Hendrick Graduates

It's the time of year when all the schools are wrapping up for 'summer' break. As such, graduations abound (Guatemalans love ceremonies, events, any reason to fiesta). For Hendrick and his preschool classmates, graduation was planned for Wednesday. But, Wednesday morning  a messenger was sent around town letting families know that the ceremony was postponed until Thursday as the teachers were behind in paperwork. 

On Thursday morning, Ela arrived at my house with spotless kids (which is a work in itself) and we walked towards the school. As we rounded the corner (40 minutes late, mind you) there was not a soul there. The gate was locked. Ela asked around and we learned once again that the ceremony had been pushed back to Friday. This time they failed to let us know. On Friday morning, once again, Ela arrived with spotless kids and we walked to the school. 

This time, there were people gathering. Here is the young graduate himself. All spiffed up, only minus the clip-on tie and sport coat.  

Upon arrival at the school we discovered that the teacher had not arrived. Mind you, we were 40 minutes late this day as well. So, we waited...

But I had a great time taking photos while we waited. (On a side note: Elkin is walking by himself now!)

Cousins: Elkin and Fernando had a blast with the photo shoot and provided me with some hilarious photos.

Ela and Benancio asked me to be Hendrick's godmother for the graduation. This meant that I held his hand as we walked to the front to receive his diploma. It also meant that I bake the cakes for the party and get him a gift. It was an honor. 

Here is Hendrick's graduating class: Village of Chirijox Official Rural Normal School; 

Preschool '09

A Reminder

Of the last eighteen days, I have spent ten of them in Antigua, two in Xela. The purposes were both business and pleasure; the first four days in Antigua with my good friend Micah who was visiting, then two days in Xela while Nic was in the hospital with an intestinal bacterial infection; then straight to Antigua upon his release for a week of Spanish classes at the PC office.

Now, don’t get me wrong, an occasional trip to Antigua or Xela is utterly necessary to my mental health. Antigua provides me with a hot shower (with water pressure), a comfy bed, cable TV, a flush toilet (inside the hotel room, nonetheless), a good cupa coffee, the English language and almost any type of meal my stomach might desire. Not to mention cold beer.

The colonial city is a tourist trap, if nothing else. It has charming cobbled streets, brightly painted buildings, ruined churches, a central park with big trees and volcanoes looming in the distance. Locals are friendly and speak proper Spanish. The only people you will see dressed in traditional traje are the women selling cheap jewelry and machine-made scarves, bartering in broken English in the central park. It is a very enjoyable place to pass ten days and it is easy to forget the hardships ever-present in other parts of the country.

I spent yesterday and today in and around my house. After a year here, I decided its time for a ‘spring’ cleaning. I pulled out furniture and swept, cleaned off shelves, organized my books and clothes. I replanted my garden, cleared my drainage ditch of leaves, put some potted plants into the soil. I even baked some sourdough bread from a starter I’d been nurturing. This afternoon I finished the latest book I’ve been working on. By 4:30, I was out of things to do. I decided to go for a run, even with ominous rain clouds creeping over the ridges. I hadn’t shown my face much around Chirijox since I got back into town on Saturday anyway. I took my usual route but on the way back decided to take the long way home.

While walking the dirt paths in the dimming light and a crispness in the air, my eyes were opened once again to the reality of life here: poverty.

Kids, some as little as three years in the streets, barefoot and dirty, dried snot caked in their nostrils and no parent in sight. Young adults staring at me without blinking or saying a word. Houses made of and open to the elements with women cooking over an open fire inside the house. Trash everywhere, particularly in the streams. Foul smelling latrines. Young boys playing with a deflated soccer ball near the hiway. Kids trying to pull down kites wrapped around power lines by their string. Middle-aged women aged beyond their years by hard labor. People of any age, toothless. 

This is the reality of life for rural, poor Guatemala. And of course not all are living in poverty and not all things are as bad as they seem. But for me, tonight served as another eye opener. It reminded me that there is still time, I can still due my part, and I still feel a personal obligation to attempt to improve the lives of my brothers and sisters, even with the occasional trip to Antigua.

Santa Catarina Ixtauacan Antigua

Each Thursday I take a 20 minute ride in the back of a truck to the ladies that await me in Santa Catarina Ixtauacan Antigua. It's a small town nestled in a deep. green valley that eventually spills onto the coastal plains. 

A view of the playing field next to the central park and of the hills beyond. 

