Life in the Rural North

Una nina in the rural north of Guatemala

It's been many days since I sat down to scribe/process, and there is no shortage of details to tell.  Shall I begin with my feelings now?  The relief of a new morning after a day of interrupted expectations, and the way I am beginning to miss...to miss friends and home and mostly the ability to put my things down without moving them in the next 48 hours.  Or my wish that I'd raised myself earlier this morning to be beat the loud music and the smokers who challenge the idyllic scenery, smells and sounds of the Pacific waters meeting land after thousands of miles apart.

Or should I jump right to the pig in our bedroom?                       

I write from the Pacific Coast of Guatemala, the international and local tourist town of Monterrico.  The black sand beaches encounter rough waves and a powerful undertow, but if you swim past the wave breaking point it's wonderfully calm bobbing up and down in the high-density water.  And there's usually one or two other floating faces to talk to.

I am alone.   Alone as of 4pm yesterday when a new friend (the kind you pick up while traveling) had to suddenly depart Monterrico.  Kate left Saturday morning (the day before yesterday).  Before she'd arrived I was pleasantly content not knowing a soul in the country--beyond the friends I've made here.  But either her sweet presence or simply the accumulation of 3 weeks have reminded me of all I'm missing--always in specifics:  a particular person, my teapot--warm and round, the doorway of a dear friend's home--hearing the chatter and laughter as I enter.

Nonetheless, it's amazing what a good night's sleep can do--even in a hotel dorm with 6 other people and one simple sheet which was oppressive at 9pm last night but necessary for the 6:00am morning "chill" on the coast.  I awoke with gratitude for the morning of solitude--journal in hand, Pacific in view.  (If only now they could turn down the 1970s American music!).

the Northern Mountains of Nebaj

I left you (dear blog readers and spam folders) in Antigua, the colonial, now tourist, Guatemalan town.  I inhaled three long days of Spanish classes before Kate and I took off Friday afternoon for the long journey to Nebaj in Guatemala's northern mountains.  We stopped half-way (since it's not safe for 2 gringas to travel by bus after dark--6:30pm) in Chichicastenango.  "Chichi" is a hopping market (and tourist) town on Thursdays and Sundays, but on Friday night, gringos are hard to find.  We found a lovely budget hotel that made its own peanut butter (later to be a life-saver), and boasted a stunning garden out back: squash, chard, avocados, oranges, nisperos, lemon-limons.   Before 7am we left to catch our mini-bus to Nebaj.   The theme of mini-buses and chicken-buses ("camionetas") is:  there is always more room.  As visibility allowed we tried to count passengers in each mini-bus (12-passenger van):  always in the 20-somethings.

Mini-bus, Nebaj. Sneaking of shot of the incredible Nebaj headpieces.
24 in the 12 person van.

After breakfast in Nebaj we began our long hike west to Todos Santos through the rural mountain country.  Our guide, Jacinto, spoke spanish, but with a strong Ixil (the local language) accent, making it often difficult to understand him.   Imagine visiting rural Ireland after a few weeks of learning english (in the states); the dialect would pose a challenge.  Nonetheless we continued to ask about the plants and villages we passed, and he continued to share.  I wish I could have understood more.  Obviously Jacinto cared deeply about restitution in this region that was devastated by violence thirty years prior.  He'd watched his family and neighbors suffer.   Three decades later, he was patiently seeking justice despite the plethora of corrupt lawyers and the challenges of gathering testimony from villagers scattered in the mountains.  At times Jacinto would stop at a house along our journey in hopes of finding someone at home -- someone who's testimony he was still trying to collect.

Kate and Jacinto (our guide) on the trail

The Ixil region, with its plethora of mountain and forrest hiding areas, was a haven for guerrilla fighters and particularly hard-hit in the 1980s war.   Jacinto is actively involved in prosecuting the war generals who continue to live unpunished for the hundreds of people they raped and massacred.  We passed many a tiny mountain pueblito that suffered terribly in the 80s, and spent the night with families along the way.  The hike was long with plenty of climbing--nothing to scoff at even as an experienced hiker.  But the other circumstances proved the more challenging for us personally.  

Yes, that is an old woman.  Walking barefoot.
With a few sticks on her back.

Passing others on the Trail

Our first night we (Kate, myself and our guide) stayed in a simple guest house adjacent to a family's home.  We suspected our quarters were superior to the family's.   The large room sported several beds, apparently clean and a table in the center where we ate our meals.  The walls were wood, the clean floor concrete, the sheets seemed washed.  We didn't eat with the family--they (either the mother or one of the 12 children) brought our pasta with a cracked egg (and the following morning--eggs, beans, salsa and the best fresh tortillas I've ever had) from next door.  Before each meal they poured warm water from a bowl over our hands to wash.   Kate and I slept with mild discomfort only of the mind.  We were two white women alone with a guide we hoped we could trust in a land about which we knew close to nothing, where no one spoke english and finding a spanish speaker was almost as rare.  The indigenous languages were the common tongue.   Just in case, we slept with my Guatemalan cell phone and our pepper spray close by.  We huddled in bed together and prayed in English before shutting our eyes.

