Holly Goes South

How long have I lived in Guatemala?

2011-09-01T08:09:00.000-07:00

A heartbeat and lifetime and long enough to have a great Guatemalan accent, if not so great a command of grammar and vocabulary. My head hurts from thinking in two languages and I am often pretty sure I have lost ground in both. I ache from the fullness of eight weeks spent with kids whose idiom is unfathomable except the part that communicates unfiltered affection. I find it unbelievable and unacceptable that--again!!!!--I have said goodbye, yet I am already thinking about next year with great anticipation. My kids, the ones I have been working with now for three years, will be fourth graders, and I can't wait (for those who know me well, you know how really true that is; patience not on my list of characteristics) to see what will be new with them. I just cannot explain how much I love them, nor why, really.

Right now I feel like Alice might have felt just before she stepped through the looking glass, only in reverse. I return to Vashon Island tomorrow night. My job has been tugging at me for the last several weeks; I am starting to think A LOT about my bed, my cats, a comfy couch (no such thing exists in Guatemala), and oh yeah, my husband and my kid, not to mention the rest of my family and close friends, whom I am anxious to see. But doing so means that I will have stepped over.

Sigh. So it has gone every year I have come here. I thought saying goodbye would get easier; it hasn't. There is still so much more I *need* to do here, but it will all have to wait until next time.

One cool cool thing I did do at Nuestro Futuro this year was a creative writing project with the terceros. We didn't get too far, but a window opened a bit for some of them. Here in Guatemala, education is rote; there is not a lot of exploration of the whys and hows of things--just memorize and do. So getting kids to think in terms that are maybe a bit more abstract or not so immediately practical was, hmmm, interesting? So what follows are some of the highlights. There are references to Guatemalan legends, and many to things religious, as there is not separation of church and state. If I had had more time, we would have worked on they whys behind some of what they had to say, but still, I think that this was the first time anyone had ever asked them to write, really write, about themselves. As is always true with translations, some of the beauty of the language got lost, so my apologies to the poets.

Poetry from los terceros

instrucciones:

My name is_________

4 words of description

3 things you love

3 things you feel

3 things you need

3 things you fear

3 things you wish to see

I am Manuel and I fear death and the Bull Man

At the bottom of the sea lives a small fish named Manuel who

fears the Llorona.

I love my mom and my dad and my brothers and sisters and ice cream.

I feel happy, timid and sad when my friends don't want to play with me.

I live in my house in the world.

I am Juan Antonio Gonzales

I like to dance, play ball, an I like to eat and ride the bike.

I love God and my mom and my dad.

I feel good and I feel healthy and I don't hurt.

I fear the devil and the cadejo and the headless horseman.

I want to see my mom and a movie and TV.

I live in the house of my grandparents.

I am Maria Leticia.

I like chocolate. I like carpentry class. I love school. I love Seno Carmen.

I love Seno Gabi. I love Seno Ana. I love Seno Jali.

I feel lonely. I feel sad. I feel very happy.

I am Juan Fernando.

I am a big eater. I am short with short hair. I play ball.

I love God, I love my parents, I love to study and I love to play.

I feel happy, I feel strong, I feel fed.

I need to study, I need to smile, I need to see the land.

I am Jonathan Alexander, the best football player in the world.

I am short, I am happy, I am a student, I am moreno.

I love God, I love my parents, I love my hands, I love my eyes.

I feel happy with life.I feel sad about my friend, I feel mad.

I need a car, I need a house, I need a bicycle.

I fear el sombreron, la Llorona and the devil.

I want to see a movie, I want to see the races, I want to see a fight.

I am Jose Raul, the most happy.

I love my parents, God, my brothers and my clothes.

I feel happy, angry and sad.

I need God, my parents and my brothers.

I fear Chuckie, the devil and la Llorona.

I want to see God, the moon and Neptune.

I live in Ciudad Vieja.

I am Lesvia. I am tall and I have brown hair. I am morena.

I love chocolate, the school, my brothers and sisters and my cousins.

I feel bad, happy and angry.

I need a car, a brother. Money.

I fear el sombreron, la Llorona and the dead.

I want to be a teacher, a doctor, a secretary.

I am Maria Azucena. I dance, sing, am happy and I play.

I love God, the Virgen, Christ and Senor Esquipulas.

I feel happy, content, sad.

I need a pencil, a pencil sharpener and an eraser.

I want to see God, the Virgin and the Virgin of Conception.

My life is very beautiful and lovely.

I am Marta Julia. I like to be happy, I like to play, I like to study and I like to eat.

I love ice cream and strawberries, y parents and my friends.

I feel happy and shy. I am content.

I need my friends, my parents and God.

I want to see the sea, the Lago Atitlan and the country.

I am Concepcion de Maria Rosas Reyes. I am the happiest girl in the world.

I am tall, thin, dark and pretty.

I love my mom, my dad, God an my grandfather.

I need a doll, a stuffed bear and food.

I fear the devil, la Llorona and Sombreron.

I want to see a fairy, an angel and God.

Welcome to my poem.

I am Luis Alfredo.

I am happy, a good friend. I like to play and I like being a good friend. I am beautiful.

I love my family and also my friends and my homeland.

I need support and affection and also I need my teacher.

I want to see God and the Virgin and the president.

I live in Ciudad Vieja.

I am Mynor. I am the best goalkeeper in the world.

I love to play ball.

I love to read.

I love to dance.

I feel content.

I feel I should have a house.

I need to eat.

I need to play.

I need help.

I want to see an airplane.

I want to see a monkey.

I live in Ciudad Vieja.

I am Marcela del Carmen. I am pretty and happy in the world.

I love ice cream, my dad and my mom.

I feel sad, mad, cute, ugly, nice.

I need friends, my brother, my dad.

I am Miriam, the most beautiful in the world. I am happy beside my dad, my mom and brothers and sisters. I am very happy. I am Miriam Perez Figueroa.

I am Susana Maribel. I am happy, cute and very pretty.

I feel good. I feel sad, I feel mad.

I need love, confidence, happiness.

I love God, my parents and my Madrina, Jali.

I am Agustin Morales Camargo.

I am the best player in the world. I play like Messi.

I am thin and tall. I am 9 years old and have long hair.

I love Seno Ana, Seno Carmen and my mom.

I feel happy tired and content.

I need Seno Carmen, my mom and God.

I want to see the sea, God and Seno Carmen.

I am Carlos the super strong.

I am a cute boy, fine, young and studious.

I love girls, Jesus, God and my parents.

I feel in heaven, strong and violent.

I need to live, I need love, I need a girl.

I fear death, the tomb, the end of the world.

I want to see God and heaven.

I am Juan Eduardo the best student in the world.

I am serious, helpful to my mom, I am tall and skinny.

I love the color red; I love my mom; I love the telephone movistar. I love my house.

I feel happy, lively and furious.

I need ice cream, chocolate and my backpack.

I fear God and the Virgin.

I want to see the sea; I want to see God, I want to see the Llorona.

I am Telma. I like to play.

I love my mom, my dad, the school and God.

I feel happy, pretty and smart.

I need to study, play and take a bath.

I am Noe the most proud in the world.

I am tall. I like to eat, sing and study.

I love life, school, God and my personality.

I feel good, happy and feliz (contento).

I need God, my parents and food.

I want to see my past life, my parents when they were children, my old school.

Finally, some images to complete this year's HGS:

Goddaughters Joseline and Susi

Godson Juan Antonio

Carmen, the BEST third grade teacher in the whole world!

Gabi Morales, the ex-padrino coordinator (she starts a new job today. I love her.)

The whole damn class

I didn't go to Belize because of the storm, but went back to Monterrico (Pacific coast) instead. Notice my great tan!

I have spent a bit over six months of my life in Guatemala. Half a year. Considering my age, not too much, but enough to leave a shadow on the other side of the glass.
Home tomorrow, back to work (for real) next week!
Signing off until next time--
Jali

A Walk in the Clouds. And Horses**t. Oh, I mean, "Climbing Pacaya."

