Hendrick Turns 5

Nic and Hendrick "helping" me in the kitchen the day before the party. Ela asked me to bake a cake for Hendrick's birthday a few weeks ago. Later I found out one cake really meant 8 cakes. 

The birthday boy. All spiffed up for his big day. 

No party is a party in Guatemala without a religious service. This one lasted almost two hours and clearly didn't hold the attention of these kids. 

Patient kids wait for the service to end so they can take their turn at the pinatas. 

A view from the roof: chaos ensues as the pinatas are emptied. The roof was the safest place to be at that point. 

My family: Benancio, Ela, Hendrick and Elkin (the cutest and fattest Guatemalan kid out there)

After Ela asked Nic and I to sing Happy Birthday to Hendrick, in English, a capela, the candle was lit and Hendrick made a wish. We drew a car on the cake because for months Hendrick had been talking about how his dad was going to buy him a car for his birthday. Turns out he did get a powerwheels race car. It's still not as cool as the car I made on the cake though. 

Christmas in Chirijox

Right on time, Hendrick knocked on the door at 7 a.m., knowing Nic had arrived the night before. When we opened it, Hendrick shot up his arm with a Spiderman card in his hand. With an attempted look of intimidation; he shouted "hombre aranya!". Yes, the kid is obsessed and was decked out in a Spiderman sweatsuit he got as an early Christmas present. 

A Cheese Ball Christmas: Nic and I with the family Christmas tree. 

It's tradition to eat tamales on Christmas here in Guatemala. Instead of making them, my family bought 82 tamales from a women who lives on the lake. Christmas Eve afternoon we left the cold and foggy mountains and moved towards the sun and warm. The last 20 minutes to the lake we climbed in the back of the truck for the amazing views and some sun in our eyes.  

Waiting for midnight, Henrick and I take some time on the swing set. The next day while killing time, hoping to be offered left-over tamales, Nic and I successfully broke one side of the swing and snapped the rope on the tire. After that, we pushed Hendrick so high he fell backwards out of the swing. Fortunately, I was standing in front of the swing and caught him, mid back-flip, on his way to the ground. We decided not to play so rough after that. Note: the white specks in the picture are no snow flakes as I hoped, but a good layer of fog.  

I was surprised to see the amount of Christmas light that were hung around Chirijox. Around 10, we took a stroll through town. Little 5 year old girls to grown men were lighting off fireworks in the streets. Tire fires were keeping people warm in the chilly fog. People were in good moods, greeting each other on Noche Buena. 

We returned home and kept ourselves warm by the wood stove sipping highly-sugared coffee while Dona Ana nodded off. We exchanged gifts with the family outside by the Christmas tree and at around ten minutes till midnight the show began. Flying and exploding fireworks, rolls of firecrackers, whistling fountains and even the Hen Laying Egg were on display. From the roof of Tia Isabel's house we could see Chriijox and three neighboring communities on the hills around. For about 20 minutes it sounded like a war zone. Both Nic and I agreed that Christmas in Guatemala rivals any fireworks display we'd seen on any 4th of July. Inside, until 1 am we ate tamales and drank fruit punch. 

Chichi

Nic and I arrived in Chichicastenango after a 40 minute microbus ride where I sat on Nic's lap, but they still charged us both the fee. Chichi already is a special place as it is the largest and oldest market in Central America, with a large artisan aspect. We had heard that the feria there was something to behold and indeed it was stimulus overload in the most wonderful way. 

The church was elaborately decorated and had the Saints Behind the Glass on full display out front; huge colorful feathers reminding patrons to pay honors.

The street scene from the steps of the church on the other end of the plaza: candy vendors making thier way through densely packed crowds of traditionally dressed Guatemalans; in the middle elaborately costumed locals dance to the tunes of three stages right next to each other each playing different tunes; the pole for Los Palos Voladores; The Pole Fliers and finally the church steps.

