marzo mio

The gray, wet blanket of winter has finally settled, silent and airless, sealing the rim of this valley. Coldness felt in stiff fingers, through the bottom of socked feet, the frigid aura of the thin glass windows. A line of muddy, wet pants and sweaters hung above the wood stove, crispy and in the form of legs as I put them back on for another day subscribed to their service. February come and gone, reveling in its expected horror- snow moon, hunger moon, short, squat days with strong, lengthy night. The sly onset of March, holding hope for longer light, heat, the movement of worm and microbe, the stirring of life with in seed coat. The first sight of shooting star and fawn lily. The earth brims with water, red clay mud flowing over boot top and into sock, filling ditch and backing up culvert, a fist with middle finger extended crossing road to turn back school bus and mail man. Gophers make a run for higher ground, the souls of ducks come to stay. The soil too wet to work, plans incubate in the warm glow of the future, in dreams of sun browned skin and ripe tomato, bike rides and river swims. Interest fed through book and thought, the entire star trek movie sequence on VHS, days spent in sweat pants with unbrushed teeth...

will I am s

My location is Williams, Oregon. A turn off on the old highway, a road that only leads to Williams and "over the mountain," but only in the summer. A rural area, a small river valley, surrounded by forested mountains, the mouth of valley facing north and east, backed by Sugar Loaf and Greyback peaks; the accumulation grounds for water shed into the Applegate, into the Rogue, out to the Pacific. A land inhabited by people for about 10,000 years, people living off the richness of the valley bottom, off fattened salmon, berries and nuts. War came with white man, who drove the natives east, who skinned beaver, who hit pay dirt, who found value in the substance of beautiful trees.  Ox and horse team lead to clear cut, the disapearance of Port Orfords, and Doug fir, to the rise and fall of economy, a major migration of hippies, right-wing survivalists, horsey people, environmentalists, pot growers.  There is no denying the abundance of this land. Summer breaks branches with the weight of apples, pears, plums, one dollar for 12 ears of corn at the Provolt farm stand. High quality cultivated herbs, organic vegtables, wild flowers, mushrooms, medicinal wild plants. Winter is gentle, frost never sinking too deep or staying too long.  A brief look around reveals amateur cabins and mobile homes rotting into the earth along side home scale junk yards, jimmy rigged privacy fences of black plastic and pine poles, a gathering of old men drinking coffee and complaining down at the general store, moms in long skirts and dreadlocks driving subarus. Look deeper and see hay pastures with strong old oaks, dark cold creeks lined with alder and rusting farm equipment, mossy, damp stands of old growth forest.

space traveler

Has the journey ended? Has it just transformed...? To travel in ones own space, from house to yard to pasture, down to the mailbox, out to the chicken coop. Leaping from dirty coffee cup to dusty house plant, spanning the space from window ledge to table top to traverse between the crumbs of last nights dinner. Time, too, is relevant. The rythm of light and darkness, moon and star, sun crossing the sky (now so far to the south), seeds germinating, growing, setting seed, dying, the shift of birds clocking in to relieve the previous crew. A log burns, the eggnog goes sour, the frozen bowl of dog water thaws in the thin winter sun, its time to cut my bangs again.

surprise!

A new year, a new post, a year since the last.... A shift of focus, the great eye regains clarity and sharpens its stare. The winged heart settles to the ground, pecks and scratches, turns three circles, makes its nest, allows roots to set. A natural progression, but one never considered. Easier to believe the world is coming to its end than to believe in transience finding a home. A home. Home.
So, as life transitions so does my blog. The need to practice writing for others to read, not just the usual secrets I scrawl in books I keep hidden from you, is apparent. A present wrapped lovingly in paper, tied with ribbon, taken to the ledge and drop kicked, left on the lawn to disintegrate in the rain, to bleach in the sun, to be pawed open by a curious animal. Whatever. Its out there now.

Agradable agradecidos

Abajo de la luna llena en Xexecom, Quitche


Christmas gift giving in La Ventosa. Don Geronimo is in the red striped pants, mostly likely giving tiny speach.


Hugs hugs hugs. Feliz navidad niños queridos.

These photos are small windows of the moments I have passed here in Guatemala the past two months. They are the people and places that I hold close to my heart. Thank you so much to everyone that supported me in my journey here, once again. Stories soon to follow...