2011-08-21T12:21:00.000-07:00

At first, you think that the boys selling hand-hewn walking sticks are kind of annoying, as they are relentless. But you buy one anyway because those who have gone before you say having one is a good idea--especially on the way down. Plus, buying one gets the kids off your back. Then there are the guys selling bags of marshmallows--yes, marshmallows--and you say, "Thank you, but no, I do not want to roast marshmallows over hot spots in the cooled off lava for breakfast," but they keep asking you anyway, so you think, "Man, is that ever annoying."

Then you decide it is the men on horses who follow your every step, incessantly offering "un taxi natural," that are more irritating. I mean, geez, you haven't even started the climb--do you look like that big of a wuss? And after you start to climb, it is the piles of horse shit that make every step both irritating and dangerous. Who wants to step in that? The first 1/4 of the climb is more about avoiding poop than it is about the climb (sorry about the vague Miley Cyrus reference).

By now, you are working hard; it is after all, a volcano and volcanoes are mountains that ooze, drool, spit and rumble. And you start to think that the most annoying part of the whole experience is Arturo, your guide, who walks up this thing twice a day, every day of the week, and who never loses his smile, his chipper, cheery smile, as he darts ahead, waits for you to catch up and asks, "?todos estan bien?" ("everyone okay?") only to take off again after the last person has caught up.

But then you realize that the young Australian couple, the two people who speak not a word of Spanish, are way ahead of you and seeing their disappearing asses kind of pisses you off. If they slowed down just a bit, then maybe Arturo would, too, so maybe you could catch enough air to blow out the fire that has started to burn in your lungs.

But no, there is no point in slowing down, because you realize that the slower you go, the longer it will take to get to the top, so you pretend that all of the hours spent running on a treadmill and gliding on the elliptical trainer in order to improve your heart's ability to pump blood efficiently, that all of the times you have hoisted yourself up and down, weights in hand, in order create muscles in your butt, have really paid off. And so you realize that you, in that particular moment of time up there on the side of a f**king volcano for crissakes, are the most annoying thing.

But wait, you are now in a cloud; a cloud! a cloud? Yes, a cloud and you realize you are very close the top, the top of a volcano from which you will not be able to see a damn thing because YOU ARE IN A CLOUD.

So there you are, near the top of the volcano, thinking, "Man, I wish those clouds would go away," thinking that, maybe for Arturo the clouds are not annoying, but he is up here all the time and is probably not impressed with the view, or himself for that matter, not the way you were hoping to be when you told all of your friends about the great experience of climbing a volcano, an actual honestogod active volcano and showed them all the great pictures.

But wait, you are there, finally there at the top! And you think, "Gee, what is that little shack?" and then you see the sign hanging from the roof. "Pacaya Design Souveniers," it says. You realize that even here on top of a volcano they will try to get you, and you look at the ugliest jewelry you have ever seen in your life: little pebbles of volcanic rock glued together and set in silver with price tags that make you marvel a how gullible someone must think you are if they think you would ever consider buying, let alone wearing, dirt for earrings.

Out come the bags of marshmallows that, yes, the Australians have carted up the volcano, and Arturo gleefully bounces around from one steaming hole to another, searching for the right amount of heat to melt sugar. You are in a moonscape created by the last eruption that happened 15 months ago and it is windy and cold and damp because you are still in a cloud.

But the clouds, yes the clouds! are starting to blow away and within the span of one second you think about a) the photos you will now be able to take, and b) the edge fear that has plagued you all your life but for some reason you forgot about when you agreed to (finally!) climb Pacaya.

But there is no time to ruminate because off goes Arturo, Australians close behind, so you do your best to put that edge fear thing away, back in the box it had been stored in, but now that you are climbing down, the direction that gives life to your fear, you never ever lose the sensation that you will now fall off the world, only to land on the sharpest stuff in the universe--volcanic rock.
Finally, you realize that the scree you are now walking--no, not walking, but sliding, surfing skiing--in is the most annoying part of the experience. You think fondly back the the route up, the route that did not go through the scree-covered path of the last eruption, and wish for the sure-footedness of rock covered in horse shit.

Then you fall. Then you fall again. And again. Not too hard, though, because after all, you are walking down at a sharp angle so there is not too far to go before your butt hits the scree, but the slide after the fall is irritating as hell. And then you realize that those damn Australians are inexplicably behind you, and they are laughing. You think that you might hit them with your stick, should you ever make it back on your feet long enough to swing it.

Back on your feet, you realize that the climb down is physically much more demanding than the climb up. Your quads quiver from the effort of keeping you erect (an effort that is not fully realized (see last paragraph)), and your knees, especially your left one, is reminding you that tendons are precious things that should be treated with better care than you are currently giving them.

Wistfully, you remember los taxis naturales--the horses--that turned back long ago, and your knee is talking to you:"dumbass," it says. In numb agreement, you move on, or rather, down, one foot after the other. The only glimmer of grim joy is that you are now ahead of the Australians and no longer have to look at their trim, bouncy asses.

There is Arturo. Wait, is he on flat ground? Well, flatter ground anyway, and you know the end is near.
You have made it; you have climbed up and then down a volcano. You have managed to do what you have avoided for fours years. You feel at once silly and proud for having participated in An Experience. You laugh at little to yourself about all the things that seemed so annoying in the moment, but really were only the elements that make the experience memorable.

"Not bad, not bad at all," you think to yourself early the next morning before you get out of bed. And then you do get out of bed and the muscles in your legs, your quadriceps, sweetjesusgodalmighty hurt more than you ever remember a muscle hurting. And now you know the most annoying thing about climbing Pacaya.

2011-08-19T09:17:00.000-07:00

Us with Joseline, goddaughter numero dos (see how brown I am?!?:)); Rico, yo y Juan Antonio, our ahijado; Richard and Susana, la otra (the other)

Richard was here for twelve days. We explored the vibrant city of Antigua Guatemala—its incredible restaurants, many designed to attract tourists, some designed with local people in mind and one really really great one called Panza Verde for anyone who can afford it; we crawled through mercado after mercado, absorbing the ridiculous array of colors; we searched for the best deals on stuff like jade and art; we studied Spanish with phenomenal teachers; we burned our feet in the hot black sand of Monterrico and were privileged to see the fragile, endangered mangrove forest; we met really cool, smart and interesting people (you know who you are:)); and drank some great beer—Gallo for him and the best dark beer in the world, Moza, for me. And if you ask him, which I did, Richard will tell you that going to Nuestro Futuro in Ciudad Vieja to meet our ahijados was the very best part of the whole trip.

Yep. It is a cool place. The library (sans the stupid "donation" of used English classics. I repeat, Billy Budd--really?!?) is fully functioning now with computers for community use and some books, real ones, in Spanish and at all levels. The food is also real food now; the kids get tortillas and frijoles at 9:30 and then a real lunch at 12:30 before they go home, as opposed to the white bread with jam on it from the last two years. A part-time child psychologist has been hired and there is also a curriculum expert. Every day, amidst math and science and Spanish, the kids learn of the great Mayan culture of past days and its influence on modern-day Central America. They also learn of more modern-day heroes, such as Jacobo Arbenz who, in our pathetic sense of knowing what is best, we, the US, had couped (yeah, I know--no such word. Deal with it.) out of office in 1954 because he had the wild idea that Guatemalan land should be owned by, oh, maybe Guatemalans--the people who work it?!? Of course, the terceros aren't getting all of that, but they are learning that, amidst the hardness of life in poverty and living at the lower levels of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, there are real things to be proud of. And oh, yeah, a second school in San Lorenzo (a kind of suburb about 10 minutes away) has just broken ground, with classes scheduled to start in January. Way cool!!!! There are now 134 students at Nuestro Futuro and I think someone said that 82 now have padrinos. Money well spent on our part (could be on your part, too--just a suggestion:)).

Richard says (again, cuz I asked him) it was humbling to go out to the school and meet our ahijados and see all of the kids doing their thing. When we got there, two volunteer wanna-bes who ended up not really sticking around for more than a couple of days were at organized play with the terceros. Everyone was having a great time, as these kids love love love attention from big people and big people love love love the monsoon of unsolicited affection.