It is a small world: The father of the catholic church here is a gringo, from, of all places, Eugene. He arrived here some 30+ years ago, speaks better K'iche than the locals and has no plans to leave. Here he is conducting a special mass for Dia de Los Niños.  

Here I am talking to the ladies about the wonders of lentils to prepare them for the wonders of lentil soup.

While the soup was cooking I took the ladies outside for a bit of stretching. After an initial giggle-fest they began to participate. Up....

...and down. Notice the babies on the backs. They do everything mom does.  

Independence Day

The 15th of September is Guatemala's Independence Day, this year celebrating 188 years. The day before, groups all around the country run with torches to their communities. In Chirijox, the preschoolers carry on the tradition by running around the town with whistles in their mouths, blowing the whistle with each breath, and yelling "Arriba Guatemala!". 

The kids arrive, tired, in the central park on a foggy evening.

They gather, waiving flags and blowing whistles while a short ceremony is presented.

It was so loud with a whistle in the mouth of every kid present!  

Following the arrival of the torches, there was a band and some of other activities. Of course, no Guatemalan holiday is complete without the local Princess Pageant, k-12. 

The next morning we wait in the street for the parade to come. Fernando was fascinated with the camera. 

The parade was lead by the political leaders of the community bearing the Guatemalan flag.

Following them were the hundred and hundreds of kids that inhabit Chirijox, each grade with a different theme. 

The parade ended in the central park where all the activities were held.

Giant fireworks that make incredibly loud sounds were shot off just feet from the crowd and without warning. 

Hendrick, front right, in the black hat, was a flag bearer because he has the top grades in his pre-school class.

Saludos.

The political leaders of Chirijox, all in traditional suiting and with special seats on stage. 

All the grades line up around the staging area and wait for their turn to dance, play, or do gymnastics for everyone to watch. 

While waiting, clowns make friends with natives. 

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.

 

This and That

Most of my postings have a focus, but this time I thought I'd just post some random photos of life in Guatemala. 

Hendrick is always hanging around the house when Nic is here because they love to play wrestle and have muscle flexing contests and Hendrick loves to show off all the exercises he knows. This night he invited himself over for dinner. I made broiled asparagus and Hendrick hadn't tried it before. Here I'm showing him the asparagus.

Family dinner. Also final documentation of the length of Nic's beard before the order to trim it. 

The rainy season has brought a whole new array of bugs. This Rhino Beetle found its way into my house one evening.

Nic and I in Antigua with Volcan Agua behind us. We were hanging out with Andrew, Nic's brother who was visiting (more photos of that next post, still waiting to upload) at Sky Cafe.

The view from Sky Cafe's roof top terrace onto Antigua's streets.

The harvest from my house garden. Swiss chard and carrots. The carrots were small but were they tasty!

Cata, a woman on the comittee weaving a guipil, or traditional top (like she is wearing) for her daughter. Septmeber 15 is Independence Day here and all the kids put on a parade with music and flags wearing their newly-woven clothes.

An old man in front of his house. He's wearing the traditional head wrap of this area. 

The same old man, spooling yarn.

The niece of a woman I planted with. She was fascinated with the flip-screen viewer of my camera. 

The church and plaza of Chirijox on a bright but lonely afternoon.

Broccoli Salad

It is Tuesday and therefore around 9 a.m. women start arriving and wait outside my door. I scurry to get everything prepared and the women chat and laugh on my porch and their kids rip apart my plants.  Today we're making broccoli salad; the kind with raisins and bacon. 

I have the bacon cooked when the women arrive, ready to chop. One by one, they approach the bacon and pick it up daintily, with thumb and forefinger and look at the other women with a concerned look on their faces. "It's called bacon", I tell each one. They look at me, still concerned and then talk in K'iche to the other women, as if they don't believe me. "It's from a pig", I say. Then the light bulb comes on. One woman said she thought it was from a chicken. The word for chicken in K'iche is ak'. 

The women are in a good mood today and the class is small, only 7 women show up. Ela is gone today so Raquel is translating for me, and she has some spunk. 

The women laugh after each photo. They tell me to advise them if I'm going to take photos because some of them only came dressed in t-shirts and not guipiles, like the woman on the far left is wearing, which is the traditional clothing. I show them the photos after each shot and they laugh and make fun of each other. I tell them to look good next week because I'll be taking more photos.  

I wasn't sure how the salad would go over. I have rarely seen anyone eat a vegetable raw, and this whole salad is raw. They had also never used vinegar before.

 Most of the women were scared to try it. One didn't, she just carried her styrophom cup away with her as she went. Those who did try it, even if timidly at first, really liked it.