In the 10 minutes that we hung out on the steps probably 50 feet of firecrackers were set off and 10 bombs were launched into the air. The steps were littered inches deep and crews were on patrol with buckets of water just incase things got out of hand. Notice the people on the steps shielding themselves with baskets; stray firecrackers fly some distance from the rolls and explode seemingly at bystanders.

This 100 foot pole is set up for Los Palos Voladores; The Pole Fliers, as mentioned earlier. Apparently men climb this janky ladder to a janky pivoting point at the top, tie themselves to the pivoting apparatus and leap from the top, setting the apparatus spinning, flying over the crowd, barely brushing the trees and buildings around. We waited nearly 5 hours for these guys to do their thing to no avail. By 4 we had to catch our respective busses outa there. 

A parade of the costumed locals through the market. They marched to a marimba that was being carried by a man on each end. I think these guys represent the Spanish that came to Guatemala.

Enjoying the spoils of the feria; a Guatemalan donut. 

Patzite Interview

Aldea Patzite is about a 20 minute walk from Chirijox on a dirt path, down and over a ravine and through pine trees. Ela, Hendrick and I walked there yesterday for a visit with one of Ela's friends. Paula's husband is the director of the primary school in Patzite and would be a good person to help me fill out a community survey. We interrupted them in the middle of a horror flick, but Francisco was kind enough to sit with me. I proceeded to ask him some basic questions; how many people in the community, what grows well, the economy. I thought my Spanish was getting pretty good, but multiple times during the interview, Francisco gave me a confused look and asked to see the question. By the end, I felt he was relieved that is was over so he could get back to his flick. Can't blame the guy. 

After, Paula walked Ela, Hendrick and I to the top of the community to a house of a woman who I gathered to be a priestess. We entered a room, painted pepto pink with a 6 foot ceiling, with support beams taking another 6 inches from that. I stood between the beams, my head almost touching the ceiling while the women chatted in K'iche. A dozen or so kids appeared at the doors and windows of the room and stared. When I turned my head to give a wink they giggled and scattered, only to return seconds later. After a few minutes, the woman pointed in my direction, still speaking in K'iche. Hendrick, always a quick wit, broke in. "Esta gringa esta la novia de Elkin"; this gringa is the girlfriend of Elkin. It is true that I tell Elkin, Ela's 7 month old son that I am his girlfriend. This always gets him a good laugh, that's why he uses it a lot. I said goodbye in K'iche to the family; je ba'. This got another good laugh, continuing until we were on our way back down the hill. 

The women of the committee took me here to look for clay. It is a short 10 minute walk from my front door. I was elated to know that there is a stream this close to my house. As you can see it is not much for might but provides all the natural beauty and tranquility needed to help keep me sane. We did also encounter small deposits of dark clay that we may be able to use for artisan projects. 

Friday

When I stepped out of my door this morning at 6 am, I looked to my left to see the clouds slowly cresting the ridge and slinking down the mountain in the morning sun. I boiled water and made a cup of coffee. I used the rest of the water to wash my face. By 9 I had arrived in Nahuala. 

I entered through the sheet metal fence into the dwelling of my K'iche teacher, Don Diego. Don Diego is in his 70's, and can speak 5 Mayan languages and a bit of English. He literally wrote the K'iche dictionary and has traveled to handfuls of countries teaching K'iche. He is also a Mayan priest. His beautiful wife, Pascua, told me that he was out buying medicine, that his stomach was hurting him. She pulled a chair out for me in the common room, near the alter; a mix of Catholicism and Mayan.  She told me how she was born in Nahuala and how her son is in the states. She asked me about my state and like most Guatemalans, asked me if I was sad to be here. 

Once Don Diego and Tim, the volunteer in Nahuala arrived we began classes. Diego gives us lessons on a small chalkboard hanging crookedly on a nail with chalk that sometimes doesn't write. This lesson slowly evolved into story time, Don Diego telling us a myriad of Mayan myths. 

