Antigua (& Kate)

Overlooking Antigua from Cerro de la Cruz.  Kate, my
"host sister" and I ran up "el cerro" one morning --
if the incline doesn't tire you out, the altitude will.

(from Jan 25)   If my week in San Antonio satiated my desire for a window into Guatemala as it is, my first night in Antigua is feeding my fantasy that the developing world actually lives like we do, simply with more rustic charm:  imagine spending your life at the cabin.  Sure, you can’t flush your toilet paper, but the mugs in the kitchen still match.  (They’re not cheap ugly plastic either, but clay from the earth--completing the rustic simplicity aesthetic.)  As if that weren’t enough, I’ve landed in a host family of foodies -- or, at least veggies.  We spent dinner discussing different types of vegetables and herbs.  It was a verdura nerdfest. To bridge the language gap,  my host mother pulled out samples of her stash of freshly dried bay leaves, tarragon and parsley.   She apparently leads organic farming workshops.  For heaven’s sake, they served fresh lemongrass tea for dinner. 

Famous "el arco" in reflection, with Volcan Agua behind

The biggest news is that Kate Venable arrived today.  Kate and I became friends not four months ago, but I quickly began spending time with her more consistently than anyone else.  Why’d we move so fast?  One, she’s fabulous.  Two:  running.  I’d never had a consistent running partner...till Kate.  It’s a gift in Minnesota autumn when the temperature falls from a sweet 50 degrees to 6 degrees in a few short weeks.  (Trust me, rising at 6am to throw running shoes on should not be attempted solo -- it’s imperative to know that if you stay under covers, someone a 1/2 mile away will quite literally die waiting for you in single digit weather.)  The day after Kate and I were introduced, we hit the trails together (I tested her quality day 1 by forcing her to climb a small brambly cliff to get off the train tracks...she passed).   On one of these runs I offhandedly threw out that we ought to go to language school in Guatemala in January.  I wasn’t serious.  But I soon realized the wisdom of this offhanded suggestion, as did she -- and the planning began.  

Dining out with Kate in Antigua

I am blessed to know this woman.  Kate is smart, compassionate, real.  She invited me into her home the week before I departed MN and kindly let me run around like that headless chicken trying to gather my guts and my shit before leaving for the foreseeable future.  She didn’t judge me (oh, what a gift!).  She even laughed when I tried to burn down her house and called her mid-date:   “How do I turn off the painful fire alarms!?!?”   She’s beautiful, a doctor (an occupation I appreciated when things turned sour with my bowels week 2 in Guatemala...).  Katie initially delayed medical school to focus on creative and ministry endeavors (she's a fabulous musician & worship leader), and somehow we both have brothers who got married in Colorado and now live in Kansas City.  I love knowing her--you would too.  (Drop me an email if you want her number.  And you do.)

El Merced church--down the block from our Language School

I’m deeply excited to get to know Colonial Antigua and soak up its activity, but it’s impossible not to miss the mountainside fincas of San Antonio and Santa Catarina.   I will be pampered here in Antigua and no doubt my digestion will be overjoyed with my foodie hosts, but my heart will be eager to hop a camioneta to the next valley over where the plastic bowls don’t match and most of the floors are concrete or dirt, but the mountains and the people smile at a very steep grade.

the Fincas of Santa Catarina

My Last Night in San Antonio Aguas Calientes

Whether due to the instant coffee or the bombas and firecrackers--which have not ceased since my arrival a week ago--I cannot sleep.   One might expect that ten-till midnight on a Monday night is  reason enough to cease the music and random (yet frequent) bombs and fireworks, but the party continues.   Or, that a country fairly recently touched by war would have no interest in shaking loud noises, but for San Antonio and the festival of "The Sweet Name of Jesus" this doesn't ring true.  The church bells--a cacophonous chorus of them--are presently ringing.   Like children with enormous toys in hand.   How about a couple more bombas?  Perfect.  Now the band can play.

Despite the Sweet Name of Jesus firecrackers, I have found plenty of tranquility in San Antonio Aguas Calientes.  Yesterday was the kind of unbelievable day that justifies solo travel.  Traveling alone is something unique--particularly as a woman.  There is a vulnerability that can also serve as approachability.   Perhaps my most satisfying travel experiences have come from that initial: "What on earth is that white woman doing here?" 