Yet "humbling" seems a strange word to use in describing the experience. We are typically humbled in the presence of greatness, brought to the realization of our own puniness on the face of something much bigger, grander than ourselves. What is so grand about 34 kids, many in raggedy-ass clothes, and many chronically malnourished, doing what all kids do--laughing, learning, crying, running, fighting, making up, flirting, tattling, joking, helping, goofing off, struggling and on and onning? I asked my new BFF, Harriet, volunteer extraordinaire from Holland, this question, and we mulled it over. We agree, working out at Nuestro Futuro has humbled us both, yet we struggled to put words to the reason why. We came up with stuff like, "Oh, we have some much and take it all so very for granted and seeing people who don't have all that we do nonetheless moving forward is powerful," but this doesn't quite work because it still assumes that there is something grander about our own lives, which in many, many significant ways is very true. I guess "grander" does not mean the same thing as "more important," and maybe that is what is humbling--the realization, not that we are puny, but that neither are those 134 kids, skinny and short though many of them may be.

Anyway, I think Richard's experience was really good and I also think he now has a better sense of WTF I am doing when I come down here. Maybe now he can explain it to me:).

I have two weeks to go, but maybe only one more at NF, as I am kind of tired and am ready for a vacation (yeah, pathetic, I know, but remember that I am still studying Spanish in addition to the time I spend with the kids, plus I have been doing a bit of SSCC work, as well. Okay, poor me. I get it. I will stop now.). Belize is close by and I am thinking of treating myself to a couple of days on a Caribbean beach--one where I can go in the water!

Paz a todos.

2011-08-13T13:36:00.000-07:00

Photos from the mangrove. I can't figure out how to arrange the photos as I want them on Blogger, so pretend that you read before looking!
The black lumpy thing in the branches is a termite nest. The last photo is of the road we walked to get to the boat launch. I think you can figure out which one is the boat launch.

Whewww! Last week I got sick on Rico's last day here. I thought maybe it was dengue or malaria, what with our trip to Monterrico where even the 98% deet (yes, really, 98%!!!!) did not stop the little a-holes from chopping away on my delicate self. But fortunately, I was improved enough to allow Richard to slip out the door at 4 AM, Sunday morning. I was, not, however, up to writing, and then the school week started up (I am studying/in class for 4 hours in the morning (I have read an ENTIRE novel in Spanish--Once Minutos by Paulo Cuelho--and am very impressed with myself) and then I go out to Ciudad Vieja for 4 hours of little kids in the afternoon), so no writing for me. But now I have a bit of free time, and thus here are a few thoughts and images:

Monterrico is a black sand beach on the Pacific coast of Guatemala. It is an easy 15-20 degrees F hotter there than here in Antigua, and I was happy to take my sun-loving, surfer-wanna-be husband to a place that did not have the exact same crappy weather as Seattle. As I mentioned last time, we couldn't go in the water because of the undertow, so we will definitely not be retiring in a place that entices only to tease. Still, the heat was a good change from the 65-70F with rain in both Antigua and Seattle, and the pool at our hotel is advertized as the best in Monterrico. It certainly worked for us.

Besides the sun, walks on hot black sand, and the great pool, the other really cool thing to do in Monterrico is to get up very early and take a guided tour in a pole-powered boat through the mangroves. At first R. did not want to go; he found the part about 5:15 AM off-putting. But I won (it happens a lot:)), and so off we went. Our guide met us in the still dark outside the hotel gate and walked us through the town where the street is lined with little shops and restaurants, into the back roads that are mostly dirt and mud, and finally to a launch where a handful of boats was lined up waiting to slip off into the river. Describing a mangrove forest is challenging, so I will show probably more than tell (see pictures above), but one thing pictures can't really convey is peace and tranquility. Gliding through the water with only the power of strong arms as they pull, push and lift a long wooden pole to send us forward is a sensation that is a bit foreign for those of us who rely on cars, ferries and buses to get places. Even cycling is not the same because the mangrove itself is so very silent.

The mangrove in Monterrico is an internationally protected area. Yet ecotourism is a lucrative business all over the world, and even though Monterrico (as is true in a lot of Guatemala outside of Antigua) hasn't really caught on to the very polished and highly organized methods of selling experiences as though they were tangible products, there are many people who have lived their lives on the banks of the swamp who now rely on tourist dollars from the early morning tours to pay for the cable satellites that sit in the yards of their very humble homes. We shared our school here in Antigua with a woman working on her Anthropology doctorate studying the effects of ecotourism on indigenous populations; it is not such a pretty picture, as people give up what is natural and sustainable in order to make money--money that is never quite enough to truly provide adequate substitutes for what is naturally available.

And of course, the effects of the much-maligned human foot print have not been so great in many places that are natural, delicate wonders. While the presence of very small, human-powered boats does not seem to yet be leaving such a huge mess in the mangrove, soon someone will figure out a way to multiply access, and what will result is anyone's guess. So I am conflicted: I am so very glad to have seen the mangrove and so very aware that I bought an experience that maybe participated in a very small way in the demise of an essential ecosystem. Richard's observation was that the mangrove is a birth center. Fish of all kinds swim there and many, many kinds of birds and aquatic life rely on the mangrove to live. In addition, the two types of mangroves whose roots start in upper branches and sink into the shallow mud provide stuff that an ecologist/biologist could better explain than I, stuff that makes a difference well beyond the banks of the swamp.

But man, it was so cool!

2011-08-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

"Plastic plastic every where nor any drop to..." oh, wait, Coleridge was talking about sea water, not plastic, right? Last weekend, Richard and I went to Monterrico on the Pacific coast of Guatemala and there was plenty of sea water there, too. While we were not interested in drinking it, we did wish we could have swum in it, but alas, the surf there is VERY strong with an undertow that could probably pull an army tank into the water. So we settled on wetting our feet and then swimming in the pool at our hotel when we got too hot (I am very tan now:)). But I digress. (More on Monterrico in the next post).

Last year when I was here, I met a guy who was doing graduate-level work in Germany studying plastic (Hi, Max!). I can't remember a whole lot about what he told me, but one thing did kind of stick: the trick now is not so much in creating more plastic, as it is in finding better ways to use the plastic we have already created (so sorry, Max, if I have misrepresented what you explained to me). I remember, too, trying to explain that scene from The Graduate wherein the new college grad Benjamin (the character played by a very young Dustin Hoffman) receives the sage, one word advice from one of his father's cronies: "Plastic." I guess you had to be there. I don't think Max was able to see the humor in a 1960's movie about the disaffection that intimately nuzzled the neck of a generation old enough to include his elderly aunts and uncles, if not quite his grandparents.

But yeah, plastic.

As I said, plastic, plastic everywhere. This country relies on plastic in oh so many forms. Ask for a packet of gum and you get a sheet of plastic-lined foil with individual pieces of gum secure in little bubbles of plastic. No Wrigley's foiled-wrapped sticks of gum here. Every little purchase at the grocery store, the mercado, or even the little tiendas that line the streets is handed over in plastic bags (no, "Paper or plastic?" here). They have them in many sizes, from the size of the afore-mentioned packet of gum on up to big enough to carry groceries. This is, after all, a VERY wet country. Gum that is not so packaged is unchewable after a matter of hours because it is inextricably stuck to the foil wrapper. Purchases that are not carried away in plastic bags are likely to be soaked from the frequent yet oddly unpredictable rain. The bags are thin--there are no Target-strength bolsas--and given to tearing easily, but they are nonetheless very valuable. Trash baskets (yes, I do mean the ones next to the toilet for you-know-what, as well as the ones for regular trash) are lined with the bags and get changed pretty much on a daily basis. Figuring out why the one in the bathroom gets changed regularly isn't too hard; the others get changed because, should there be any food waste in them, an infinite number of little teeny tiny ants swarm to carry bits of food back to wherever they hang out when they are not marching around the room.