By 11 I had caught a bus to Xela. I had luck today because the first bus to come along was a greyhound type bus, with comfy seats that recline (although mine seemed to be jammed). When the ayudante came to collect my fair, I asked him if they were going to the terminal. He said yes. I love it when the buses go straight to the terminal, it is also where the market is. About a half hour later, the women next to me informed me that they weren't going to the terminal, but to the bus office. This isn't the first time an ayudante has lied to me. 

Once in Xela I caught a local microbus to the market. One end of the market, where I was dropped off, there are stalls with piles and piles of clothes from the states. I always like to stop and dig through the clothes just to see what I can find. Today I found two wool plaid shirts for Nic for 20 quetzales; just under 3 bucks. I wandered through the rest of the huge market and decided to take a different way than usual to the other end. This literally got me lost in this huge market. I wandered for about ten more minutes before orienting myself. 

Just behind the terminal is Hiper Pais; Guatemalan Wal-Mart. It has wonderful things like pesto and wheat bread and imitation crab; or krab should I say. They also have a hot deli and my stomach was telling me it was time to eat. I asked for a portion of fried chicken and they handed me a plate that had the biggest piece of chicken I think I've ever seen. It was delicious, although not as delicious as the friend chicken I had at the market in Totonicapan the weekend before. That was the best in my life. 

I cleared the doors of Hiper with my backpack loaded and a costal (rice bag converted to shopping bag) over my shoulder and headed back to the terminal. Once there, I was confronted, as usual, with men with confused looks on their faces when they ask me where I'm going. "Chirijox." I say. Confused look appears. They respond, "Antigua? Panajachel? San Pedro?" Those are the tourist spots. "No. Chirijox." "Chirijox?" They ask, still with a confused look, but point me to a bus.

The ride home was much more typical than my ride in. An old school bus, hardly recognizable after the paint job as such, loaded with Guatemalans 3 or 4 to a seat and overhead racks stuffed with bundles of brightly colored fabric, banda music blaring.  An hour and a half later I stepped off the bus at the entrance to Chirijox. I walked up the hill and hooked a right after the third house onto the dirt path. Through the harvested corn field, past the pig pen, along the cypress trees and to the flower field. As I approached the flower field I saw Oso, my guard dog at the house below. He saw me and started running toward me. He has a heart of gold, this one. He accompanied me through the flower field, which is good because there is a big turkey with a big attitude that hangs out there. And I am not ashamed to say, I am scared of this turkey. They are big, ugly birds. I turned left off the path and Oso continued straight toward my family's house. Once in my door I again heated water. This time for coffee again, but also to wash my hair. I missed the Thursday night sauna because I fell asleep. Outside, at my sink with a big pot of water I wetted my head to the sound of a church service. Neighbors, about 4 houses down have a speaker on an 8 foot pole on the top of their roof. They broadcast live the worship part of the service, complete with electric guitar and a traditional flute called a chirimia. 

The clouds have rolled down the mountain again, like they do every day about 5 o'clock. I am back inside, windows and door closed in an attempt to retain what heat may exist in my adobe house with a tin roof. I'm sure that any minute Hendrick will come knocking on my door asking me where I was that I missed our 4 pm Go Fish date. 

And just on time, there he is. He entered and asked where I was. I asked him what is in his hair (he always has something in his hair). "Oh", he said. "It's only frosting." 

Harvests

December is the month of the harvest. Guatemalans who had planted corn kernels in prepared fields in March and walked away, allowing the rain to care for their crops, returned again to the fields. About two weeks ago the corn was doblado, chopped in half to let it dry further. This last week, the harvest began. We entered the fields with bags around our shoulders and stalk by stalk, row by row removed the dry ears of corn. The corn was separated into piles by kind; yellow, black, red, white, and sweet and left to dry further on cement rooftops. The dominating feature that has covered the landscape of Guatemala will soon be no more as again Guatemalans return to the fields to work the cane into the ground and wait for March to come to plant again. 