On day two we missed most of the stunning views, closed in by the neblina fog.   The rain fell lightly on and off, but the mist only enhanced our entrance into a large plato (following a long climb):  green the color of Scotland, and at least as many sheep.   

Shortly after the green we stopped for lunch (almuerzo) in one of the small pueblos.  Some of the family spoke spanish and the children spoke fluidly in smiles and stares of curiosity.   Our guide asked if they had vegetables. No.  Just maiz.   We suspected at this time that our guide thought we were vegetarians--an assumption we came to appreciate after watching the fate of local meat.   They did have some instant Cup of Soup, however.   We ate our instant soup and tortillas, while watching the mother and two adolescent girls make more:  hot potato back and forth, slap them over the fire.  

the "Cup of Soup" family ninos, Kate and me

The children stared at the gringos (at 5'5" I'm an incredibly tall woman and Kate at 5'9" is an amazon creature).   After hearing the photography warnings and the story of the Japanese tourist beat to death after snapping a photo of an indigenous baby, we hesitantly asked if we could take photos.  They were cautious, but ultimately delighted.  They gathered, smiled, and ogled over their digital images.  I cannot apologize enough that the camera was packed away for the most stunning image of all:  the 18 month old--with a dab of foreign blood on her lip--cuddling and sucking on a hairy, freshly hacked-off lamb leg.  The perfect child's toy.

In the evening we arrived at our homestay cold, tired, and our shoes covered in mud and manure.  As we attempted to scrape the mud and poop off our shoes we admired the family's filthy pig...who then wandered indoors.   Uhh....is someone going to kick that pig out of the house?  No?  Ok.   It wasn't until a hour later that we noted the room of the pig's entry was...oh.  Our bedroom.  

Watching the Gringas eat Cup of Soup

We warmed ourselves by the kitchen fire where they cooked tortillas and an enormous pot of maiz kernals.  We began warmly with the family that spoke spanish--albeit with an accent incredibly difficult for us to navigate.   Our warmth cooled as our judgment tightened its grip.   The cat who wandered the kitchen counter scavenging for food scraps grossed us out.   The dirt (and presumably animal feces) on the concrete kitchen floor was unacceptable.  The father hacked loogies onto the kitchen floor.  With each sound of his gurgled phlegm and spatting onto the floor of their home, our judgement swelled -- as did our fear of the evening to come.

The father of the family thanked us and God profusely that we had come.  The agency (Ixil Guias, originally a peace core project) with which we were hiking paid families for our evening of housing and meals.  We have no idea how much they pay each family, but I'm guessing it's more than the families earn in 2 weeks of work.  The father kept asking us if we spoke spanish (even though we were speaking to him in spanish).  Perhaps he found our accents as indistinguishable as we found his.  Within the hour it became apparent that he was either drunk or mentally ill.  Or both.  He fell asleep at the stove/table, bearing an unfortunate resemblance to my own father -- but far more sad as several of their (in total 10) children scurried about and his daughters and wife (also nursing a baby) made dinner before us.  We dined on a bowl of rice.  The flavor wasn't bad--aided by a singled onion and pepper (for the total 10 of us).  As we digested our simple meal and drank agua caliente--praying it was clean--we watched the children who likely ate the same the night before and the night after: rice, tortillas, hot water.   Malnourishment was no surprise.  The 7 year old looked 4.  

Kate and Jacinto (our guide) on the caminata

Kate's and my growing discomfort manifested in the increased use of english--our secret language.  In english we commented on the malnutrition, the enormous nipples of the mother who'd nursed 10 children, and the cat and dog who continued to steal food off the kitchen counter.  We discussed the family's expressed faith in God -- likely a faith that blended Christianity with indigenous Mayan beliefs.  We pondered the scarcity in this place that due to elevation was too cold to grow the copious fruits, vegetables and coffee year round as in much of Guatemala.  Potatoes and maiz were the staples.  In reality the climate was no harsher than my former homes of Seattle (or certainly Minneapolis), but sans furnaces and infrastructure this is a cold harsh place to live.  Yet people stay.  Their families are here.  The lives they know are here.  Many families send a family member or two up north to earn enough money for the family to afford concrete walls, floors and something more than the large sheets of plastic used to keep the cold wind from blowing through the stick walls of many of the local houses.  Our hosts nonetheless had electricity -- wires strung across the room to the lightbulb (which could be carried to a new location as necessary).  There was even a black and white TV.   The children lacking socks, education and nutrition, stood captivated by the fuzzy images of talking cartoon penguins.

Toilet at "the pig house"

Kate and I turned in early that night.  After braving the outhouse, we made our way to our bedroom.  It was pig-free by then, but still plenty of questionable dirt/droppings on the concrete floor.  We shook out the bedding as best we could and padded the "mattress" of wood slats and cardboard with an extra blanket in hopes of keeping out the cold draft from below.  Without heat the night was cold--close to freezing.  To abate the smell from (every blanket available to us), we put one of our personal towels in between their blankets and our faces.  Half-way through the night I added an extra pair of pants to keep from shivering and Kate and I commenced full-on spooning.  In kindness she commanded I keep my legs beneath or atop hers for the sake of my warmth.  Finally, I slept.