Another very common use of plastic has to do with the street vendors. Every day, Mayans cart their goods to the streets of Antigua in order to hopefully earn enough money to make the effort of creating and carrying worth it. Many vendors have little wooden stalls where they carefully arrange their merchandise; sheets of plastic are carefully rolled up like theater curtains, ready to drop at the first hint of water. There is one mercado where merchants lay huge sheets of plastic right on the street and arrange their stuff in equal artistry. Piles of incredible hand-loomed fabrics, jewelry made of jade and silver, wooden flutes and bowls--all painted in the vibrancy of the Guatemalan spectrum--cover the plastic, and there the merchants sit, exclaiming "?Que buscas?" (what are you looking for?) and, "un buen precio para ti," ( a good price for you) over and over again to anyone who even slows in step, let alone makes eye contact. And then the rain starts. Out come more plastic sheets, some large enough to cover small swimming pools, and the carefully arranged treasures are covered, unmolested. Then the rain stops, and off goes the plastic. And then the rain resumes, and again plastic is unfurled. I am not sure how many times a day this pattern is repeated during the rainy season. But I do think that plastic has allowed these people a better opportunity to make money.

Plastic furniture is also every where. I am sitting in a green plastic chair right now while Richard sits a few feet away in one studying Spanish with his teacher, David. Many of the smaller restaurants and most of the language schools (tons of them!!!) have the same chairs as well as matching tables (although the tables here at the school are of rough-hewn wood). The mercado is filled with cheap plastic toys and hair trinkets--kind of like at one of those horrible things called "dollar stores." Food stalls of course hand out flimsy, incompetent plastic forks with meals piled onto styrofoam plates. Plastic is cheap and lightweight (if not always durable), and thus fills needs and makes life easier in many ways. Even the Antigua gym, where I go every morning to sweat--oh, wait, I sweat here all the time. Why do I go to the gym again?!?--anyway, the gym has a beautiful, wooden floor laid over what was once a courtyard and is ceilinged (neologism:)) by a huge tarp. The tarp is patched with duct tape and is also very leaky, so the floor is most often covered with, yep, one of those huuuuge sheets of plastic.

And then, of course, there are the water bottles.

As any northern traveler who ventures to the southern parts of the world knows, drinking water down here is Not a Good Idea. Some people blame the local food for traveler's diarrhea, and others blame mysterious, "foreign" viruses, but most often the reality is that a water-borne bacteria that we do not have in northern water messes with our alimentary systems, as we have no natural means of dealing with it. I wrote about my own intimate, dark-of-night relationship the toilet that didn't flush two years ago. Gross. And thank goodness for Cipro. Of course, most travelers do their homework and know not to drink the water. (Even though somehow some of us still get hit hard, no matter how diligent we are when brushing our teeth or keeping our mouths closed in the shower:(.) So "agua pura" is sold everywhere, absolutely everywhere. Here in Antigua, precautions are taken: restaurants that exist on the tourists' money know to make ice and licuados (the most incredibly delectable drink of fresh pureed fruits--kind of like slushies but ohmygod so much better!) with purified water, and they wash the veggies in it, as well; homestays have water filters attached to their faucets, as does the kitchen here at Centro Linguisto where I study and live. But travelers are often a wary breed, so even while we in the States are weaning ourselves of the ridiculous habit of buying plastic bottles of water at extortionary sums, in Central America, bottled water is a still-booming business. And also necessary. Outside of Antigua and other very popular tourist centers, the water served in public is not very carefully monitored. Just ask my friend Jason who spent a weekend at a hospital somewhere near Lake Atitlan, and then spent the rest of 2010 trying to rid himself of the water-borne parasite that settled comfortably in his body. Again, gross.

In short, plastic is now essential here in Guatemala. The main industry--tourism--is dependent on keeping things dry, keeping travelers safe. Plastic provides shelter and protection to people and things.

Troubling, though, is that, while plastic things are often vulnerable, plastic itself seems to hang around forever. Like I said, plastic plastic everywhere.

Richard leaves very early Sunday morning. We have had a really good time crawling around Antigua and going to the beach. My plan is to write more about Monterrico, as well as our trip to Ciudad Vieja where Richard got to meet our 3 ahijados ("godchildren") and the rest of the kids at Nuestro Futuro, on Sunday. Pictures included:).

Paz a todos!
Jali

totally random sh*t

2011-07-25T16:46:00.000-07:00

As any one of my students in Los Estados can attest to, there are Very Good Reasons I don't teach math. I mean, "break into groups of five," should not be like figuring out how to build the Eiffel Tower, but apparently, it is close for some of us. It is therefore with great irony and no small amount of pride that I can share my success in helping Lesvia, third grader extraordinaire (well, not when it comes to math. I know her pain. Intimately.), learn how to do long division. I think. We will see next week when she takes her midterm exams. Fingers crossed, candles lit, prayers up to heaven, and hopefully, Lesvia will not make us look bad. The thing is, here in Guatemala, teaching includes a lot of rote memorization. So we drill drill drill the multiplication tables and then repeat repeat repeat the steps in the process of doing long division. Stay tuned...

In Spanish, the word for "to hope," "to wait" and "to expect" is the same: "esperar." Every day, when I am waiting for the chicken bus, I am also hoping that I get on the right one, and at the same time expecting that eventually, one will show up and I will get to where I need to go. Right now, while I am waiting for Richard to get here, I am also hoping that he will like Guatemala, and I expect that we will have a good time together while I show off all that I know of this cool place. Of course, these two examples represent the Anglo understanding that the three activities (hoping, waiting, expecting) are exactly that--three different things, related but nonetheless distinguishable. I do not hope for the bus and wait to get on the right one, but I guess I do expect that I will get where I need to be, eventually. Yet every day when it is time to go to Ciudad Viaja--even though I have done so many times now over the past three years--that expectation is mingled with a bit of trepidation. I could, after all, end up somewhere else without a clear understanding of how to get back to where I started. It has happened before.

For many years, the people of the pueblos in Guatemala (and El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua) both hoped and waited for peace. If one lost hope, one no longer waited, I think. What is unclear to me is, while mothers watched their sons taken to be toy/boy soldiers, as children watched men fight kill rape burn destroy terrorize, as people fled from one unsafe place to another, I can't help believe that some of them must have continued to hope and wait for peace (why run, otherwise?). Yet did they also expect peace to come? When someone said, 'Epseramos la paz," did that mean they were at once waiting, hoping and expecting? Surely someone, if not everyone, was expecting and end to civil war. (As an aside, the one Quetzal coin of Guatemala has a beautiful relief of the national bird (the quetzal--a bird that does not survive captivity) with the word "paz" flowing from its wing). I especially like the "expect" part because it carries a sense of believe that the thing hoped and waited for will come to pass.

All of this musing brings to mind the Sapir-Wahorf hypothesis, which queried the relationship between culture and language: does language shape culture or does culture shape language? I think Sapir and Whorf thought they knew the answer and I can't remember what they said, but to me, it is more of a chicken and egg sort of question. Someday science will have that one figured out (maybe it is already figured out), but I am not sure what we get from that knowledge. I am just pondering a worldview, a mindset, that sees hoping, waiting, and expecting as one thing. It is just another reminder that we don't ever really cross over into another culture. I will never be a native speaker of Spanish, nor a native of a Spanish-speaking country, no matter how much time I spend studying the language and submerging myself in a culture I was not born into.

However, I can practice. Therefore, I can say that I espero that Lesvia does well on her math exam:).

A lot of the above is influenced by a great movie called Voces Inocentes, the real-life story of a family that struggled during the El Salvadoran civil war, which I saw for the second time this past weekend. You can find it with subtitles, and I cannot stress enough how powerful the movie is. If you are in the Western Washington gloom or the horrible heat of every where else, check it out for a little relief from the weather.

Meanwhile, my boyfriend comes tonight and we will take off for a place I have never been: Moterrico, a black sand beach on the Pacific Coast. Today is our 25th wedding anniversary:). !Yo espero!
Paz a todos.

