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?

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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.