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.