2011-07-21T13:47:00.000-07:00

This is Marcela. And this post is a little a bit about her.
Two years ago, when I first came to Nuestro Futuro and volunteered in the first grade classroom, there she was, a tiny thing, almost cowering at her desk. Dressed in jeans and a bright red, 101 Dalmatians sweater, she rarely looked up, and when she did, it wasn't really up, but with a slight lift of her chin and a sideways stare.
That year, the instruction included a lot of one on one; after Seno Liseth (then the teacher) gave instructions, the kids would work out their assignments and come up to the desk one at a time for either Liseth or me to review and correct their work. Some kids always got cien por ciento (100%), others not very often. Most of the second group accepted with fairly decent grace the added work of fixing what they had done wrong. Marcela, member of group two, would walk timidly to the desk, her face lifted in nervous and hopeful anticipation, and would drop her head to her chest with what looked like almost a scowl of resentment when her work wasn't so good.
"Man, that girl does not like me," I thought. It seemed that, no matter how encouraging I tried to be, she did not like being told that she had errors. And the way she looked at me from the corner of her eye made me take the whole thing a bit personally. But what do I know?
After a week or so (and after I began to get a feel for the personalities and dynamics in the classroom), I noticed that Marcela was a bit of a target. It was a kind of a Darwinian, survival of the fittest sort of thing. The kid just didn't have any friends. If we played duck duck goose at recess, she never got chosen. If kids paired up to read, she never had a partner. She walked to school alone and returned the same way. Kids can be assholes. But what do I know?
One day, after reviewing her work and doing my best Spanish cheerleader routine, she slumped back to her desk, as usual. I got busy with another kid, but before too many minutes had passed, there she was again, standing at my side, a piece of paper in her hand. I said--in my wonderful version of Spanish--"You have to wait Marcela; you just had a turn." (These kids LOVE to learn and would beg beg beg to get shot at either Liseth or me).
Her chin dropped to its common position, but she didn't budge. "Okay, show me what you have." I was prepared to see a page of mangled spelling words or math problems. But what do I know?
The paper was folded many times over, not the typical school work page. I unfolded it and cried. "Te amo," it said. Okay, so I am crying just a little right now remembering that moment.
Last year, there she was again in her red sweater, not an inch bigger than I remembered her. What had seemed to be sullenness the year before seemed to have turned to mean. Still without a legitimate friend, she had turned to pilfering stuff and pinching. Many times over, she was sent to the Director's office for what was basically a time out. I remembered the note from the year before, and did my very very best to include her at recess (volunteers are like rock stars only better) when little girls were begging me to play one game or another, most of which I didn't understand. Marcela liked the attention and stuck to my side as much as possible.
My time passed and I came home.
So this year, there she was again, but without the sweater. She was indeed a bit taller and some how changed. Well, duh. Kids grow up, right? Even undernourished ones who come from very short genes. On my first day, I got busy doing one on one tutoring in the library (can you see why volunteers are essential? No one at home can help because they have never been to school themselves), so I didn't really see much of her. But then recess began.
Someone in the last year gave the school a bunch of jump ropes and taught the kids how to jump. And at recess, there was Marcela. She can jump fast; she can jump slow; she can jump on one foot and then the other; she can cross her arms and jump and she can jump backwards. And she can jump longer than anyone in the universe. She is the jump rope star of Nuestro Futuro.
She is the center of attention, and when there are jumping competitions during the half hour break from study, she is The One everybody--absolutely everybody--wants on their team. Head held high, her smile shining like a string of fireflies, Marcela, Queen of the Rope.
The possibilities for change are almost as startling and surprising as the things that bring change. A jump rope. Really? Yep, a jump rope. But what do I know?
My sister leaves in two days (lots of fun showing her around/showing her off:)), and my querido esposo comes next Wednesday. Right now, we have "little summer" going on--a short respite from the winter rains and colder temperatures that have forced us into sweaters and rain jackets. The past three days have brought warm, 75 degree days and NO RAIN!!!! My most sincere sympathies (and empathy!) for all Seattelites who have been enjoying exactly 78 minutes of summer.
Paz a todos--
Jali
Comments welcome; Just sayin' :).

2011-07-14T13:42:00.000-07:00

I have been waiting for some sort of inspiration or great idea to come to me before posting anything this year. I don't want to write the kind of thing that has no point, or meaning to anyone else. You know--kind of like when someone decides to describe in GREAT detail the dream they had the night before, or how a five year old answers the question, "What did you do in school today?" Something that goes, "Today I woke up and then walked around Antigua visiting all of my favorite places and then I had lunch at a great place--beans and rice--and it rained really hard and I am so glad I remembered to bring a better rain jacket and then I went our for my first Moza (the best dark beer in the world) and I was so tired but couldn't sleep so I took a half an Ambien and the next morning Spanish classes began and this year I have a new teacher whose name is Sandra and most of the other teachers remembered me from the years before and now my room is on the second floor so I have a much better view of Volcan Agua plus I brought a mosquito net to hang over the window so it is great to have fresh air at night and on Monday I went to begin work at Nuestro Futuro, the project school in Ciudad Vieja, and my kids are now in 3rd grade, so they are much easier to work with because everything does not need to be turned into a game and I love love love them a lot and I think many of them love me, too..."
Gross, right?!?
But as my sister and our new friend Edie and I wandered around the ancient ruins of churches, convents and monasteries last Sunday, a question kept creeping up. These places, now under the protection of the government and declared internationally important historical sites, have been carefully preserved and enhanced with gardens and such, and made me wonder, what was it like to live here at the convent de las Capuchinas or the monastery of Santa Clara? Not so great if one were a woman, it turns out.
Being a nun in Santiago de los Caballeros (what Antigua Guatemala was called when it was the capital of all of colonial Central America and before an earthquake demolished big fat stone and mortar buildings with a shudder) was a hard life. I don't mean by our standards (too obvious) but by the standards of colonial times.
The Capuchin order began in 1520 as an effort to reform the Franciscans to what one guy who probably didn't get enough love from his mom thought would be closer to San Francisco's original intention. The order was austere (it still exists, but I think today members are allowed to wear shoes and use blankets and pillows--forbidden acts for the original Capuchines) and originally not in great favor with Rome, but it nonetheless managed to eventually spread across the Atlantic.
In 1725 the cloister and temple of Our Lady Pilar of Zaragoza opened in Santiago de los Caballeros and some nineteen women entered its doors, never to emerge. For such a poverty-devoted group, the buildings, even today, are/were astounding. Like everything else constructed for colonial occupation, the walls were three feet thick and the ceilings reached into the heavens, the sanctuary and hallways cavernous. A rotund, two story building served as the dormitory for the sisters and its second floor is a common area with nineteen tiny cells (such an appropriate word!) arranged neatly around the circle, bringing forth visions of Foucault's "Panopticon." No one ever had a moment of privacy, as each resident could easily see into everyone else's space.
While nothing of the sleeping quarters is truly horrible, the first floor of the dormitorio reveals a curious conception of what "to the glory of God" did/can mean. The outside wall is symmetrically lined with people-sized, arched niches that face out into the courtyard and gardens. At the top of each niche is an opening, and each of the three sides are marked with holes. The purpose of these little niches is hard to fathom, but here is what I learned:
The Capuchines was a penintential order. But because women could not be trusted to ascribe their own penance, the niches (each nun had her very own, right under her cell) were constructed to provide proper discipline. In the convent's days of glory, the niches also had manacles attached on each side and a spike affixed to the back wall. When one committed an infraction (passing gas during Vespers; coughing during Matins: smiling?!?), she was duly chained into her private torture chamber, her back against the spike, and water was poured in a constant flow through hole in the top. I think today we call this, "water boarding." Because each niche faces out in to common areas, the sisters were able to enjoy the show of their compatriots being tortured.
Good times. Yay God.
The Santa Clara's have a very different story. The monastery was actually both convent and cloister for monks (monjas y monjes). The grounds are symmetrical and square, the architecture invoking images of Italian renaissance. Today, the gardens are beautiful and the place initially seems to speak of order and peace. There is a sanctuary that served not only the residents, but the public as well. A pulpit faces out onto the street, evoking images of El Papa in Rome (not to be confused with "la papa" which means "potato"). Curiously, though, the floor of the sanctuary has three stairwells that descend beneath its floors. Yes indeed, below is a crypt where people were buried. Not so unusual, but wait--it gets really interesting.
The men and women--all who had of course taken vows of celibacy--were cloistered in very separate parts of the grounds. Yet for some reason, tunnels were built that connected the living quarters of the nuns and monks (really?!? What could have possibly been the excuse?!?) and of course from time to time Miraculous Conception took place. No specific stories are known today--was it love? Rape? Mutual, simple horniness? But what is know is that when one of the nuns became embarazada ( I just love that the cognate used for "pregnant" is "embarrassed"), she was interred in the crypt until delivery of the child. When Santa Clara was excavated for rennovation, piles of tiny bones--infant bones--were discovered all over the floor of the crypt. Again, way to revere all that is holy.
Edie was a bit amazed that the docents at both ruins were so willing to share these shameful facts of Antiguan history. Yet our own history includes the orphan trains and Indian schools and other lovely moments of incredible cruelty.
Okay, I am just getting pedantic now, not to mention morose. But honestly, to walk in Antigua is to walk in history. And to walk in history is to learn stuff about humanity.
I will hope for more uplifting inspiration:).
Paz a todos!

