This last week here, I have realized some things that I believe are wrong with the world. It's taken me a full 3 days and a day long bike ride to actually quit bitching about it. One day I'd like to write about it, but right now it's still too raw, and can also lead to negative reactions from people who I don't want to hurt. So one day.
As for today, Hugh and I went for a bike ride at 8:00 am and didn't get back till 3! I am super curious how many miles that was, but am a little afraid to ask. up in the dozens of dozens. We met at Vrisa, the english language bookstore that also gives bike tours ever Saturday, and were the only ones that showed up to go besides the two guides. Didn't bother them any, so we headed out. I'm not exactly much of a bike rider, the only ones I've ever had until recently have been cruisers with pedal brakes and no gears, and then after those one with only 6 gears. So first thing was that I had to get Sandra, one of the guides to teach me how to use the gears, as we're riding. We're going down this wide well paved road and I'm already thinking that if we don't get there soon, I'm going to start having some problems. I knew in the first 20 minutes that I was way over my head. Hugh, meanwhile, is up with the first guide, all being athletes and whatnot.
We crossed a river and stopped on the other side, where Rodrigo explained that during Hurricane Stan the water rose and you could see where all the buildings around it were sunken into the ground at bizarre angles. Then he said it was just 15 minutes farther to our first sight, and we set off again. One crazy vertical hill, intense nausea, and many rest breaks later (for me.) we come through the village of Salcaja to see the oldest church in Central America- built in 1524, only a few years after the conquest from Spain and the fall of the Aztecs. From there to this little tienda where they sell traditional alcohol- a sugary thick yellow rum made out of egg yolks tasting like custard, and a Caldo de Frutas, which is really just plain old moonshine. I had to get some moonshine, we've got to celebrate our departure here somehow, and the more Guatemalan, the better.
Then we headed off for Cantel, to see the glass cooperative Copavic. I'm a little confused at this point because Cantel seems to me to be in the opposite direction from the city as where we are. We come out of Salcaja and go onto some dirt roads, which go on FOREVER and take us through corn fields among corn fields. Every time I had to get out and walk, everyone said good morning to me, and when we were riding quickly through, they all said adios. It was nice to be in a good, safe, small place again. The road took us into the cornfields and under the mountains. Cantel is seriously the cloud kingdom. I don't know what it is, you'd think being so close to massive mountains you'd feel low, but you don't. You feel on top of the earth, surrounded by even higher land that goes up and touches the sky. I love it there. Then something like 2 hours riding up and down hills on the dirt road that has disintegrated into gulleys and rocks. Every time I made it up a big hill, panting and sweating and yet smiling somehow, they cheered for me at the top. They were good people. Then we'd take an air gathering break and head out again. Every time we made it up a hill, Rodrigo would say "last one! I promise! From here it's all straight or down!" What a good liar. Hugh, I repeat, is hanging out with Rodrigo up front. Just relaxing, not breaking a sweat. Whoa.
We continued under the mountains for a while, and the road turned into pavement again finally and we got to cruise down for a long time, at some point passing my bus stop where I always get out to go to Juana's house to teach my class in Cantel! I was really excited about this, also realizing that I just rode a bike WAY out of the way to get to a place that usually takes me 30 minutes on a bus. That's an odd and unfamiliar sensation for me. All the way down this spectacular hill, which felt so good and made me so happy, seeing all the things I usually see from behind a bus window. When we got to the bottom, we rode on the curb beside a main road to the Copavic glass co-op. We got there right before they closed and got to see some glass blowers. We were there a year and a half ago, and not much has changed. It would have been nice to get a gift there for some leftovers on my list, but after buying a bottle of liquor, I wasn't about to add even more weight on.
From there we went down an EVEN MORE RIDICULOUS slope off the main road, near a river that I see every time I leave Xela. This one was really two dirt or mud paths cut into the grass by truck wheels, and when it got too steep and crazy, just one path cut by the feet of the people that live there. We passed a field of cilantro where women were picking the crop, and it was so strong it burned your nostrils. We threw ourselves over rocks, with the river on one side and the cliffs from the bottom of the mountains on the other. It was so.. so... beautiful. When I was able to breath and feel things other than my muscles dying loud and terrible deaths, I was also able to think about how spectacular was the place I was in, and how interesting and out of the ordinary was the way I was doing it. It was more fun than walking, admittedly, and closer to nature than I've been in so very long. Plus I was riding through a ravine that I see all the time from the foggy windows of busses, wishing I could explore it. After a long time we got to a natural hot spring, one not very well known, called Chicobix, where I realized I had forgotten my bathing suit. I ended up wearing Hugh's undershirt and an extra pair of shorts Rodrigo brought. It was worth the awkwardness of wearing a strange man's shorts. We soaked in the pool, with the sound of the river nearby and little kids learning to swim in front of us, for about an hour. Talking with Rodrigo about books and movies and life. Then we got out and onto those damn bikes again, and I tried to drag my demolished butt up to the place where we could catch a bus. In the process we walked our bikes over a hanging foot-bridge above the river, which made me REALLY happy. Then we got to Zunil, the location of my FAVORITE indigenous dress. We sat there for a while waiting for the bus and I got to admire the super detailed, embroidered skirts, and one woman who had really elaborate and unusual animals embroidered on her top, many of which I couldn't recognize.