We prayed that night for our safety, our health, for this family our hosts.  We were humbled too.  We'd been judgmental of a family that had a fraction of our resources, our education.  Certainly judgment overshadowed our gratitude.  That night we slept on wood and cardboard, but we looked forward to a tomorrow of pristine sheets, real pillows, and a bounty of healthy delicious food.  We asked for another chance--even though we weren't sure what that meant.

Pueblo of Todos Santos 

In the morning we stalled under the smelly covers, due to the cold.  But...there's nothing to launch one out of bed like a duck wandering into the bedroom. OK, Quacky, we're up!   
We left without breakfast, eager to catch our 12:00 noon bus in Todos Santos so we could arrive safely in Panahachel before dark (and aware that "It will only take 20 minutes" actually meant an hour).  Here's where that peanut butter became a life-saver.  I wouldn't have been up for breakfast anyway...something awry was beginning in my stomach.      

The descent to Todos Santos is stunning.  Only one road runs in and out of Todos Santos (the completed paved road is almost finished and will be the cause of a large pueblo-wide party next month).  I felt at home in this town perched in the mountains -- the pine trees, sunshine and river (albeit dirty) reminded me of the eastern slopes of the 

Todos Santos hombre, in traditional dress

Cascades in Washington.  I wished we could've stayed beyond our brief 40 minutes.  Instead we began the long hours of bussing to Panahachel and Lake Atitlan.  On the first ride we enjoyed the company of Miguel, a Todos Santos native in full traditional clothing.  (Unlike most Guatemalan pueblos where only some of the women maintain the traditional dress, Todos Santos men continue to sport the traditional striped red pants and intricately stitched shirt collars.)  Miguel had lived in Illinois for a year as an exchange student and was delighted to meet a couple Americans.  He told us about Todos Santos's enormous festival every November, the Todos Santonians living in Oakland and Grand Rapids, Michigan, and the mentality of traditional dress.  He also gave us some priceless bus advice.  We spoke in a mix of english and spanish (Miguel spoke both impeccably).  As much as I try to leave english behind in preparation for Bolivia, I've learned to love the ability to switch back & forth between languages (why haven't I done this before?).  We said goodbye to Miguel and our guide, Jacinto, in Huehuetenango (Guate's second largest city), and hopped our next bus to Cuatro Caminos.

The descent in Todos Santos

A ride in a camioneta ("Chicken Bus" -- a splendidly re-painted, recycled American school bus) is no luxury, but add the 11,000 feet of elevation, our (at that point) weak stomachs, and not a single 1000 meters free of turn after turn after turn, and the ride is a challenge.  Props to the Guatemalans who do this for life.  We were lucky to have a full seat for the entire 7 hours of traveling; it's not uncommon to squeeze three or four people onto a seat designed for two american school children.  "There is always more room."

Exhausted, ill, hungry and emotionally spent, we were near certain we were about to miss the 6:30pm boat in Panahachel.  But at 6:41am we ran to the boat about to pull away from the dock.  30 cents and 20 minutes later we arrived and climbed the stairs (barely) of Casa del Mundo -- our cliffside hotel.  We stepped into the dining room and nearly cried.  Before the "shower of a lifetime" and collapsing into bed, we sat down to a splendidly healthy four-course meal.  The luxury had begun.   

Welcome to Atitlan

Over dinner we tasted a touch of what I've heard people describe as the "culture shock" of returning home after traveling, working and (let's be honest) vacationing in the developing world.  As we savored our homemade soup, fresh tomato salad, entree and chocolate cake, our minds drifted to the children delighting over the same bowl of rice we and they had eaten the night before.  The conversation around us was in english instead of localized colloquial spanish -- something about oil pipelines in Alaska and the problem of homeless Native Alaskans in Anchorage -- a particularly ironic conversation in light of the indigenous Americans serving our meal.

I pray the people at Casa del Mundo at Lake Atitlan are as happy as they seemed to be.  In that beautiful place we studied, rested, feasted and swam in the cool waters of Lago de Atitlan before returning to Antigua for our final days of study.  We broke our rule of travel under cover of darkness on Thursday morning, leaving at 5:30am.  But like we had experienced all week, we continued in a sense of provision and protection.  Of course my cognitive dissonance is taxed when I begin comparing the levels of provision -- even when they are the consequence of human greed.  

I love a hot shower.  I love it when things are clean.  I love fresh healthy varieties food.  I savor the education and entertainment at my fingertips -- not to mention the freedom I have (generally) to walk at night without fearing my safety.  I don't really want to give them up -- and I have the choice to do so, or not.

 Lago de Atitlan at Dusk

Tonight I return to San Antonio Aguas Calientes, but I return with a much broader experience of Guatemala than I knew my first week there.  Nonetheless, I'm excited to return to the quiet fincas of the pleasant pueblo and especially the warm laughter and love of the Lopez family.  And I'm eager to cut english out of my diet once again; it fattens me in all the wrong places.