2010-08-18T16:37:00.000-07:00

As I was getting my stuff ready to pack up, guess what I found? Here are just a few images that I hope show you what I know of Guatemala.

the view from my room

Nuestro Futuro--second floor is up!

Notice the empty library shelves. Marvin is the librarian--he rocks.

I wasn't joking about the donated books.

That's me with Juan Antonio and Susana.

the view from Nuestro Futuro

A river. Oh, wait, is that the street?!? Yup.

street scenes of Antigua

faces of Xela

carrying the Virgin Mary through the streets

the men's turn

graffiti in Xela: "we must learn to use water or will have to live without her"

more graffiti: "for life--work and peace"

in the selva at Lake Atitlan: spidey
Steve Davis & me as we make our way through the mighty jungle near Lake Atitlan

you gotta know what this is

What could be more beautiful?

Final thoughts:

Sitting in a cafe,

wide open store front,

rain dropping hard on plaza central,

taxis circling,

people with licorice hair and cocoa powder faces covered in sheets of plastic walking by,

I am almost anywhere

but here.

Home tomorrow.

Paz,

Holly

2010-08-12T16:37:00.000-07:00

Some things are universal. This week at Nuestro Futuro, kids got report cards and waited with anxious faces to see who did well, who did not. Juan Antonio did not get straight "cien por cientos"(100%), but all things considered, did very well, and Susana, our dyslexic goddaughter, did really great in math and okay in everything that was language-dependent. I am proud, just plain proud of them and all the others who continue to apply an incredible amount of energy into the process of getting an education.

Another grade school universal this week at Nuestro Futuro: the first grade boys chased the first grade girls all around during recess, and to escape their tormentors, the girls fled into the girls' bathroom. The boys of course followed them in and were promptly ordered out by a mindful teacher. Here's where things change up a bit. The girls slammed the door shut; the lock slid into place and refused to budge in the small hands of the the five captives. Screaming and crying and general panic ensued. A key was produced, but did not open the door. More screaming, more crying, more panic. Silvia, whose vocation is social worker and whose avocation is saint, finally climbed up a ladder and waved her hand through the ventilation holes at the top of the wall. There she remained for about two hours talking to the girls, getting them to sing and count and even laugh, while Estuardo, young hottie who also is up for sainthood, drilled several holes in the heavy metal door in order to get the damn thing open. Finalmente, exito (success)!

I am tired, tired, tired. Today was my last day at Nuestro Futuro and it has been a long five weeks of grimy kids and all kinds of things that I don't understand. I don't understand why toilet paper sits on the teachers' desks and must be asked for. I don't understand why dogs sometimes wander in and then out of the of classrooms. I don't understand how a kid can slide across several feet of concrete and stand up laughing. I don't understand how a kid can be so skinny and still manage to come to school every damn day, homework completed. I don't understand why there are rules that say I can't give my left over jar of Skippy to that same skinny kid. I don't understand why someone would send a box of books, all in English and all old-school canon (Billy Budd, for Christ's sake), to a primary school in a country where the people struggle to attain literacy in their own language. I don't understand why one teacher sells candy to her students from her desk. And I don't understand why it is almost time to go home.

Okay, so I understand a lot of those things, but some will forever be a mystery. I am not a Guatemaleteca and never will be able to unravel the tiny threads that weave together in order to create this country. But who would want to, anyway?

I have said good bye to a lot of people--kids, teachers, my instructor here a Centro Linguistico (did I mention that I again studied with Elsa, the grammar dominatrix?!? She rocks--not that she understands that particular vernacular:)). One week left and I am going to travel a bit--to Xela (finally!) and yes, Once More to the Lake. but right now I am going to sit around and cry a little bit because I already miss those snotty kids.

2010-08-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

You can call it a camioneta. You can call it a chicken bus, or even just plain bus (but with a
Spanish accent: "boos"). But don't call it a "bus de pollo" because somehow the literal translation of chicken bus is insulting. They are everywhere and they carry thousands of people all over this country to other cities, other pueblos, other neighborhoods and even just down the road. I stand in front of Santa Lucia every morning, and no matter what time I get there--five minutes early, 10 minutes late--there are always two or three camionetas that come by with the conductor's cry: Ciu Vieja!

Here's how to make a chicken bus: take a retired, no longer considered usable school bus from the USA, and transport it somewhow to Guatemala. Once here, strip the interior completely and reconfigure it so that at least three more rows of seats are crammed in. Attach hand rails the length of the entire ceiling and and then suspend racks just above head level so that people who rely on the buses to transport their goods (things like huge sacks of potatoes and piles of firewood) from place to place have somewhere to put their stuff. Paint the outside all kinds of brightly mismatching colors. Affix horrifying pictures of Jesus on the cross with blood dripping down his face to the windows, or maybe the sad sad face of Mary in mourning. Make sure that the dashboard includes a prayer, petitioning God to protect the piloto, the conductor and the passengers. Dont' forget the sound system that will be able to blast American oldies or Latin music through the entire bus. And pick a good name (something like Dulce Daniela), and paint it in huge letters so that it can be seen from afar. The last addition is the cargo rack added to the top of the bus for stuff that just won't fit in side. Finally, cram twice as many people into the bus than there is room for, and you have a chicken bus.

The public bus system is so very different here. Noisy, crowded, a bit dangerous, cheap, efficient. The distance from where I live to where I need to get to is almost the exact same distance as the Fauntleroy ferry terminal is to South Seattle Community College. From start to finish/door to door, one trip takes 20 minutes andcosts about 30 cents ( including the 5 minute walk to the bus stop and climb up the side of Volcan Agua); the other takes 45, including a 20 minute wait for a transfer and costs 9 times as much. I'm just sayin'.

Being un piloto or un conductor (it takes two men to run the bus--one to drive, the other to do everything else; the second is way more important) de un bus is a decent job. The job of conductor takes strong lungs and an agility that rivals that of a chimpanzee. They jump off and on the bus before it has completely stopped thousands of times a day, calling out their destinations and beckoning passengers to load on. With the seats crammed so full that passangers' butts touch across the aisles and others stand in the back in full body contact filling every millimeter of floor space, the conductores inch their way from front to back, collecting fares that they keep in their hands and shove into their pockets. "Intimate" is the word that comes to mind when considering how it feels to have the piloto's butt smoosh against my shoulder once my fare is paid. The pilotos and the drivers get a cut of the fares they collect, which is why laws that govern occupancy are always ignored.

The job has an awful danger to it, too. I am not referring to the possiblity of falling off when the bus is moving--in fact, I have never heard of that happening. It's the gangs that pose danger. At various times during the day, money is turned over. If the conductor has not managed to fill the bus adaquately, too bad. Street knowledge is that pilotos y conductores have lost their lives for not forking over enough dinero. I have never read it in the paper or thank God seen it happen, but it seems to be conventional knowledge that it is so.