Sunday Almuerzo with the Lopez Family

Yesterday I treated “my family”--Nancy, Carlos, Hazel and Shirley Lopez to lunch, almuerzo, the main meal of the day.  We could’ve made the 10 minute trip to Antigua, but we opted to stay in town and dine at one of their favorite spots.  When we arrived, they had no intention of serving food.  The cooks/homeowners were enjoying their Sunday afternoon.  But Carlos, as a friend, asked if they were willing to serve us.   “Tenemos pescado -- ésta bien?”   Yes, fish (their specialty) would be perfect.   We waited outside while they set the (one and only) table inside.  

After the meal I decided to walk home.   At less than a mile, with the sun high in the sky and the temperate weather, it was a perfect hour for exploring (and walking off the wonderful meal).   Less than minute after I waved goodbye, I got a “¿Éstas perdida?” (Are you lost?)  “No, Gracias.”

My spanish has improved, but I look no more Mayan than I did when I arrived, and my pink skirt from Haight Street is a noticeably different style than the traditional weave of the women of San Antonio.  I stick out a little.   

“¿Quiere participar en clases de arte con niños?”   

Great.  This guy is following me.   There goes my peaceful walk home.  

Alright, dude, what do you want, and why can’t you bother someone else besides the one gringa who (naturally) feels intimidated by a strange man approaching her in a language she barely understands?  

I do my best to grasp what he’s saying and act as friendly as I can muster when my guard is up.  (Why on earth is he asking me to participate in children’s art classes?)  Before I know it I’m engaged in a conversation about the local students he’s eager to help learn, including one in particular--Sergio--who is also hungry to learn english.  Would I be interested in giving him an english lesson?  (I knew I shouldn’t have worn the pink skirt.)   Well as long as I’m going to be followed up the street by this potentially creepy dude, sure, I’ll walk in the direction of Sergio’s home.   

Along the way I learn that (Mario) is Mexican.  I’d actually spotted him in the Parque Central the moment he stepped off the bus; his sunglasses exposed him as a transport--mayans don’t wear shades.  He’d moved to this small Guatemalan pueblo after living in a handful of places in Central America, earning a living writing children’s textbooks and in graphic design.   With pride he showed me two music textbooks.  “I took pictures of Mayan children here in Guatemala.  It’s important that students can see other children in their textbooks who look like they do.”   Of course it is--otherwise learning to play recorder is just for white kids.

We arrive at the home of Sergio, warmly welcomed by his mother, father, aunt, two siblings, two cousins and two dogs.  Their yard is dirt, and from what I can tell, the same dirt becomes their kitchen floor.   As poor farmers they can’t afford a concrete home like the Lopez family.   Sergio’s father earns about $50/week.  “Would I like to see their farm?”  

The vista from the top rows of yuerba buena (mint)

I’ve come this far, why not?   Sergio is shy but eager.  “While we walk, you and I can speak in English -- OK, Sergio?”   

OK.

We continue up the road that parallels the creek.  Within a few minutes we step onto the land they farm.   Sergio’s father graciously and proudly shows me around the small finca:  raddishes, mint, bananas trees and a few coffee plants.  Sergio shows me how to taste the not-yet-ripe coffee seeds.  Peel the cascara, suck off the sweetness, then spit out the seeds when you’re finished.   In a few months they’ll loose their sweetness and be sold who knows where for roasting and grinding.   

The creek running through the family finca

We climb the hill to the top rows of yerba buena (mint), my flip-flops slipping on the steep land they farm -- “cuidado.”  Upon descent we rinse our feet in the creek, and the family seems as happy to have me there as I am to be welcomed into this hour of their lives.  

“Sergio.   Tell me--in English--how many brothers you have.”

Would I like to walk farther?  Into the woods to meet a man who farms a beautiful garden?  

Why not.   

“Sergio.  Describe yourself to me--in English.”   

“I have...”  

“I am.”

“I am...¿cómo se dice simpatica?”

“Nice.”
“I am...nice.”  

“Good.”

  

Walking to the "beautiful garden in the woods"

We arrive at the man’s garden, walking up the creek through the woods (now I’m glad I’m in my flip-flops).  His yard is stunning.   He serves us banana and papaya from his trees.  He is a friend of Mario’s -- Mario who clearly has a knack for making friends with the gentlest of people.  The four niños play on the swings and squeal at the fish in his ponds.   We all dip our hands in the small blue pool.   Cold, fresh water from the stream irrigates his land and is the running water for his beautiful hut home.  I try a chile pepper.   Just a tiny bite.  Es picante.

