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!

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

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.

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!

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

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.

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!