I took a 2 1/2 hour chiken bus ride last week, but not to my original destination to Xela. I had a weird bug of some sort that left me uninterested in travelling the 5 hours, so I changed my plans at the last minute and travelled again to Lake Atitlan with a bunch of people from the school where I study Spanish. I am so glad I went. I had been thinking that I didn't really need to see the lake again, having done so the past two years. Yet it is stunning and so worth the chicken bus ride! We had a small bit of luck in that it only poured Saturday night and Sunday while we were waiting for our return shuttle. Speaking of rain, why in the name of all that I hold valuable did I decide not to bring those damn boots?!? Last year's drought was an anomoly; this year's flooding so far has been, too. My feet are wet and my one pair of jeans is now a strange green.

As we travelled to the lake, evidence was all around us of the devastating power water has. For several miles through the highlands, out one side of the bus was the vista of rambly, rolly hills, neatly and beautifully cultivated into a random pattern of every hue of green. For miles stretched the promise of a strong harvest. The view of the upslope, however, was quite different. Rivers of orangish mud looked as though they had been freeze-framed mid flow. Pebbles, rocks and boulders sat in small mountains in strange and inappropriate places (great word, "inappropriate") like on top of people's homes, in front of cars and in the middle of the road. Sometimes we had to wait for cars to pass from the opposite direction: one side of the road was covered in mud; the other had half fallen down the slope. Those of us with edge fear--okay, I--focused on the prayer across the dashboard, looking neither left nor right. In Ciudad Vieja, still some 3oo or so people are living in the Cathedral because of the mudslides that buried their neighborhood. Out in the country, their aren't any cathedrals, so I don't really know where those people go. It is a long hard job to unbury a house with a shovel. I suspect that many stay buried and people just build a few feet over.

I have now been here for over a month. I have one week left out in Ciudad Vieja, then another to travel a bit, should I want to. Xela is still high on my places to see. Almost every day it has rained with a fervor that those of us who live in the Rainy City never experience. I am so very thankful that I do not have to stand waiting for the bus!

2010-07-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking a lot about books this week. Right now, I am in the middle of reading my fourth novel since leaving Seattle--a raucous, funny, kind of gross Carl Hiaasen called Sick Puppy. When I finish it, I will leave it at Cafe Arco Iris (Rainbow Cafe) or the Bagel Barn, or some other place like that for another tourist to pick up and read. This is how it is done here; we share with strangers books we have finished and don't want to lug back to where ever we came from. Here at Centro Liguistico Internacional where I live and study Spanish, there is a big, cement bin in the "internet cafe" (the expression is used VERY loosely here--there are 6 or 7 old computers, and on any given day, maybe 3 of them work. I am writing on my HP notebook. TG for wifi!) filled with all kinds of cast off novels in many different languages. My friend Jason from last year, who happened to show up again the same week I did, is finishing a historical fiction book about the war here in Guatemala and has promised to hand it over before he leaves for Boston on Tuesday. I am excited to read it. For a lot of us, anticipating a good read is kind of like anticipating an upcoming vacation, and there are plenty of people who reread favorite books, even though we know the outcome, just because we want to go there again.

All of this leads to an irony: we, who have loads of money, can read anything for free. Poor people who do not frequent places like Arco Iris, Bagel Barn or language schools do not have access even to libraries and therefore, even if they know how to read, don't get a huge opportunity to do so. Another oddity is that, for as utterly inexpensive everything is here in Antigua, books are not cheap to buy. In fact, they are often more expensive than they are in the US. All of this leads me to ponder those empty library shelves at Nuestro Futuro. I am going to try to do something about starting to fill those shelves.

Juan Antonio is finally back at school. I saw him Friday afternoon. He only stayed for an hour of the two hour session, but he was running and laughing and wearing his Vashon Island tee shirt. The school is a weird, wonderful place.

But it is also a place with lots of (melo)drama. Herbert, the director, has resigned. I don' t think I told many people this story, but last year, right before I left, he hit me up for money. "Por los ninos," he said. Bullshit. Por sus bolsas (his pockets), is more like it. I mentioned his request to the teacher, who immediately called the head office in Antigua, and Herbert got an official dressing down, PLUS a write up in his Permanent Record. I got an extremely prompt, personal apology, face to face, from the two founders of the entire organization. For us Estadounidenses, it is unthinkable that a school principle would ask for money in such a casual, nonspecifc way. And let's call it what is was--graft, payola, boodle. And stupid. My small acts of generosity must have led him to believe that I was unable to discern who was in need and who was not. The obvious reality is that in many countries, people with various levels of power have what to them feels like a right to skim from the coffers. And lets not kid ourselves, it happens in the good ol' US of A, too, just with maybe a different kind of finesse. Let us not forget the past two years. But I digress, again. Sorry!

Anyway, Herbert will be gone by August 6th, and right now, teachers, volunteers and even newer office staff are having a delightful time pondering and sharing philosophies as to why Herbert is soon-to-be history. I have it from a reliable, unnamable source that "resign" is a bit of a euphemism, and I like to think that I played a small part in what I hope will be an improvement in an already incredibly wonderful organization.

So I hope that that little story does not turn anyone off from thinking well of, and maybe donating to, Ninos de Guatemala, as I have seen first hand the good that it is doing, and the growth of the school. The kids I worked with last year who were just beginning to read and do simple math are now doing multiplication and division--two skills that I don't remember my own kid learning in the second grade. Plans are in place and funding begun to add enough classrooms to teach through the sixth grade. Here, a sixth grade education opens a few doors; not many, but some. With a bit of grace, some of these kids will make it through high school and maybe even some sort of higher education/professional certification.

I cannot find the cord thingy that connects my camera to my computer. It must be some where, but that some where may be on my bedroom floor on Vashon. I had trouble getting my big suitcase down to less than 50 pounds, and when I finally did, I zipped it up, turned it over, and discovered a foot-long slash on its underside. So with about 20 minutes to spare before sailing on the 5:45 AM ferry, I was frantically repacking. Que sera. Pics will have to wait.

Next weekend, I am traveling to a place called Xela ("Shay-la") with Shiobon (sp?!?), one of the other volunteers.

Paz a todos--
Holly

2010-07-18T09:43:00.000-07:00

So E. B. White takes his kid to this nifty little vacation spot he remembers from many childhood trips that he took with his family. Much at the lake seems to have remained impervious to time as he watches his son repeat the same rituals that he himself performed as a boy: sneaking out early to fish, splashing in the lake, scooting across the water in a small boat. Yet as the adult E.B. observes more closely, he sees evidence of change in small things, such as the face of the waitress, the tracks in the dirt road made by cars, the sounds of motors. White ends his essay ruminating about death, a moment almost as shocking to the reader as the cold water is that closes around the groin of his son, causing White's somewhat morose contemplations. "Once More to the Lake" sometimes feels like White's last time to the lake, but when I read his bittersweet essay, I find myself hoping he and his son went back many times more.

In the streets of Antigua, I see many of the exact same things as I did the year before and the year before that. Of course the Mayan women, arrayed in their magnificent colorful splendor, goods piled high on their heads and their arms weighed down with more stuff, continue to offer un buen precio for whatever little thing catches my eye; countless people like me from richer countries crowd the streets and I hear German, French, what I think is Dutch, as well as Chinese, and of course a lot of Engish in its various accents; the awful tuktuks (the WORST form of mechanized transforation ever devised) are still scooting around looking for passengers. This year, my third, brought a sense of familiarity that I hadn't quite anticipated--who ever thought that this place, so foreign to every other place in which I have ever passed more than a few weeks, would include a sense of homeliness? Certainly not me.

There is of course, change, though. Some of the beggars on the street are new; others are no longer around (this is the only contemplation of death, I promise!). And out at Nuestro Futuro in Ciudad Vieja, the school now sports a second floor that contains three new classrooms, a meeting room for the teachers, and an honesttogod library with lots of shelves, and very few books. But it is a huge start. Wednesday afternoon was my first trip out there. The nineteen kids I worked with last year are down to 18, as Fransisco, the ADHD kid covered in warts, was removed from the school. He fought all the time with other kids and his family decided that, at 9, he was old enough to start working. Sigh. But there are many new, younger kids: this year's first grade includes about 15 new kids, as does the kindergarden class. I cannot even contemplate how to explain what it was like walking into that school, seeing the kids at recess and having bunches of them rush up and absolutely smother me. My goddaughter Susana attached herself to me like a mosquito bite, except there was nothing annoying about it at all.

