Who needs to go to the Peten? I've got jungle in my backyard

Important Peace Corps lesson #1 (or maybe #44331 at this point): you never know when you will be surprised with a really cool experience.

This morning I had agreed to go out to one of the communities where we work to take pictures of their water system for a grant we are helping them complete. This community has only 20 families, and they built their own gravity fed water system out of small PVC tubing and barbed wire. The terrain is mountainous, and in various places, they had explained to us, the tubing was strung across ravines. This manner of construction left the tubes vulnerable to both the natural elements and water thieves who drill holes in the PVC to steal the community’s water. An engineer we are working with on a project in the school wants to replace these parts with sturdier metal tubing.

I arrived at the community with Juan, my trusted taxi driver and friend (there is no transportation to this community and its too far to walk), and expected to see a few tubes and be done in an hour or less. We started off through the few houses that make up the village, through the cornfields, now grown up tall around the houses, and headed into the woods. The woods there look a lot like Florida woods, and the air is clear and crisp. It is beautiful, and I was loving it. Two “bridges,” or sections of tubes spanning ravines, later I was feeling good. So when they told me that from there on the terrain got worse and that they weren’t sure if we should go on, I insisted that I needed the photos and measurements, and we pressed on. We passed through a lush river canon and started to climb. An hour and a half and 5 “bridges” later found me feeling like a novice Avatar on Pandora. I tried to act cool, but there were a few times where my life flashed before my eyes as I pictured myself tumbling down a cliff. “Throw yourself uphill,” advised the wise village mayor. I felt even more foolish when I found out one of our guides had a fractured knee (or something like that, they were all speaking Kaqchikel and Juan wasn’t helping much to translate). I decided it was time to turn around while I still could. At this point, hiked almost 2 hours into the mountains, they informed me that we had only reached the middle of the water system and had covered the most manageable terrain. I am still flabbergasted that this tiny community built and maintains such an extensive and vulnerable water system, and that they were able to engineer a gravity fed system over kilometers and kilometers of mountains.

At one point while we were hiking, a helicopter passed overhead, and Juan made a joke that we were guerillas hiding in the forest from the army. Later I got a chance to talk to the community leaders about the “violence” as they call it, and found out that 7 members of their community were disappeared during that time. Many more left the community and moved into the municipality, where it was safer. In those times, they told me, one couldn’t wander around the mountain like we did today with out the fear of being found and killed by either the army or the guerillas. It’s interesting to note that in many history books and in many circles here in Guatemala these years are referred to as “The Civil War.” Indeed they were ended in 1996 with Peace Accords, as if these years comprised a legitimate war. But here in this community that lived only the violence and sided neither with the guerilla or army, their name for the time period describes their experience. In college I took a class on periods of state violence in Latin America and read multiple books about how Guatemala spent the better part of second half of the 20th century, but being there in that forest and talking to people who can claim that as part of their life and history is an inexplicably different experience.

I arrived home exhausted, full of soda and imitation cheese puffs that we had been served after the hike (the things I do for confianza), but grateful for such an incredible morning. After lunch I headed off to teach English, which is not always my favorite activity even on days when I haven’t been dragged all over the mountains. Last week we learned how to make words plural. So today while reviewing pronouns, 7 year old Wesley solemnly informed me that if “They” were plural, it would be “Theies,” and I was reminded of another Peace Corps lesson: it’s the small victories that count.

Día de los Muertos

This is the first year that I can remember that I haven’t dressed up for Halloween. I am really not sure what my parents did when I was a baby, but that can’t really count. It was strange how un-strange it was. Here in Guatemala we celebrate Día de los Muertos instead of Halloween, and I think I greatly preferred it, minus missing all of the post-halloween-on-sale-candy.

For Día de los Muertos families decorate and visit the tombs of their loved ones, and their own future tombs. My host siblings, who are 7 and 9, already have their own designated tomb space. I believe that wealthier families may build tombs for their children as soon as they are born, which is a strange concept for me- to be so conscious of and prepared for the inevitability of death. This tradition also reflects the importance of family and home in the culture here. Families are all buried together in their hometown; not as many people leave the towns they were born in, and even if they do, the town remains a center for ritual and family. Because of all who return to Patzún for this special day, the town was especially full. At night we went down to the cemetery, where Laura’s host family sells food and hung out in the festival-like atmosphere with the rest of the town.