Sergio and his cousin on the swings

Sergio works on mastering “I am” and “I have” as we make the journey home.  I write down the family’s cell number and hope to return in 10 days.

With my new courage to explore I spend the following afternoon walking the streets of San Antonio and Santa Caterina.  On the outskirts, many of the homes are farms.  Small, simple, stunning.  Middle-aged men tilling and women in full traditional dress, harvesting in the field.  I give thanks for the small-farm movement in the United States offering our farmers more than a dirt floor, and I try to hope that it will reach here.  I hope that when I leave, Sergio will find a way to learn English as he so desperately wants to do.  His family will never be able to afford lessons.

Walking back to San Antonio’s town center Mario tells me how this place is the place he loves most of the cities and pueblos where he has lived these past several years.  He shares his dream of owning a small concrete house, space for a hammock, a peace tree and chickens.  All he needs.   His children will run and be happy because that, for some reason, is the way the children are in San Antonio Agua Calientes.   

I had observed the same but attributed it to my naivete--my gringa romanticization of the Central America village.   No. Something is unique about this pueblo--the laughter, the freedom of children to run and play, the enormous smiles evoked by a simple “buenos tardes.”

1:30am.  The band and fireworks show no signs of quitting.  They will follow me to my dreams tonight.

Step 1: Arrival in Central America

 2012.

The flight away.

My belly full--or is it my heart?

The food of friends’ goodbyes

The tiredness of a new beginning

Resting in Economy

an old seat 

that won’t stay upright even

for take off and landing  

These are the friends who shaped my life

They drew my contours and

I drew theirs

We fed each other

We bathed each other 

in tears, rebukes and all love’s kind gifts 

even the gifts we forgot to ask for 

or didn’t know we’d need

These are the people on the ground

giving meaning to my 40,000 ft.

The First Night.

We round the corner of the sky’s highway and I 

almost shout “shit” for my fellow passengers:

The volcano is more immediate than anything I’ve ever seen.

I’ve seen my share of las montanas y los volcanes, but

Volcan Agua leaps out of the ground like snapping jaws of a beast.

(You know the cave-dwelling beast from Empire Strikes Back?)

So. big.  So...triangular.

So clearly higher than our descending plane.

I’ve never seen the earth above me from un avion’s birdeye view.

The same volcano caused us an accident on the journey from airport to “home”

I don’t know if beauty blinds, but it will

certainly put a 4x4‘s wheel over the edge.

The car, suspended by 3 wheels and its frame while the crowd stared or gathered

15 boberos cranking, pushing the endangered 2 tons

and watching 

the way that men do.

This was a first for me:  I actually asked the plane to reverse its landing.

As the distant scenery looked less and less like Google Earth, I knew the minute we touched 

it was all over.   The new life would begin.   As long as we remained floating, there was still the chance to pulling a U-ey and call it all off.

We touched.

You’ll be glad to know, as I was, that my first Guatemalan meal was the #1 at Taco Bell.

I did my best to explain the comedy to my hosts.

The garden is the house and the house is the garden.

I am glad we touched.

And I fall asleep.

Miercoles. 18.1.12

Hazy with evening clouds 

and a dozen BBQs

A town so tranquil,

yet I hear every single sound

of the weekend’s fiesta preparation

the end of the day’s work

the happy roosters and birds I’ve never seen

 Listen to the bus arriving from Antigua

the practicing musicians

Finally a wild church bell outplays them all

(was it for church, or a prank?

a small boy snuck into the bell tower to feel the weight of the bell?)

I am gazing over the valley town

smelling its smells and 

peaking through the fauna to a few bicycles, cars,

or the mujer hanging her rooftop laundry

But don’t miss San Antonio Aguas Calintes’ other face

Look up.  (You don’t have to look far.)

We are dressed in mountains.   Spin around to see her full skirt.

Some small -- decorated in coffee, frijoles, o maize.  

And a couple unsubtle volcanoes.

the rooftop view from my temporary home in Guate

It seems I am speaking best in snapshots, perhaps to match the accompanying photos.  Perhaps so you won’t sigh at the length of my update.  Or to ensure that most of each day’s words are spanish.  And they are.  From the moment off the plane, my english ration is nothing--a few here and there.  I’m amazed at how easy it is to live and communicate in my new language.