In the past year, more has changed besides the physical plant. The most incredible change is in the actual structure of the Ninos de Guatemala, the ngo that started the school. Last year, I was the only volunteer working in the classroom during the morning, and one of only three or four who worked tutoring in the afternoon. Now there are volunteers in all of the five classrooms and at the moment there are eight of us doing afternoon tutoring Monday through Wednesday, and "Expresiones Artisitas" on Thursday & Friday afternoons. I, along with two other volunteers, are teaching rudimentary English to the first and second graders. Haylo. May nay ees Jali. Wat ees yo nay? :). Lots of fun!!!

Juan Antonio, the boy that Richard and I "adopted" as our godson, has not been at the school this past week. He is sick with a mysterious disease that the doctors had tentatively diagnosed as polio. I am choking just a bit as I write this part. Juan Antonio is, as everyone agrees, the absolutely smartest kid at the school. School is his life, he says. It gives him purpose and a way to discover who he really is, who he was designed to be in a more perfect world. I saw him Thursday as I was climbing the volcano with some of the other volunteers for the afternoon's activities. There he was, with his mother and new baby sister. What can I say? I don't know. The good news is that polio has been ruled out and he will be allowed to return once he has muscle strength in his legs to make it there and back, as well as survive a day's worth of class.

Antigua is a fantasy. It has a quality that, while not quite dreamlike, makes it seem a bit unreal. Ciudad Vieja, on the other hand, is place where kids don't get vaccines, and school libraries have empty shelves. But for us, Ciudad Vieja also seems unreal, as we don't worry about things like polio and can't imagine life without countless books. Walking the streets of Antigua, seeing all the cool stuff, and climbing the side of Volcan Agua, dodging piles of dogpoop and inhaling the constant smoke of fire wood, I am not at the lake, but I am hoping that I will be back next year. And the next.

2010-07-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

Today the world stopped for about 2 1/2 hours to watch. Here in Antigua, bars and restaurants filled up with people from all over the world to witness Spain win the World Cup. The bar I was in was 100% for Spain and we groaned and cheered and groaned again, and finally we all claimed our questionable ancestral rights to call ourselves championes and joyfully screamed ourselves hoarse. Enthusiasm is infectious. My new friend Caroline from Scotland admits to not being a big futbol fan, and I, typical American, don't know much about the rules or teams, but we cheered along with everyone else and got utterly swept up in the excitement of what was truly a thrilling game. Drinking Moza (the best dark beer in the world) helped a bit.

Last week I read an editorial in Time Magazine about the lack of success futbol (okay, "soccer") has in the US. The gist was that most Estadounidenses (people from the US--you can't really say "North Americans" b/c that includes Mexico) don't have the patience to watch athletes play so damn hard for so many minutes, yet with little to no actual scoring. If you think about our national sports, basketball probably comes closest to futbol in the level of constant exersion on the part of the athletes. Yet compare the scores: basketball scores are often close to 100 point per team, whereas today's game ended with 1-0, with the one score coming in the last 5 minutes of the second overtime. For those of you who watched, you probably noticed that MANY times, one team or the other almost scored. Frustrating, very very frustrating, but probably more so for the players. (I also found myself wonding if part of the professional training inclues instruction and intense practice on how to grab one's shin and writhe in agony after being felled by a player from the other team. But I digress.) Yet it was exciting, very very exciting. No time outs, not clock stops when the ball went out of bounds or someone got a free kick; just relentless, hard-driven play. Who couldn't love that? I am not 100% sold on the the point the Time editorial was making. Maybe I was simply infected with the fervor of a futbol-loving country watching its cousins kick ass, but , damn, it was worth every second!

2010-07-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

Note to self: Deep Woods Off only works on the body parts to which it is applied. Hmmm, I thought I had already learned that one. Today's mosquito bite count is 3, all on my feet.

If you have paid any attention to happenings in Central America, you probably know that the weather here has been unkind recently. Hurricanes, mudslides, errupting volcanoes and a lot of rain--not to mention a GIANT sinkhole in the middle of Guatemala City--have caused some damage and taken some lives. But today, as I wandered around Antigua to get my bearings and take care of a few essentials, such as food and buying a new Movistar phone (phone plus 75 minutes to any where in the world cost me 214 quetzales--about 28 bucks. Take THAT, Verizon!!!!!), the sun shone and only a few rain drops fell. The people here at Centro Linguistico remembered me, and so did the guy at Antigua Gimnasio, which I have again joined for the 6 weeks I will be here, and I am sleeping in the same room as I did last year after my friend, Anne, returned to the States. All of this means that I feel, not as though I have come home, but at least a strong enough sense of familiarity that I feel at home. I find myself wondering how many returns to the same place make it truly one's own. I am not sure 3 is it, but the proverbial charmed number does bring with it less of a sense of awe and more of a sense of being able to maneuver with some facility.

Not much to report as of yet. Monday I will go to the main office of Ninos de Guatemala, the NGO that runs the school in Ciudad Vieja. I will also start a week of intensive language instruction so that I can communicate with los ninos.

Thanks to everyone who has responded so far.

!paz a todos!
Holly

2010-07-07T11:44:00.000-07:00

In 43 1/2 hours I will be on a plane headed back to Guatemala, this time for six weeks. I am heading out alone this time. Richard was supposed to join me for a week or so, but his company is VERY busy making skimmers that are going to help clean up the CF in the Gulf of Mexico. So solo it is.

Right now, my intention, after a week of intensive Spanish learning (it is true--use it or lose it. Sigh.), is to again spend many of my waking hours volunteering at Nuestro Futuro. Last year at this exact time, I was headed off to the same country with only a vaguely formed idea of volunteering somewhere that would make use of my many talents, talents that most definitely did not include health care of any kind nor working with severely handicapped kids. I know my boundaries. What I did not know was that I would become so smitten with a bunch of grubby-faced kids who didn't have the conventional sense to hate school. I am very excited to see them. During this last year, Richard and I have stayed in sporadic touch with the two kids we "adopted" as godchildren--Susana and Juan Antonio. They are second graders now. Someone who was a longer term volunteer started an EFL program for the first and second graders, so maybe I will help teach English. I don't have a real preference; I just want to GET THERE.

I am eager to see Antigua Guatemala again and make new, if temporary, best friends with people of all ages from all over the planet. Well, I don't recall anyone from Africa, although one cool guy I met last summer who was working on a Master's in Library Science did say that as an undergrad he was an "Africanist." (Hi, Steve, if you are reading this:)). I am not sure if I will d o any in-country travel this time. I have no set agenda, other than those kids.

Here is the short list of things I am trying to remember:

Mosquitos love me. Deep Woods Off is the ONLY thing that will keep me from going nuts.
I have a double prescription of the antibiotic that will keep me from wasting a way, should I (again) get travelers' troubles and will take it at the very first sign of distress. If it is grumbling, it will 99% mostly likely erupt.
Toilet paper goes in the basket, not in the actual toilet.
Don't touch the electric shower. Ever.
I don't need to pack so much. I mean really, the rain boots came out only once and mostly only on principle. Wet feet when it is 78 degrees F do not get chilblains.

If I have anything to say, I will post, and for those of you who are on my email list, I will let you know if/when there is something new to read. Last year, I loved getting comments from anyone who took the time or felt so moved. Even if I don' t know you, write me if you like!
!bueno verano a todos!
Amor,
Jali

2009-09-13T13:15:00.000-07:00

the colors of Guatemala

Imagenes de Maximon--and crosses--for sale

more Maximons

2009-09-13T12:51:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-09-03T13:52:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

2009-08-23T08:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

2009-08-23T06:23:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-09T10:17:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-08-02T13:23:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-07-27T15:51:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-25T17:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-20T18:25:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-07-12T11:59:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-08T17:24:00.000-07:00

This is Suki. She will miss me the most.

2009-07-05T17:52:00.000-07:00

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