My personal harvest (that I had nothing to do with, but nonetheless am very excited about) is the one lime that the tree in my yard has provided. 

Henrik has become quite a buddy. We know have daily dates, 4 pm sharp to play Go Fish. He is about to turn 5 and I don't know what the recommended age for this game is, but he does a decent job at it. He's still working on learning his numbers, so this is an excellent game to work on that. He doesn't quite have the strategy down yet, showing me the cards he does have when I ask for a card he doesn't have. So sometimes we play a game we named 'ambos', or both. We both take a card from the stack and show each other what it is. When there is a pair, we set it aside. At the end of the deck, Hendrik decides who wins. It really is kind of exciting. 

 

Thanksgiving Weekend

Thanksgiving weekend was spent here, Sta. Cruz la Laguna, a 20 minute boat ride to a village on the flanks of a volcano with no road access. We had an amazing turkey dinner on the veranda with a slew of travelers and ex-pats. Friday was spent kayaking and cliff jumping and lounging in the hammocks. Saturday for me was spent with my face in a bucket in my room; food poisoning I suspect, and missing the infamous Saturday night BBQ at the hostel. Sunday I still didn't feel well enough to travel so I opted to be sick on the terrace for another day. Unfortunately for her, but fortunately for me, a fellow PCV came down with something as well. We were able to be pathetic together and quiz each other for hours with Trivial Pursuit cards. 

Alana, another Oregon girl, finds maybe the healthiest looking cat in Guatemala, obviously with a diet supplemented by generous travelers.

Wind picked up everyday around noon. Saturday the wind brought some clouds and a beautiful sight to see.

Just after sunrise, the view from the terrace. A man in a wooden canoe is out for a morning paddle.

Tuesday

It was feria in Santa Catarina Ixtahuacan this week. I hadn't visited Ixtahaucan yet, although it is the municipality that my aldea is under. To get there, I had to get off at the highest point on the InterAmerican highway. The altitude is evident; brilliant blue skies, cold gusts of wind and scrub vegetation with little trees. And of course the views. It was beautiful. 

Ferris wheels, some of them hand-cranked.

Yes, I saw The Bull Fighters of Suchitepequez. I entered the wood-plank stadium 40 minutes early to ensure a good seat. 

Before the show, the luchadores were preparing below the seats. I love this picture.  

 The stadium in true Guatemalan style; overcrowded. Here is the first luchador.

Notice only the arm of the luchador on the right, and the clown, yes, there was a clown, on the left.

Here the luchadores are tag-teaming this bull. After the luchadores left, two bull-riders came into the pen. They ride these things with no protection; helmet, pads, gloves. One rode backwards just for kicks. I left before the event ended, as the clouds had rolled in and I didn't want to get stuck leaving the stands with this crowd. The crowd was surprisingly quiet for an event like this, mostly getting rowdy when they pulled the tails on the bulls.

A final note: We've all heard it said, but really, don't touch your eye after handling chiles. Also, when handling chile loco, the pica doesn't go away from your hands even after a good nights rest. Beware removing morning crusties. 

The New Volunteer

We entered the small room from the street just up from the market. The walls were painted dark red, even the ceiling and there was stack of wood five feet high in the corner. Two long tables abutted the wood. In the adjacent corner were two large wood stoves; apoyos, both crowded with pots of various sizes. Tim and I sat down on one of the long benches facing the door, sitting on the same side. To my left and across the table a middle-aged man sat eating a fried egg, deliberately ripping his tortilla into small pieces before eating it. “Pasen adelante,” he said. Pass through. He already knew Tim. Tim eats at this place regularly. The man addressed only me. “What is your name? You are here to work for Nic?” He must have known Nic, the volunteer before me. “When is your birthday?” I told him my birthday. He looked slightly disappointed when I told him. I gave him a questioning look. He explained that this week is the celebration of the patron saint of this town, Santa Katarina, and it was too bad I was not born in November. He reassured me, however, that it was okay that my birthday is in June. It’s just that it’s a long way off. He dropped his eyes and took a few more bites with his ripped tortilla. He looked up at me again with a smile on his face. “How many tortillas will you eat?