Until everyone speaks at the normal pace--and I can only catch a few foul balls.

El Viernes Loco

Or so they call it.

We return from our “brief” trip to Antigua.   This place is for me--where

5 minutes is ten and 

one hour is three.

A mysteriously long evening of errands meant more exploring for me,

and after my time CV I’ve no complaining rights.

We return to San Antonio, 

drive another 5 minutes to the next Puebla

and Dine Out.

Perhaps you’ve admired the chef working at your favorite restaurant

Through the shiny viewer-friendly window

or through the grease cracks.

I hovered a bit while La Concinera 

rolled maiz in to balls

flatted them

back and forth in the hand like hot potato

stuffed them

rolled again,

back and forth,

For the fire.

And I was promptly invited to join her.

Maiz in the hand

I did my best hot potato

Whatever I did or didn’t do to my (somewhat) round tortillas

I devoured my two.

And went back for another.

Sabado.

Fuego & Acatenangua, over the dusk lights of San Antonio Aguas Calientes
(Take note that Fuego has just "poofed")

A miniature earthquake today (how I love them).

The volcano erupts regularly--little eruptions--I call them “poofs”

I’m told at night one can see the volcan red lava lazily sliding “post-poof.”

I have found a warm temporary home among Nancy, Carlos, Hazel, and Shirley (don’t be fooled by the western names--you must pronounce them with your best Guatemalan accent--son indigenas).   Thanks to Michael Gross I’m making my first home away from home with the Lopez family in the 10,000 person puebla of San Antonio Aguas Calientes/Santa Caterina, just outside of Antigua.  It’s wonderfully set apart from the Antigua tourist hotspot.  I’ve yet to see another gringo in town, even after this week’s non-stop fiesta (if 100 dancing cartoon-heads can’t bring the gringos, what will?).  This week the town celebrates an annual fiesta, que se llama “The Sweet Name of Baby Jesus.”   By name one would assume it’s a week of quiet pondering with a quiet underscore of silent night.   No.  When Silent Night (tackily) plays, it’s over a village-wide loudspeaker, and it’s a small a relief from the other non-stop pounding music which underscores the random (yet frequent) firecrackers and “bombas” commencing as early as 5 or 6am.   It’s hilarious.   

Dance Rehearsal for the evening's Festival Parade

I presumed a small pueblo to be quiet and remote, but it’s more like having 10,000 apartment-mates.  All very pleasant and well-meaning.  I hear everything.   But we’re neighbors, so why complain?

The week culminated tonight in a grand parade of various floats, dancers and costumed residents.  I was only accosted by two: one the swatted my butt (so as to clean it -- and clean it now is) and another (man) in a tiny bikini and full-body dark paint over his already dark skin.   He was redundantly dress an an “indigenous Guatemalan.”  Apparently the men originally wore modern day bikinis.

Dancing Heads for the "Sweet Name of Jesus" Festival

The party continues.   At 12:40am I hear it loud and clear from my bedroom.   No sign of stopping.  I can imagine the costumed jovenes still dancing -- masked as everything from old wrinkly gringa “abuelitas” to Christopher Robbin’s Tiger -- still dancing, as they have been since this afternoon.

The Lopez family is so much grace in kindness and laughter.  They are more than generous helping me with my fumbling Spanish.  The dinner table is always rich with laughter.  By day three I discovered plastic poo in my room -- a prank that clearly delighted the entire family.  And there’s been no shortage of fart jokes.  All this is to say:  we’re getting along just fine.  They’re falling in love with me, and I them.   If you’ve any interest in learning Spanish in Guatemala, I would love to encourage you to stay and study with them.

After tonight’s parade we dined at Nancy’s mother’s house.   After the meal, out came the guitar and an evening of singing.   Everyone soloed.  Expertise was praised, but participation even more so.   Every solo was met with applause, and usually laughter.  This family loves to laugh.  

Dinner with the whole family (pre-guitar)

It’s to cliche to ruminate on “how happy people are with such simplicity” or “how generous,” but they are both.  I reluctantly recall a remark a friend made shortly before I left the country (I took it for hyperbole then and left it behind):  the United States is the most messed up country in the world--people are psychologically a disaster.  If I were audacious enough to make generalizations based on one week with one family in one pueblo,  I would tell you that these people have grown into adulthood without the shedding the delights of youth, nor embracing the weight of adult anxiety.  They make me love life.