Then a 30 or more minute chicken bus ride back to Xela, locking up the bikes again, rigorously thanking our guides, and trying to convince them that I had an amazing time, was sooo happy that I came, and was so content to have them be so patient and encouraging. It really was yet another defining moment in my time here, and made me realize a few things about how I'd like to live after this. One being that hikes, rides, and general rigorous outdoor exploration is a major passion and source of joy for Hugh, and I'd like to be able to take part in that with him. The other being that this kind of stuff feels really, really good. The whole idea of focusing on your body rather than your head is beautiful. When I got back I felt fresh and alive (miraculously) and happy and content. Not bitchy and weepy like I've been the entire week before. Plus the food I ate and the shower I took were TAN RICO. (so rich.) I'd like to exercise more often after this, if for no other reason than that it makes my brain feel good, not to mention the health benefits and all that whatnot. The last thing I got out of this was a chance to part with Xela. I was in it. I got it up close and personal, and it was beautiful and it was really freaking physically destructive. So I got enough of it to feel full, and also I got the memories of pain that will come back every time I think about Xela, to help me miss it maybe not so much.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
17 days left
I'm terrified.
Sometimes when I wake up early in the mornings, I think I'm already back in the states feeling like I'm still in Guatemala, and I feel strange for knowing that the last major part of my life is only memories. Then I really wake up and realize I'm still here, and I realize how much I'm dreading losing the reality of it. I don't want for this whole time to only be memories and pictures and souvenirs. Doesn't it deserve more than that? I hate having an awareness of great moments in my life. I hate the awareness that everything's moving away from where I was last. I don't mind the moving, I mind the cognizance. I should probably be happy for it, since it gives me a vivid and long-reaching memory, but it gives me pain for the unavoidableness of "The End." Who doesn't feel that kind of force, though. It's like the universe is about to shift. It's not going to be until 17 days from now till I really know where and how I've changed, if it's for the better, if it's something I"ll need to recover from. The anticipation is killing me inside, and there's no way for me to differentiate between the hope and the dread. I don't have a life here. I could never stay, and I would never want to. I am in need of going home. I have to go home- an internal psychological obligation compels me. But I am not ready. What an escape from reality this has been, and face plant into the concrete it will be.
1. jobless
2. homeless
3. without the comfort or security of my life's savings
4. pursuing a profession that is all I want and next to impossible to attain
5. forgetful of american culture and unwilling (at this point) to re-assimilate
6. far away from hugh
7. worlds away from my home here
I have a home here.
Sometimes when I wake up early in the mornings, I think I'm already back in the states feeling like I'm still in Guatemala, and I feel strange for knowing that the last major part of my life is only memories. Then I really wake up and realize I'm still here, and I realize how much I'm dreading losing the reality of it. I don't want for this whole time to only be memories and pictures and souvenirs. Doesn't it deserve more than that? I hate having an awareness of great moments in my life. I hate the awareness that everything's moving away from where I was last. I don't mind the moving, I mind the cognizance. I should probably be happy for it, since it gives me a vivid and long-reaching memory, but it gives me pain for the unavoidableness of "The End." Who doesn't feel that kind of force, though. It's like the universe is about to shift. It's not going to be until 17 days from now till I really know where and how I've changed, if it's for the better, if it's something I"ll need to recover from. The anticipation is killing me inside, and there's no way for me to differentiate between the hope and the dread. I don't have a life here. I could never stay, and I would never want to. I am in need of going home. I have to go home- an internal psychological obligation compels me. But I am not ready. What an escape from reality this has been, and face plant into the concrete it will be.
1. jobless
2. homeless
3. without the comfort or security of my life's savings
4. pursuing a profession that is all I want and next to impossible to attain
5. forgetful of american culture and unwilling (at this point) to re-assimilate
6. far away from hugh
7. worlds away from my home here
I have a home here.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Volunteers
Wellll. It's pretty late for me (past 10 PM!? what am I, still a teenager? My butt should be in bed by now!) but if I'm in the mood, I've got to write or else I won't do it later, it seems.