******************* 

New Address:

Katie Mader

Nahuala, Solola

Guatemala, Centro America

There are accents over the last "a" in both Nahuala and Solola. It seems strange, but yes, when you address packages and letters to me, they will get to me. 

El Quiche

No, it is not only a delicious brunch food. This department of Guatemala is pronounced Kee-chay, and it is beautiful. Quiche is a large department, bordering Mexico on the North side. I was able to stay with another volunteer who lives up there. He lives 45 minutes down a dirt road in the back of a minitruck. It is wonderful and peaceful there. 

We caught a ride and were dropped about 25 minutes from Nic's village. From there, we took a path leading up, with the next mountaintop as our destination. We didn't quite make it to the top because we stopped to soak in the sun in this beautiful meadow. 

With madrones, pines and a type of alder bearing crispy leaves, this trail fixed my craving for fall hiking in the Northwest. I even had a northwestern friend to share the time with, you can tell by the beard, the plaid and the carrharts. 

House Warming Church Service

I arrived home at noon, just in time. I had been in Xela that morning, getting a replacement credit card as the week before, again in Xela, my wallet disappeared. Kata sat me down at the table and put a plate in front of me. As I looked around, I couldn't help but notice that only men sat at this table. As I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the women kneeling near the house eating. I wanted to be with the women. Some of the men I knew, most of them I didn't know. They spoke in K'iche, but by a few token words and names, I knew they were talking about me. After lunch, the tables were cleared out and the speakers were set up and turned to 11. This Catholic service was to bless Kata's new house. 

We spent all this week painting and cleaning Kata's new house. 

Yes, those are firecrackers. Probably about 20 feet of them. The men are giddy when they lay them out, but not as giddy as the kids who raid the area after it is lit, collecting all those that escaped the fuse.

The service was outside and people sat on a bed of pine needles. Women cried and mumbled. Here, an old Mayan women stands during a time of prayer.

The service was long enough. I sat in the back and caught the glances of all the kids as they looked over their shoulders at me. This little girl started a game of toss the balloon with me about half way through the service. We played for probably 20 minutes; standing 2 feet apart, tapping a balloon back and forth. It was a welcome stimulation from the preaching in K'iche. Then the inevitable happened. The balloon hit a pine needle just right and this little girl got the saddest look on her face.  She went to chat with her friends who, after an appropriate time of giggling and looking at me, sheepishly offered a hand to me. I opened mine and she deposited three cheesey crackers into my palm with a smile. They were gratefully accepted as I was pretty hungry at the time, smelling the strew coming from the house. 

My Place

The view from my porch.

Here is Hendrik. Hendrik is the 5-year-old son of my counterpart. Don't be mislead by the smile. He is pure mischief. Although the way he pronounces rs like ls (ei glinga, flijol, tlabajo) is quite endearing at times, you will not have a moments rest or quiet with this kid around.

My garden. Hardy geraniums, cala lilies, peach, lemon and avacodo trees.

The path to my latrine. If only the latrine smelled as nice as those flowers....

The pila, or sink where I wash my clothes, my dishes, my face, my hair. We have water most of the time here.

My driveway. Behind the milpa is my dwelling. 

And there she is. My place. Complete with hammock and guard chucho, Oso. Don Juan's room is to the right and I have the center room. The rooms to the left are storage for Don Juan's corn. 

