Respeto a los muertos

It is a hot, dusty morning with high puffy clouds on the horizon. My friend Wilson and I take the bus together to the edge of town and get on a smaller one. We are going to visit our friend Claudia, bringing her roses from the market and cards we made the night before with all the kids. Her uncle has just died, her and her family are hurting. Wilson and Claudia are our interns, and are definatley two of my favorite people here. They are both in high school, but for some reason our friendship makes perfect sense. We eat too much candy, talk about boys, giggle to the point of tears, listen to pop music on the radio... We get off the bus and walk through the small pueblo, through the high corn fields. Claudia is sitting, waiting for us on the side of the road. She is wearing her best traditional dress, a green hand woven shirt and skirt with lace and sequins. We follow her down a path to the house of her uncle, we are ariving at the time of the wake. It is a small campesino house with dirt floors and wood slat walls, overflowing with relatives, dogs and children dodge in and out of legs, the pigs are tied in the corner of the yard, the chickens roam free. Wilson and I are immediatley handed steaming bowls of soup and hot tamales, and are sat with the family. I am introduced to Claudia´s grandpa, his eyes are red from crying. We give Claudia her cards, give the roses to the sons of the uncle. We go outside and join the mass of people, men holding the casket high, Claudias father praying over the body, incense burning, old women wailing and pulling their hair, young women singing hyms. It is loud and hot, we all cry together as the casket is carried around the dirt yard and down the road to the church.

Pasion Inexplicable vs. Cebollinas

This past Saturday was my first off since I became a volunteer. I have spent all of the previous weekends leading tourists up to Tajulmulco, the highest point in central America. Tajulmulco is 4200 meters of unforgiving mountain, and the trek is often quite uncomfortable. But this is not what I am moved to write about, I’d rather tell about the reason why I get up at three thirty in the morning to summit a mountain in the rain and hail… for the 16 boys and 3 girls that live in the dormitory whose sole support is our treks.

On my day off my friend Henry, whom I know because he lives in the dormitory, invited me to watch his futbol game. Henry is thirteen, he loves soccer, the captain of his team, he is the golden boy of the Hogar, everyone adores him. He was abandoned by his family at a very young age and spent a lot of time on the street, but you would never guess by his manners. I meet him at the dormitory and we ride the bus together with another team mate to the field. This perspective is a new one, I’ve never traversed the streets of Guatemala with adolescent boys. We are rowdy, hanging out the back door of the bus, watching the city flash by, knowing exactly where we are going. The field is at the edge of town, in the middle of random garbage dumps and corn crops that butt up against the high mountains surrounding the valley. There is more grass that I expected and I sit some on the sidelines and watch the boys warm up. Pasion Inexplicable vs. Cebollinas. Henry introduces me to his coach, who tells me of his passion for the late “Meekal Yakson” and asks me to translate the lyrics to Beat it and other favorites. This is not the first time I’ve been asked this here. A truck with a huge speaker atop parks along side the field and blasts latino pop hits into the afternoon, “viene la musica!” The sun is high as the game starts and I ponder how many paths have lead me to this specific point in my life. I think of something my friend Ana was doing the last time we were together, writing her self at her current age a letter from the perspective of her self at eighty years old. Mentally I ask what I would tell myself now. I conclude, with all the knowledge and wisdom of my eighty years, that right now I am doing exactly what I should be doing at this moment, in this chapter. I can see the effects of my work here. I am watching Henry play.

Guatemalamala

There are too many stories to tell at this particular time to relate where my journey has taken me. In short I am in Guatemala, and have been for the past month or so. These pictures capture a fraction of the beauty that can be found here. I was able to observe this beauty through the work I have been doing. I joined a nonprofit organization called Quetzal trekkers as a volunteer guide. It is the embodiment of everything that I have asked for. A simple program that raises money for a school for street kids and for a home for otherwise homeless children, by taking people on treks in the mountains of Guatemala. There are six of us volunteers, we are a part of the lives of the kids we raise money for. We play soccer, we eat dinner, we hike together. These pictures come from the hike I am learning to lead. I came back today after six days of trekking, after experiencing a side of the country that many don't, through areas most affected by the civil war that raged for so long here. I am learning so much history by osmosis, by being here, by seeing and feeling the memories of the war that still haunt the people and the land. I have decided that the best things to write about are the things that touch me. I am working on a tale or two so check back soon.