Last Saturday AMA picked up some new volunteers: 1st is a woman from Virginia who wanted to come with the groups but couldn't work it out with her schedule, so she came by herself. Hilda and a driver in the truck picked her up at the airport and she's been staying in the house in the room Lupe used to be in. She's a 7th grade civics teacher in the DC area, and has plenty of pluck, as Hugh puts it. She's really just normal. Everything you'd expect a 7th grade civics teacher to be except that she's not phased at all by Guatemala, has a good sense of humor about the things that are annoying, and is one of the more adaptable 50 year olds I've met. Oh yeah, her name's Bonnie. Bonnie wanted to help with the kids in the MAP program, so she's been tagging along with Dilma (the new art teacher we hired, and my old student) to the schools with her on her first week of working with the kids (Dilma was only just hired.) Hugh's also been tagging along as translator. She actually knows sufficient Spanish to function, but it seems like having someone fluent is better for everyone, plus he likes going. They've come back with lots of stories of well, and poorly behaved kids. Smart kids, dumb kids, manipulative kids, and I hear a lot about runny noses. Bonnie and Hugh are also really pleased with Dilma, even with it being her first week of work. Ben expressed reservations to me about hiring her because she was so quite and calm, thinking that she wouldn't be able to entertain a classroom, and that she'd be too dull to latch on to the project, which was wrong wrong wrong wrong, and I have pain for it. I tried to tell them that she was super smart, and expressed to Lupe that maybe it was a better idea to have someone calm and collected in a classroom full of screaming kids with paintbrushes than one that's egging them on, which seemed to sooth her at the time. Now Bonnie's taking every opportunity to tell Ben that Dilma's perfect, perfect, and so patient, and a good teacher too in many respects besides being able to control children gone mad. I was very relieved to hear this. She has done a bit of a personality transformation since she's been working too, where she came in shy and quiet and scared to mess up. After a week of being in front of kids, and in charge of the lessons, and getting used to working in the house she's so relaxed and confident and smiles all the time. I love talking to her, now that I kind of can, and I can understand her spanish more than when we were in classes. I still don't know if she wants the bead-superviser job. I'm afraid it's going to be a no, but I'll get to that when it comes.
Then there are the two girls from Seattle- Ashley and Sara, who have come independently of AMA, but are working with them, doing a photography project with the women's group in Espumpuja. They are grad students studying art-therapy, and two people who I have really connected with in a fast and sweet way in the last week. I'm really, really happy to have met them and look forward to living together for the rest of the month. Anyway, they came with the project already planned and funded, and were placed in Espumpuja by Hilda because of a past project with this girl named Sharon. Sharon had a photography project there that functioned really well and the women loved, but then she got a job in the East and just up and left without ending it or even giving the women their pictures. What it's come out as is that she was using this project more for her portfolio than to help the women.. Anyway, she promised to return in October (which is a 6 month wait for the poor women, and not good for the organization, blah blah blah.) So the but the new girls there not only because the women already had some experience, but also because it was a well structured plan that would give closure to Sharon's project that left the women feeling abandoned. So at some point Sharon found out about the new girls in Espumpuja, and actually called Hilda's phone WHILE she was introducing them to the women, and started screaming at HIlda (who screams at Hilda??? ) about how it was HER project, and how DARE these girls steal it, and WHY didn't they talk to her, and how stupid of Hilda to forget she was coming back, repeating the phrase "MY PROJECT. MY PROJECT. MY PROJECT." to which Hilda (by witness angry but within voice control) "MY organization! MY time! MY passion! I've built this community and this group for 7 years! this isn't your project! I didn't forget you! I chose to move these women on, you're not seeing it from their eyes, and shame on you!" She told me this later over lunch, saying to me "I don't let foreigners talk to me like that. She was trying to make me feel stupid and below her and it's discrimination." So good for her. This Sharon girl's a trip. She's like the most difficult person in Guatemala from the rumors. She hates all the white people who live here, as if they don't belong and she does. She came to the house one day, totally iced off Vladimir who was the friendliest guy ever, and when she passed me I said "hola!" and she just looked at me like I was a child and said "HELLO." and very deliberately walked away. From the sound of it AMA's done with her. Poor Ashley and Sara for being caught in the middle of it. They were actually standing right next to Hilda, in the community, in front of the women, when the whole conversation happened. They say the women looked embarrassed, but kind of happy, as if they were really relieved Hilda was standing up for them. They're going back tomorrow to continue with the project and pick up the pictures to develop them. We're all anxious to see them.
