Road dirt

Just a quick catch up, I´ve left Guatemala. Its been about a month now. Before I completely packed up I journeyed south on local buses with my dog, while she was still little enough to sit on my lap and while people still thought she was cute. We made it to El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua and to the border of Costa Rica. Long, long stories later I am headed north, everyday getting closer to where I started over a year ago. Well, not everyday...

Kim, Jon, Chuchi and I drive north from San Christobal through the hot, dry mountains into the state of Oaxaca. As the sun is getting low we turn off the coast road on to a rutted track leading out to the beach. The sun has set but there is still light as we arrive. The path ends at a grouping of thatched huts on a bluff above the beach, a long swooping cove, visable to the very end. Tall, green mountains rise above, backing the turn of sand. The water is turquiose blue, the sand is light and fine. We meet the dueño, Manuel, of what looks to be the only defined establishment, an ancient, crumbling cinder block structure with no windows or roof. He invites us to stay, offers space under the palapa, or a hammock (he sleeps in the other). Chuchi wears herself out playing with the random mut dogs. We sleep like babies.
In the morning the sun rises above the far end of the cove. The sky is orange, pink, purple, blue. The fishermen gather, shirtless, with 5 gallon buckets, around their lanchas resting on the sand. They work together and push the boats out before the sun is up. We spend the day playing, digging hole forts, bobing in the waves, observing the intricacies of crab society, being eternally greatfull that beaches still exist with out all inclusive resorts or condos. We are thankful for the car that brought us here.
The sky turns darker blue, the sun sinks behind the mountains, stars come out and shine with out the competition of electric lights. Manuel invites us to use his kitchen. He lights a cooking fire and I balance our pot of rice and veggies on the pieces of rebar laid over the top. He feeds us fresh caracol and we drink huge beers. The sound of the waves lulls us into the deepest sleep ever.

And so this is Christmas...

Jon and I left Xela carrying a gigantic duffle bag. We wove our way through the throngs at the bus terminal market, pushing sometimes, getting shoved by grannies with bundles on head, feet being crushed by pushcarts piled with veggies, and finally to the bus to Huehuetenango. After a five hour ride high into the frigid mountains we get off in the village of La Ventosa. Here lives my friend Don Geronimo. On the six day trek I usually lead we stop and stay in Geronimo's village. It is a compound made up of his eleven children, his brothers and sisters, their children, their children's children, his children's children, packs of dogs, pigs and chickens. About a month ago when I passed through Geronimo asked if I could bring presents for the kids in La Ventosa. His daughter sat down and wrote a list of names and ages, thirty in total. I have found its not uncommon for people here to ask me to do tasks that are close to impossible, so I tell him I will see what I can do. Over the next few weeks, using extra funds of the Quetzal trekkers, we buy and wrap trucks, dolls, crayons, pencils, hair scrunchies, water colors, packs of cards, coloring books, stuffed animals, sparklers, candy. This is what fills the sack we are hauling as we enter the village, hearing immediately the excited shouts of the children announcing our arrival, running back and forth from house to house, hiding behind one and another, swarming us in their shy way. Geronimo greets us and brings us in, the children follow closely. We hand out the presents one by one. Their eyes are huge with expectation, they are trying to be polite but can't contain themselves. Some open their presents right away, others take them to a secret place. Hugs and kisses, feliz navidad. My eyes sting and I take deep breaths to keep my self from sobbing.
We have dinner in the kitchen around the cooking fire. We are served the most special feast of eggs, hotdogs, fried potatoes and freshly made tortillas. Geronimo tells us this is the first time any of the children here have ever received a present. This village was hit hard by the civil war, neighbors were turned against each other, terrible acts committed. But the family is strong, they take care of each other, they give each other all they can, and most of the time all they have is love. He hugs Jon and I, we are part of his family forever.
We catch the bus as the sun is rising, Geronimo and his pack of dogs see us off. On the journey home I can't help but listen to the Guatemalan Christmas music blasting from and ancient speaker. The song changes and most unexpectedly I hear the Jon Lennon christmas song. The war is over. This time I can't hold back the tears, I let them roll, I let people think what they will. So merrymerry Chirstmas, and a happy new year. Let's hope its a good one with out any fear.

Here are some more recent pictures of more recent things I've been up too. Most of them are with the kids that I work with and my coworkers.

Chepe and I in our kitchen making pizza with our aprons on.

Beto, myself and Henry- kickin it on the trail

Miguel (my fave), myself, Claudia (see previous blog), and Jon my coworker- just outside of the village Miguel is from, in between Xela and Lago de Atitlan.

Las Chulas

Sunrise over Lago de Atitlan from the sumit of Pico Zunil with Miguel and Chepe.



Surprise! Its a girl!!

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.