So I have been at site for over a week now. Getting settled into the place with a new paint job and some new furniture. This community is very quiet and poor and I have spent most of my time here walking the paths (we have a total of about three paved streets) and organizing my place. I have met most of the women I will work with in a welcoming event and hope to start meeting regularly with them soon. Don Juan, my 74 year-old neighbor is head of the Committee for Potable Water. There is a US organization that puts in pipes and resevoirs for communities with water problems (that is nearly all communities in rural Guatemala). I have met with the head and he already had his eye on my aldea. Thursday, Don Juan will take me to the source of the spring; the birth of the river; to measure the output and hopefully get rolling. 

There is no market, no eatery, not even a fruit stand in this town. All the necessities, however, are only as far as flagging down the nearest pickup truck and taking a ten minute ride in the back to the next town over. Also, we had a small earthquake this morning, the forth I have experienced since arriving in Guate. 

Things have slowed down for certain after training. Now it's time to let the work begin. 

Swearing-In and Other Short Stories

The rain has stopped, seemingly overnight and two weeks early according to locals. Wind has replaced the rain, slowly stripping away the green from the hills but leaving the milpa almost ready for harvest. 

Three thirty in the morning on Friday there was a bang on the door. Marta did not get up as usual and the petitioning continued for some minutes. Irma answered the door and then closed it again. At breakfast Marta told me that it was one of her patients that knocked, that she was beginning labor. Marta did not want to deliver the baby, knowing that she would not be able to attend the swearing-in ceremony if she did. So she had Irma tell the women she was unavailable. At seven the women knocked again. Again she was turned away. When Marta, Edwin and I left the house to meet the microbus in the park, Marta had Edwin make certain that the women was not in the street, quickly pushed through the door and took the long way to the park to avoid potential run-ins with the laboring women. Once at the park Marta went straight for the safety of the tinted glass of the micro. "There will be more babies", she told me, "but there won't be any more swearing-in for Katie. It's okay", she reassured me with a frank tone; "she'll find someone else to deliver her baby."

So on Halloween morning, twenty-nine trainees and members of their Guatemalteco families piled into microbuses headed for US Soil. We twenty-nine trainees raised our right hands on the ground and in the presence of the US Ambassador, among others. I'm official now. We celebrated that night in Antigua with dinner and a dance party, all with Halloween as a backdrop. 

Saturday, Dia de Los Muertos was spent with my family in Sta. Maria Cauque. I arrived in time for breakfast with hot bread for the panaderia (first time since arrival to have hot bread) and a warm shower. Afterward, we walked to the cemetery to honor my Guatemadre's husband who died the year before and Irma's first child who died

at three months. Wreaths of cypress and marigold were made in advance and placed of the graves. More marigolds were scattered and candles were lit. A boiled guiskil was placed on the grave and we sat around each eating our own boiled guiskil, sharing with the dead (guiskil is a really popular vegetable here,

 grows like a squah, looks like an alien egg and tastes like a potato). Kites are flown on this day also as a way to communicate with the dead, as their spirits keep the kites lifted. 

Leaving the cemetery we joined the crowds of people headed toward the soccer field. Sta. Maria Cauque is one of three communities in Guatemala famous for Dia de Los Muertos festivities. Groups of teenagers spend up to six months creating giant kites made from bamboo and paper. One by one, the paper is unfolded on the field and the bamboo frame is placed over it. The paper is then tied and glued to the frame and the kite is hoisted onto its wooden stand by rope and manpower. Sometimes the frame is not strong enough or the kite is not hoisted fast enough and the bamboo collapses, sticks ripping through flimsy layered paper. The largest of the kits was 28 meters across. Smaller kites, still a meter or more across, filled the skies above the crowds. 

Sunday, after a lunch of tongue soup I said goodbye to the Chiroy family of Sta. Maria Cauque. No tears, but my heart was sad to leave them for certain. Three hours passed crowded on a bus on a sunny Sunday Guatemalan afternoon. I traveled through hills covered with milpa, kites still floating above the corn stalks, to arrive at my new home.