In other news, I've been participating in none of this, doing minimal work besides cleaning with the jewelry project, and weaving my little fingers off. I'm happy to say I've become famous at the weaving school, as "la chica con la tejida verde" (the girl with the green weaving.) Because I actually know how to weave, enjoy it, and have done a lot harder patterns than this, and they love giving me a challenge. Mom, imagine trying to teach 5 Guatemalans a day who don't speak your language and just don't get it. Gross. Frustrating. I picked the hardest project they offered, a table runner with embroidery, for which they looked at me doubtfully and asked me more than a few times how much time I was planning on staying in the city. It didn't seem appropriate to begin my first conversation with them with "You say this project takes 20 hours, and then most people need a few weeks? I can put 20 hours in in 3 days." So I'm almost finished now a week and a half later, and they're cute around me. Oralia, one of the women who I refer to to other people as so Zen it's amazing, calls me maestra.
Well. the two women that run the organization are Oralia and Amparo. Amparo is short and squat and Ashley says she laughs like Gus-gus from Cinderella. She tends to explain better, and scoots around like a little bumble bee. Oralia is so Zen. She speaks more or less in a calm, sweet monotone, and does more floating than scooting. She dresses traditionally, is really, really pretty, and somehow just reminds me of a geisha or something. She's also got three kids, the youngest of which, 2 year old Carla, get's her kicks and her babysitting in among the students and volunteers. For a kid who has so many emotions, it's hard to believe she doesn't know any words. We'll have whole conversations with her, us speaking English and her speaking gibberish. And she's the sassiest baby EVER. She'll plain put her hands on her hips and tell you what's up. The opposite of her calmer than calm mother.
I should be finishing my table runner tomorrow, which I'm SOOO excited about. Then hope of hopes, Hilda will have a loom for me from Espumpuja for me to practice with and take home. I can buy one from Trama, but it's cheaper and has more street cred if I get it from the village. By the way, fun note for mom and other weavers- The warp in Spanish is called the pie (pee-ay) or translated-the foot, and the weft is called the trama (trah-mah) which also means food. If you think about it, when you put the weft through the shed, it's like you're feeding the weaving. So the joke in Espumpuja when we were there watching them weave was that after they had the loom set up and someone was winding a shuttle for them, they complained that their scarf was hungry.
ENOUGH I SAY ENOUGH.
bedtime.
Last Saturday AMA picked up some new volunteers: 1st is a woman from Virginia who wanted to come with the groups but couldn't work it out with her schedule, so she came by herself. Hilda and a driver in the truck picked her up at the airport and she's been staying in the house in the room Lupe used to be in. She's a 7th grade civics teacher in the DC area, and has plenty of pluck, as Hugh puts it. She's really just normal. Everything you'd expect a 7th grade civics teacher to be except that she's not phased at all by Guatemala, has a good sense of humor about the things that are annoying, and is one of the more adaptable 50 year olds I've met. Oh yeah, her name's Bonnie. Bonnie wanted to help with the kids in the MAP program, so she's been tagging along with Dilma (the new art teacher we hired, and my old student) to the schools with her on her first week of working with the kids (Dilma was only just hired.) Hugh's also been tagging along as translator. She actually knows sufficient Spanish to function, but it seems like having someone fluent is better for everyone, plus he likes going. They've come back with lots of stories of well, and poorly behaved kids. Smart kids, dumb kids, manipulative kids, and I hear a lot about runny noses. Bonnie and Hugh are also really pleased with Dilma, even with it being her first week of work. Ben expressed reservations to me about hiring her because she was so quite and calm, thinking that she wouldn't be able to entertain a classroom, and that she'd be too dull to latch on to the project, which was wrong wrong wrong wrong, and I have pain for it. I tried to tell them that she was super smart, and expressed to Lupe that maybe it was a better idea to have someone calm and collected in a classroom full of screaming kids with paintbrushes than one that's egging them on, which seemed to sooth her at the time. Now Bonnie's taking every opportunity to tell Ben that Dilma's perfect, perfect, and so patient, and a good teacher too in many respects besides being able to control children gone mad. I was very relieved to hear this. She has done a bit of a personality transformation since she's been working too, where she came in shy and quiet and scared to mess up. After a week of being in front of kids, and in charge of the lessons, and getting used to working in the house she's so relaxed and confident and smiles all the time. I love talking to her, now that I kind of can, and I can understand her spanish more than when we were in classes. I still don't know if she wants the bead-superviser job. I'm afraid it's going to be a no, but I'll get to that when it comes.
