Life's Wonderful and Horrible Ironies

Tuesday delivered a terrible day. A meeting with the committee of woman I work with left me discouraged, bitter, hurt and unmotivated. Without providing too much detail, what was planned to be a regular meeting turned into accusations and criticism about my work here. The meeting ended with me in tears in front of everyone and feeling lousy and under-appreciated. I laid low the rest of the day, huddled in my house, not wanting to see a Guatemalan face and hoping that tomorrow I would feel better.

Today, Wednesday, I awoke still feeling lousy and frustrated. I went about my morning activities; cleaning, washing clothes and in the afternoon hopped on a bus to Sololá, about an hour away to buy seeds. I arrived just in time for the seed supply stores to close for lunch. Luckily, Sololá is a beautiful and bustling town with a great central park and a view of Lake Atitlán. I strolled around the market and the park and noticed, once or twice that this same guy was walking behind me. I took note but thought nothing of it. Down a side street, I stepped into a used American clothing store. Right behind me stepped in this same guy. This time I thought, “Weird, this guy is following me”. I turned my back and starting digging through clothes. Not a second later this guy’s hand is on my butt. I fling around and yell “What the hell!?”, knocking clothes off their hangers and he’s out the door. I run into the street but he’s half a block away already, headed towards the crowd in the park.

Now, Guatemala has a very strong machismo culture. You will never see a man cook, clean, wash dishes or clothes. Never. Spousal abuse is not uncommon and women nearly never have a say in family planning. I regret to say that this is not the first or second time that a man has placed his hand on my butt without my permission since arrival. One time, a man looked straight into my eyes and then reached behind me for a grab. When it happens it is incredibly infuriating and diminishing. Of course we were warned during training that, regretfully, many female volunteers experience “non-violent sexual assaults”, but still they are surprisingly hard to deal with at the time of incident. Particularly the way I was feeling this week.

After a minute or two of recuperating in the store I walked to the park. With sunglasses on, my eyes were pealed for this kid. If I saw him, he would surely be receiving a punch in the nose and a knee to the balls from me. Once in the park, along with daydreaming about what I would do to this guy if I saw him, I watched a fat squirrel bend the branches on a very small tree.

A seed supply store opened so I went about my business and then got on a bus. I have to change buses once to get home. At the change I got a great seat, right behind the driver, on a nearly empty bus. Mind you, I am still very angry and annoyed at this point. A 40-ish looking man and a guy my age got on the bus together. The guy my age sits down in the seat across from me and the man sits down next to me, his arm on the back of the seat. “Great”, I think. “Of course on a day like today I have to sit next to this guy for 40 minutes”.

He offers his hand and asks me how I am, where I’m from. I shake his hand but don’t look at him and turn my shoulder to him, facing the window. He asks me a few more things and I tell him I have a bad headache. I continue to stare out the window. I hear him get up and begin to walk down the isle, saying something about a bad headache. I begin to wonder about this guy. He makes his way to the front of the bus again and is chatting up the driver, telling him that he wants to drive but that the driver has to teach him. The driver is laughing.

The bus leaves the stop and I gradually realize that this man has, what I believe to be slight mental disabilities. He is all over the place; literally and figuratively. He slides between his seat with his buddy to my seat. When he sees that I’m not talking to him he jumps up with the ayudante (it means “helper”, he’s the guy that stands at the door of the bus, yelling the destination and herding people onto the bus, taking their fairs), staring out the front window. At stops he gets off the bus, also herding people on, waving his arms and yelling “Xela, Xela, Xela!”, each time a bit louder and higher than the last. So the guy is entertaining. The driver and the ayudante are laughing with him, enjoying the comedy.

One time this guy slides to my seat. I look left. He’s asking me if I’m from Spain and if I speak Spanish. Then he asks if I speak English. Then he asks if I speak. Then he brings his face near my right ear and starts making strange noises and waving his hands in front of my face. I struggle not to crack a smile. It’s weird but funny. The next time he slides over he serenades me with a song of my beauty with added hand motions.

For a few minutes he falls asleep. I am relieved, and take the opportunity to put my bag in the empty space next to me. At the next stop a woman gets on and I move my bag for her to sit there. Even better, I think. The stop wakes up the man and soon enough he is talking over the woman sitting next to me, asking me if I speak and where I’m from. He even stretches his arm in front of this woman’s face, offering me his hand to shake. The woman gets off in a few minutes and at that same stop a young woman selling ‘chuchitos’ (means “street puppies” and are similar to tamales) gets on. The two men sitting next to me, the driver and the ayudante all get a chuchito. The two men next to me go for a second round and the man tells the young woman to give me a chuchito. I smile at her and tell her “Thank you, but no”. The man persists. “Give her one, give her one!” The young woman is visibly uncomfortable. The man hits his younger friend on the chest and tells him to buy him one. When the man receives the steaming ball of corn dough he, with the look of a gentleman and a wave of his hand offers it to me. I say “Thank you, but no thank you”. Looking forward, my eyes meet the eyes of the driver in his giant mirror and the driver laughs. I laugh a bit too.

The man slides over again. We are near my stop and by now I have realized that this man is harmless. I oblige him. When he asks me, yet again where I’m from I answer “Germany”. He throws his hands up and with a gasp says, “Bravo! Bravo!” and begins to applause. I laugh. He asks me a few more questions but each time I answer with “I don’t understand”. We have an audience. The ayudante, driver and this man’s friend are all watching the show. They know I speak and understand Spanish. He offers his hand again. I shake it and he grabs it, drawing it towards his face. I pull it away and say “No” and he says “No, hombre”, “No, man!”. I respond with the same. He offers it again, and I shake his again. Again, he tries to kiss it; I see his lips pucker and his eyes close while my hand is still miles away. I pull my hand away again. He tells me he loves me and I tell him he doesn’t. He assures me he does, and I assure him he doesn’t. I ask permission to leave the seat and tell him I’m getting off now, it’s my stop. He, with a gentlemanly bow, offers me the way. As I step off the bus I thank the driver and ayudante. Behind me there is a flurry of wishes for a happy afternoon and safe journey that come from the man, his friend, the ayudante and the driver. I leave with a smile on my face.

As I’m walking through the corn to my house I realize how ironic this day has been and I can’t help but laugh. Guatemalan machismo served both to bring me down and to lift my spirits in a period of about two hours.