Dear Jon...

This is a letter I wrote to my friend Jon. He wrote to me first, telling me he would be returning to the states from Mexico after more than a year. He asked me what was going to happen to him.

Saludes Hermano...I wonder if you are back yet. Here is what will happen to you upon entering the USA:You will fly over huge cities and suburbs and contemplate the masses individually living their own little stories. Freeways, tall buildings, subdivisions, memories you know you know but havent been real in so long. A big black lady at customs with long fake nails will stamp your passport and be a little rude. An awareness will creep over you that you are dirtier, scrapier, smellier, than everyone else. Well dressed people on iphones will surround you, busily bustling on their way to somewhere else. Despite your selfconciousness no one will notice you. At this point you should do something really weird or out of context to be sure no is paying attention, like fall to your knees kissing the airport carpet or do a little jig or something. You may use the bathroom and stay in there for awhile, gawking in disbelief. Toilet seats, soap, clean mirrors, mother fucking PAPER TOWELS!!! and you will flush the toilet paper down the toilet. On the street there are new cars everywhere, there is electricity everywhere all the time, the night is not even dark. Things look expensive and cutting edge, like out of a future fantasy. Machines do the simplest of tasks. A cop speeds by, pulling over someone who hasnt fully stopped at a stop sign and you laugh maniacally. As they write a two hundred dollar ticket a black cloud silences your laughter, you remember the fear you have forgoten for the law. You'll go to buy cigarrettes and realize they cost six dollars, you settle for a pint of the cheapest whisky they have and keep it on hand in your pocket. You pay in tiny little american monies and get a tiny little reciept marking the end of the transaction. You travel to your destination strangley knowing the way so well, you pass things that make you want to weep with nostalgia, thats where I had my first kiss, that place makes the best chessy cajun tater tots in the land, etc. You will run to the arms of whom ever is expecting your arrival, run run run. Here you will cry, and cry. You will attack the dog and together roll on your backs kicking your legs in the air twisting around. Its the same house, the same smells. You know this place.
Every moment will wash over you bringing old but new sensations bringing waves of emotions you've never felt and can't name. I am still trying to name some of them, there is the type of anxiety felt five minutes before you see someone that you were once in love with and maybe still are, there is the feeling that comes from the eyes of your friends as they note how you've changed, the feeling of the distance and time you've traveled as you look in the mirror, shaking out sonora sands from your tent into the water logged soil of Oregon, losing your tan, never speaking spanish in your dreams. There will be the moments of exstacy, hugging your friends and not letting go for minutes,wild dance parties in the living room to the talking heads untill the floor is sticky with beer and your legs are too tired to dance, sitting in the sun on the front porch and telling stories for hours. Other things may slap you in the face like renewing your library card and realizing you have thirty two dollars in overdue fines, getting chastized by middle aged ladies in the park for letting your guatemalan street dog run free, smiling at a stranger only for them to turn away from you, people asking what the plan is, whats the next step? Who knows... stay open to each and every possibility, don't get tied down, be free. Challenge the pressure of the culture that wants us to DO something. Maybe I'll do nothing. Who the eff knows...
Te echo de menos.Meliza

east of west, west of east

The day I wrote the rest of this blog was the first day I spent in Bahia de Kino. Since my last entry I've driven all the way here, Sonora, after staying with Aunt Mitch and Uncle Humberto in Zihuatenejo. Kim and Jon traveled on together, and I continue with my dog. .

I woke with the sound of the waves and Chuchi barking. A thick fog hangs low over the flat water, the mysteroius land I drove into last night remains a mystery. Crossing hours of desert, sage brush, siguaros, dusty cattle, handsome cowboys, to reach this place of contradiction. The fog lifts, the island mountains, dry and treeless rising steep out of the pale green sea. There are many snakes out there, the deer get so thirsty they swim to shore. On the beach I find the tresure greater than I could ever imagine, sea shells, sea rocks, sea bones, sea wood. Crab shells, conch shells, oyster shells, long slender twirly shells, short stubby rolls, pinks, purples, irridecent oily shine. The sand isn't even sand, its just tiny shells and bits of shells.I reslove not to pick any up until I have seen them all. The are the testiment to the abundance of life beneath the surface of the water. This place has a strange magic, the bones of the ocean rest among the bleached cowskulls of the desert.
Its the first time I've been alone this long. The past year has been practice for this leg of the journey. I'm calling all of the skills I've aquired to use. Last Saturday the subie busted up its wheel bearings. We'll be waiting on parts for another week or so. So I am making peace where I am. I am only 4 hours from the border. So here I am still. Every night I watch the sun set, watch the first stars come out, thank God I'm here, right where I'm supposed to be. The universe is providing all I need, teaching me to be patient, to move slow, maybe I didn't want to go home anyway.







melissa e

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.