Then there are the two girls from Seattle- Ashley and Sara, who have come independently of AMA, but are working with them, doing a photography project with the women's group in Espumpuja. They are grad students studying art-therapy, and two people who I have really connected with in a fast and sweet way in the last week. I'm really, really happy to have met them and look forward to living together for the rest of the month. Anyway, they came with the project already planned and funded, and were placed in Espumpuja by Hilda because of a past project with this girl named Sharon. Sharon had a photography project there that functioned really well and the women loved, but then she got a job in the East and just up and left without ending it or even giving the women their pictures. What it's come out as is that she was using this project more for her portfolio than to help the women.. Anyway, she promised to return in October (which is a 6 month wait for the poor women, and not good for the organization, blah blah blah.) So the but the new girls there not only because the women already had some experience, but also because it was a well structured plan that would give closure to Sharon's project that left the women feeling abandoned. So at some point Sharon found out about the new girls in Espumpuja, and actually called Hilda's phone WHILE she was introducing them to the women, and started screaming at HIlda (who screams at Hilda??? ) about how it was HER project, and how DARE these girls steal it, and WHY didn't they talk to her, and how stupid of Hilda to forget she was coming back, repeating the phrase "MY PROJECT. MY PROJECT. MY PROJECT." to which Hilda (by witness angry but within voice control) "MY organization! MY time! MY passion! I've built this community and this group for 7 years! this isn't your project! I didn't forget you! I chose to move these women on, you're not seeing it from their eyes, and shame on you!" She told me this later over lunch, saying to me "I don't let foreigners talk to me like that. She was trying to make me feel stupid and below her and it's discrimination." So good for her. This Sharon girl's a trip. She's like the most difficult person in Guatemala from the rumors. She hates all the white people who live here, as if they don't belong and she does. She came to the house one day, totally iced off Vladimir who was the friendliest guy ever, and when she passed me I said "hola!" and she just looked at me like I was a child and said "HELLO." and very deliberately walked away. From the sound of it AMA's done with her. Poor Ashley and Sara for being caught in the middle of it. They were actually standing right next to Hilda, in the community, in front of the women, when the whole conversation happened. They say the women looked embarrassed, but kind of happy, as if they were really relieved Hilda was standing up for them. They're going back tomorrow to continue with the project and pick up the pictures to develop them. We're all anxious to see them.
In other news, I've been participating in none of this, doing minimal work besides cleaning with the jewelry project, and weaving my little fingers off. I'm happy to say I've become famous at the weaving school, as "la chica con la tejida verde" (the girl with the green weaving.) Because I actually know how to weave, enjoy it, and have done a lot harder patterns than this, and they love giving me a challenge. Mom, imagine trying to teach 5 Guatemalans a day who don't speak your language and just don't get it. Gross. Frustrating. I picked the hardest project they offered, a table runner with embroidery, for which they looked at me doubtfully and asked me more than a few times how much time I was planning on staying in the city. It didn't seem appropriate to begin my first conversation with them with "You say this project takes 20 hours, and then most people need a few weeks? I can put 20 hours in in 3 days." So I'm almost finished now a week and a half later, and they're cute around me. Oralia, one of the women who I refer to to other people as so Zen it's amazing, calls me maestra.
Well. the two women that run the organization are Oralia and Amparo. Amparo is short and squat and Ashley says she laughs like Gus-gus from Cinderella. She tends to explain better, and scoots around like a little bumble bee. Oralia is so Zen. She speaks more or less in a calm, sweet monotone, and does more floating than scooting. She dresses traditionally, is really, really pretty, and somehow just reminds me of a geisha or something. She's also got three kids, the youngest of which, 2 year old Carla, get's her kicks and her babysitting in among the students and volunteers. For a kid who has so many emotions, it's hard to believe she doesn't know any words. We'll have whole conversations with her, us speaking English and her speaking gibberish. And she's the sassiest baby EVER. She'll plain put her hands on her hips and tell you what's up. The opposite of her calmer than calm mother.
I should be finishing my table runner tomorrow, which I'm SOOO excited about. Then hope of hopes, Hilda will have a loom for me from Espumpuja for me to practice with and take home. I can buy one from Trama, but it's cheaper and has more street cred if I get it from the village. By the way, fun note for mom and other weavers- The warp in Spanish is called the pie (pee-ay) or translated-the foot, and the weft is called the trama (trah-mah) which also means food. If you think about it, when you put the weft through the shed, it's like you're feeding the weaving. So the joke in Espumpuja when we were there watching them weave was that after they had the loom set up and someone was winding a shuttle for them, they complained that their scarf was hungry.
ENOUGH I SAY ENOUGH.
bedtime.
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