talking with all of the important people in my life. I have never done anything like this trip, so I am nervous and excited. Anne will be with me for the first 2 weeks and then I will be on my own. I hope this blog will serve as a means for me to journal about my experiences. I have also never kept a public journal before and as a writing instructor, I think I am feeling a little of what my students feel when I give them a new writing assignment. What are the expectations of my audience? How do I even address my audience when I am not even really sure who my audience is? Some of you I of course know, but even with that information, you are such a motley lot of people, that I find myself a bit unsure what to say. Those of you who know me well will recognize irony in that last point:). I almost always have something to say. I hope I don't bore you! Let me know what you think, or if you have questions, ask!
Peace,
Holly
Peace,
Holly
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