Bolivia: Heading Further South

I began my journey south, ironically, by heading north to Florida.  My last few hours on US soil, before the long flight to South America on Aerosur.  Bolivia began on the airplane.  I was surprised at how much a savored those brief interactions with citizens of my own country--the people in customs were my best friends.  

I made a last minute goodbye calls while Aerosur called my flight in fast Bolivian spanish, and with intense delight I bought the The Times, Harpers, and a snickers bar (a mistake on a empty stomach) before boarding the plane.  Heavy paper on my lap, heavy sugar knot in my stomach, but the winged heavy ton of metal was liviano in the air.

Cochabamba.  Day One.

Sitting at the desk in my bedroom of my new Bolivian home.  
9,268 feet above sea level.

I unpacked my two bags--finally in one place--and decorated my wall with textiles I picked up in Guatemala.  Home.

It seems I attract festivals.  I began my travels with the (anything but sweet) “Sweet Name of Jesus” festival in San Antonio.  The explosions continue tonight...fireworks immediately outside my bedroom window.  Impressively, the celebration in this city of a near million hasn’t been half as loud as the ten-thousand population pueblo party in Guatemala.

My new home on calle Garcilazo de la Vega

I’m alone in this spacious yet simple “quadplex”--I’ll call it.   My plans to fly down from Miami with my main contact, Aliya, were interrupted.  Aliya rebooked her flight for Sunday due to a teething, sick baby (Teva).  Marcello--“Cello”-- Aliya’s husband, is in Santa Cruz, so oddly I have my new house to myself for a couple days.  

In my jet-lagged state I know almost nothing of this city.  I eat lunch with my new colleagues in the Artist Collective (“Colectivo Katari”) so there’s still human contact (and spanish-immersion), but for now it’s just me and the itunes album (of my host, Cello) accompanying the window-framed fireworks show.

From Guatemala to Bolivia.

  

Two Latin American countries, both with a plentiful mountains (and the accompanying high-altitude curvy roads) and large indigenous populations.  But don’t go serving tortillas and beans in Bolivia -- not their style.  To many, beans are considered pig food.  (And they take forever to cook at this altitude).  

Cochabamba's central plaza, 14 de Septiembre
Central to the 2000 Water War protests

I’m learning new words, and new meanings to old words. It’s not “Español” here.  Español is for España--the oppressive, murderous colonists Bolivia technically overthrew.  Here they speak Castellano.  

“Gringo” possesses some the same backhanded charm as it did Guatemala, but with the full weight of all the gringo nations and businesses that have grasped at Bolivia resources and manipulated its government.  Thanks to pressure from the World Bank, the same gringos who, 12 years ago, owned all the water here in Cochabamba--even the rain--until massive street protests convinced the Bolivian Government to throw out the transnational company and return the water to public, Bolivian, ownership. There are a few less weighty changes too: palta, vos, hueco. Every place has it’s own word for "pig" so I won’t even go there.

I’ve transitioned from rainbow bright to earth-tones, both in colors and personalities of the people.  Guatemalans embrace every one of the world’s brightest colors (often clashing together) in one splendid outfit.  Bolivians mellow out their beautiful textiles with more earth-tones.  Plenty of browns.

The accents are noticeably different than Guatemala, though I couldn’t yet tell you how.  There’s a particular person in the Colectivo Katari who is especially difficult for me to understand.  I felt slightly better when Aliya (the one American in the Bolivian Collective) told me it took her two years to be able to understand his speech.  Breathe.  Long road ahead.

Knock yourself out with the highly entertaining Academy Award nominee Even the Rain (También la Lluvia), spanish hollywood’s take on the 2000 Water Wars and their own colonial past.  Enjoy some glimpses of my new Cochabamba home, the stunning beauty of rural Bolivian, and a revision of the 1492 that I studied in school.  Even with all its good heart and entertaining charm, watch the film aware of how it may be limited by its own colonial hall of mirrors.  It is not a Bolivian film.  And one can't help but suspect that the indigenous actors hired were underpaid -- just like in the film itself.    http://www.tambienlalluvia.com/en/

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.

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.