Este etraño poder

Aqui estoy. Aqui. Aqui. Aqui en Xela. Like returning to a memory. A memory in full, not selected for its sweet moments, its good times, its warm hearts. A memory so close to reality, one that doesn´t edit its self to my liking. Such a strange power to return to a place like this one. So far away in distance, in style, in way, in life. Just money, just a plane, just ten hours and I return to the dream. The dream has lived this past year as I have lived, one more freckle, one more heartbreak, one more crack in the cement, one more pair of adidas over the power line. Physically we travel through this time space side by side. Almost undecernably the same is this place I have loved and set free. The red tin roofs, the unfinished cinderblock buildings, the clothes on the lines, the dogs in the street, the bus culture, the flowers in the cemetery. I am recollected by the characters of this dream, Doña Lucy, the orange juice lady, Leonora and her old mother, who hug me and pinch my arms, by the children and teenagers I spent so much time with, the chubby girl at the food carts in Parque Central. My best relations here expected my arrival, awaited my magical return from the mysterious lands of the north. The place where money is cultivated, where wealth explodes, where poor volunteers go and return rich with Christmas presents for all. They swallow this impossible reality with little questioning, grace me with the their acceptance of the unknown.
The strange power overwhelms me, earases the past year of my life. So many times I´ve questioned the knowledge, the experiences of the time I´ve spent here. What are they worth? In what context are they applicable? What good is this understanding I´ve gained? And suddenly it all makes sense. As I get in a cab and bargain for the price, as I take the right chicken bus to the right destination, as I go where I want to go flawlessly, comfortably, making friends along the way, opening my heart to a place that so many fear and misunderstand. My education here was priceless. Every hard earned lesson blesses me with the wisdom that follows.

Of gifts and goodwill

Many of you have recieved this already, but I thought I would post it just in case.

My dearest friends and families,
As many of you know I spent the greater part of 2009 volunteering for a non-profit organization in Xela (Quetzaltenango), Guatemala known as EDELAC (Escuela de la Calle). Fifteen years ago EDELAC was founded to build and sustain a primary school in one of the poorest areas of the city where no other existed. Today it provides over 200 children, grades 1 through 6, with free education. A dormitory, El Hogar Abierto, was later created as a safe, abuse free environment for children without families or whose families live in an area with no available educational services. Almost all funding comes from the hard work of a group of volunteers known as the Quetzal Trekkers. The Quetzal Trekkers work as hiking guides, leading tourists on multi-day treks throughout the highlands of Guatemala, with 100% of their proceeds going to the children of EDELAC and El Hogar Abierto.In my time as a guide for Quetzal Trekkers I witnessed a fully functioning organization run on the goodwill, dedication and love of its past and present volunteers and associates. I was blessed to spend time living, learning and playing with the children and teenagers of EDELAC and El Hogar Abierto. I left not only with new friends, but with a family to whom I am connected and care about.
So in the spirit of this holiday season I am planning a journey to Guatemala. I would love nothing more than to share gifts, money, supplies, gear, joy and love with children who deserve every resource they can get to succeed. I am presenting you with the chance to give to those who desperately need the help, to a place where a little goes an incredible distance. Please help me to provide the faces, hearts and stories I know and love, with the basic opportunities most of us take for granted. I am accepting any and all donations. Please see the following information for the website my friend Jon set up for internet donations. Feel free to pass this letter on to whomever you think would be interested in donating. Please call (503-708-3564) or email (mlss.mrsn@gmail.com) if you have any questions or if you want to come with me (I’m serious, lets go!).
Many thanks,
Melissa

http://www.giveforward.com/quetzal-trekkers-christmas-fundhttp://quetzaltrekkers.com/guathome.html

A Guate Christmas

Push some buttons, type some numbers, and I have spent more money in one second than I have in the past eight months. A plane ticket from Portland to Guatemala City. Such lanes of transit exist. I will walk out the door of this house of friends, cross the wet pavement, damp leaves, coffee roasting, beer brewing, yoga studios of Portland. I will board a long, winged, slightly uncomfortable box and, just a lapse of time later, find myself in the familiar chaos of Guate. A journey that once took the greater part of the year will be knocked out in eleven hours.

This journey is different in nature. I am returning to the place I lived, the people I know, to celebrate Christmas, to bring cheer. I was invited to help my friend Jon (see old blogs) who started a fundraiser to give gifts to the children and teenagers we volunteered with like we did last Christmas. The invitation came to me at exactly the right time. A time when my mind was open to the idea, when no plans cluttered the space of my future, when I had just made a little money. ¿Por que no? So now, we have reached our goal, we are ready to go. My deepest graditude to all who have given.

