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.