Los para-aguas

I bring my raincoat because I know its coming. My hair is still warm from being on the roof hanging yesterday´s sheets to dry. Tall and fluffy mamoths, pregnant with rain, pilling up around the edges of this high mountain valley. I walk down the narrow street and take the time to notice things that have become common sights in my daily life. A street vendor manuevering a cart piled higher than his head with fruits and vegtables. Indigenous women in identical embroidered shawls, carrying countless bundles of babies, food and crafts on head and hip. The agua truck cruising the neighborhoods broadcasting its presence and a catchy tune through a single blown out speaker. The air smells of fresh pan, exhaust, carnitas, laundry soap. A man on a bike slows as he rides past, gives me a kissy face, wobbles but regains enough balance to turn again. I make my best Barrett- double chin, cross my eyes and stick out my tounge. We both laugh. I climb the innumerable steps up to the church high on the hill over looking San Christobal de las Casas. I breathe deeply and take in the whole valley. Cinderblock houses of every color- watertanks, rebar and clothes lines above, green feilds full of vegetables, maiz, countless church steeples strung with plastic prayer flags. I hear the first growl in the belly of the sky, its 1:23, right on time. The first drops fall heavy, tiny rotten plums satisfied to splat down to earth. Lightning cracks and the sky opens. I litterally run into the church, and am not alone as I stand inside the arched doorway. A family is with me, softly murmering in a native language. The plastic faces of the holy santos stare at us from their glass cases. The high ceilings echo with every crash of thunder. A neon virgin of Guadelupe sheds her light and love upon me as I sit in the empty church and write this. Its 2:02, the rain has stopped, people are poking their heads out of windows and doors. I step out onto the street once again, maybe I will get a popsicle, maybe a new book.

Montañas de magico

Since last heard from I have moved on from the mango farm in Palenque, but not before mastering the jungle. If you`ve never spent time in the jungle it may be hard to imagine the struggles and joys that dwell with in. The hardest thing for me was the heat. This is the hottest time of the year in southern Mexico, just before the rainy seasons begin. I wake sweaty, I continue the day sweaty, I drip sweat into the beans I cook, I take a shower but it doesn`t matter, still sweaty. Over 100F and humid. Other things of challenging nature: mosquitos, ticks (I found 10 on me in one day), scorpions, massive ant armies (some fiery), tarantulas, rats, snakes, not to mention a terrible itchy, blistering rash from being covered in mango milk while harvesting. Luckily there are remedies, or should I say palatives, to these situations like beer, popsicles, swimming holes, mosquito nets, etc. However, getting to eat as many mangos as I want everyday almost makes up for everything.
So I after a months stay I leave my car in the care of a friend and continue on with my friend Ana to camp and hitchhike our way to a place called San Christobal de Las Casas. We take a few days to visit another mayan ruin site and stay at the most beautifull waterfalls (see pictures from previous blog). The mountains are high and the road is windy. We pass from jungle into pine forest and back again, through mists, across barren mountain tops. This land is still very much inhabited by the indegenous people of Chiapas. Well worn foot paths lead to villages miles and miles away from the road where many traditional cultures are still alive and well. These mountains are the origen of the Zapatista rebellion in the nineties. The communities here continue to identify themselfs as Zapatistas, having their own governing structure. I am learning and experiencing more about this topic and will write more when I am better educated.
Now I have made it to San Christobal, and have come to the end of any kind of plans I have made. The future is open. The day is promising.

The difference between the sprout and the bean

La selvadora

Do you ever wake up into moments of your life and realize where you are and what you are doing? In the past month I have woken up atop of an ancient pyramid of the Maya, deep in the jungle of southern Mexico, with the hot sun beating down on my back, the symphony of the jungle beasts at a defening roar. I have woken up in a chrystal blue pool, fed by an enormous waterfall, staring up into the sky as massive storm clouds colided creating lightning and booming with thunder. I have woken up in the house of a family in a Zapatista community, holding a chuby, laughing baby, while eating a simple lunch of food grown by the people there and hand made tortillas. Most recently I woke up riding my bike down a dirt road, smelling the greeness of the feilds surrounding me, staring back at the cows I pass.
I am in and around Palenque, Chiapas. I arrived here about a month ago, but really, there is no time here. I have found work on a small farm. Life is very simple. Wake with the sunrise, do chores and farmwork, eat beautifull fresh food, nap, read, stretch, walk, ride, cook, sing... and sleep. We have no electricity, but we do have running water and gas, which is more than most people in this area. I am learning all about preserving methods for mangos, there are so many that we can´t keep up with them as they ripen. There is a family of monkeys in the trees above my hut that I am getting to know. There will be more stories to come.
Much love to all.