Expectations loom heavy, but this journey is a simple one. Give gifts, give love, give joy to those who welcome it with out beaurocratic nonsense. Share the blessings of my situation, as a citizen of a country that offers more opportunity than ever imaginable here.

pound for pound

Some how, through the twisting, convoluted turns of the universe, I have found myself in Europe... One may ask "how this could happen," I would answer, "On an airplane." I am in Liverpool, England, where the cars are hatchbacks, the lips have mustaches and the track suit is king.
Of all the ways to travel, by bicycle must be my favorite. It is a path used for hundreds and hundreds of years by horses pulling boats up and down the canal system from Leeds to Liverpool. Finding the begining in the city is the greatest task, I ask many people for directions, I am lost, it is so much like traveling in Mexico. I find the path finally and ride toward the outskirts of town. The water of the canal is full of garbage, the brick wall banks are crumbling and graffitied. I pass factory after factory, many steaming and buzzing, but even more that are lifeless and deteriorating, making the long journey back from where they came. Eventually the banks become reeds, ducks paddle on their belly boats, ancient gnarled beech trees line the way. It is Sunday and sunny. Many people are out letting the rare appernce of sun warm their hair, touch their blue-white skin. Fishermen are a plenty. I can only imagine what they would be catching- tiny minnows, a boot perhaps. I fight the urge to tell them stories about the rivers in Montana or Alaska. I ride through green rolling hills with little fences made of stone, under tiny arched bridges just wide enough for a horse and cart, past old farmhouses with thatched roofs and cabbage patches. Boats toot up and down the canal on Sunday outings. Families picnic on lawns in English gardens. Beer is drank at tiny pubs by people who's ancestors drank beer at the same tiny pub. After miles and miles I turn and ride through a forested area. I call it Sherwood forest. I close my eyes, briefly, and imagine this land as it once was. Covered same dark tree blanket as this one. There are almost no forests left in England. I will see none in my time here. I strain to feel the spirit of the land, but all I feel is the long term presence of people. The wilderness has long been worked from the earth, the mystery has dwindled. I am so greatfull for the land that raised me. How it taught me, shaped me, how my spirit mirrors its own.
Down farm lanes, through feilds, I arrive finally at my destination. Its Simon's dad's house- everyone is drinking beer in the garden. I crack one open and lay in the grass. God save the queen.

Good life in the Badlands

What a challenge to keep up with the rapid flow of life... I am realizing the power of communicating, staying in touch, of writing this blog. This came to light upon meeting a follower of my writings here, thanks John, I am great full for the medium of internet and the ease of this method of sharing.
The universe has swept me up, carrying me to a place few people consider. South Dakota, Pine Ridge reservation, a country inside our country. People compare the towns of the Res to those of third world countries, a bit dramatic in my opinion. They are a little reminiscent of Mexico. There is a closeness of relationships like Mexico too. Everyone is related, into everyone's business, lots of drama, much heart, much compassion. I am invited here by my friend Sam, whom I met traveling. He is interning on a ranch here with another woman named Nisa. They both have education in Permaculture and are working on a variety of projects. Brian is the owner of this land, the impetus of this movement. He has great vision of bringing health, vitality, and economy back to this area. He wants to teach the people here to sustain themselves, to gain Independence from a system that has left them at the bottom. Brian is a good, good man, he has many ideas but a hard time following through with them. He is an inventor, there are mountains of rusting machinery all about the property, crazy stuff made from other stuff, projects minutes away from completion. A lot of Sam and Nisa's work has been purging and organizing crap. This will be a classroom, a variety of examples and demonstrations. A huge garden has been planted, where I spend much time working. There are plans for beehives, teepees, outdoor kitchens and showers, aquaculture, strawbale buildings and much more. My role to is to support this project and this community in any way I am called to. Lots of labor, lots of sweat, dust and sunburn, lots of Budweiser on the back porch as the sun goes down, sleeping so deeply.
In my free time I have been riding the horses here. There are over 35. I ride a horse called Rain. She is jumpy, she will bolt into a lope at any given time. Sam fell off of her while riding double bareback with one of the kids here. The boy broke his arm. Rain is a wild creature. I ride her over the range, as fast as she goes. We fly over the prairie on the surest of steps. She scares me and I love it. My dreams of horses encouraged me to come here, to the Lakota, to these Badlands.
My spirit sings the secret of life- keep it interesting, make decisions with the wisdom of my dreams, keep my heart simple and close to nature, close to the earth. I am safe, I am blessed, life is abundant!

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.

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.