Another important part of October and November and celebrating Day of the Dead is kite flying. This has to be the best way ever to celebrate a holiday. Better than a bunny, better than lots of presents, and better than green beverages. Tissue paper kites can either be made or cheaply bought, and the whole month leading up to Day of the Dead kids can be seen on the roofs of their houses flying their kites. I tried my hand at kite making with our girls group, and it was a lot harder than it looked (mine came out a bit crooked). All of the boys and some of the girls know the special sticks that are needed, how to measure and build the frame with these sticks and thread, and are more creative in decorating their kites than I have seen them in any other endeavor. I went out kite flying Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday. I am addicted.

The kids from our world map project all made kites representing different countries that they chose and researched. I hopefully will be able to post some pics soon. They are very impressive. Almost as impressive as the kites that I saw at the kite festival in Sumpango, my training town.

Sumpango is nationally and internationally famous for the giant kites that are made and flown there for Nov. 1st. I had been looking forward to going to see them since training in January, and I was not disappointed. The kites were up to 25 or 30 meters tall and showed elaborate and beautiful designs made out of tissue paper. They are built on huge bamboo frames, and displayed all day for locals and tourists. Then come the attempts to fly them. Before we had to leave we saw maybe 6 or 7 of the smaller kites (my height) try to leave the ground. When one would start to rise everyone would scream and cheer, but most would quickly nose dive, causing a lot more screaming, and a lot of running to get out of the way. As fun as it was to see one of the kites rise way up into the sky and stay there, the crashes were pretty fun too. We left at 3:30 and all of the bigger kites still had to be flown, so I still have no sure answer on whether the huge ones can actually fly or not, but I bet those crashes are a lot more dangerous. Some of the huge kites fell over and were destroyed before they even got a chance to try to fly. Seeing as how it can take 3 months to build these kites, that has to be a disappointment.

I wish I had more information about where this tradition came from. I have heard that the kites come from the influence of Chinese immigrants. Where ever they come from, they fit the holiday perfectly, as November is a time of year with little rain and lots of wind. Since this wind isn’t used for sailing, I guess kites are the next best thing.

Small town life

Its apple season, so I have been making applesauce with the same fervor that I made jam in blackberry season and mango curry in mango season. When I was younger I remember my mom making applesauce late at night. I don’t know why at that hour, but apparently I have inherited this habit.

I am hoping that my gas has been going so quickly because of the leak the gas-man found and not because of my proclivity for cooking foods that simmer for a while. With his frequent visits the man that brings me new tanks of gas and I have somewhat become friends. He greets me on the street as he pedals by on his bike with a propane tank strapped to the back. One thing that I like about living in a small town is the personal relationships I have with service providers that I interact with on a regular basis.

Every Saturday night I go down to the market to buy cheese from my cheese man. My banana lady talks to me in Kaqchikel as if I understood more than “how much are your bananas?” My butcher brought me a whole cow head that he stored for a week in his fridge at home for me when I asked him for cow’s teeth for a school project. The (only) mailman called me at 7:30 am on a Saturday (a day when the post office is closed) to tell me I had a package and could come get it. My baker is my host aunt who gives me free bread and lets me bake in her bakery oven. I feel like I have gone back in time to before automatic checkout lanes at the grocery store.

There is, of course, a drawback. If the cheese man doesn’t come because of storms, there is no cheese that week. If our taxi driver is out of town, we walk. But even though it might be nearly impossible to find the post office open, I think I am starting to appreciate the benefits of a one-man mail system and other small town charms.

15K, Guatemala style

After a bit of a blogging hiatus I am not sure anyone is still reading this (not even my mom), but now that my computer has recovered from a disastrous run-in with chai tea, I thought I'd get back to it. So enjoy if you are still out there reading.

One thing I never thought about when I was considering joining Peace Corps was how it would affect my fitness and ability to exercise. Working out (if that’s what you could call my minimal exercise routine) was a part of life that I took for granted and probably complained too much about in the US. I never really considered a situation where getting exercise would be difficult, until I started thinking about possible Peace Corps sites. What if it was too mountainous? No gym? I can’t run alone as a woman, what if I have no one to run with? Etc.

When site assignment came I got very lucky. I happened to be placed in a site where running is very popular, and I have site mates who also like to run. Our town even has its own annual 15k that the WHOLE town comes out to either watch or run. The race is the 19th of September, and some friends and I had been training for it with great anticipation.

When the big day came, we all met at my house to finish our shirts and go down to the buses together. True to Guatemalan style, we were late, but the problem with the hora chapin, is that you never know who is going to follow it and who is going to be on time. Apparently the women’s bus to the starting line 15K away was not on hora chapin. We missed it. The race organizers took pity on us and announced that the men (who were to start 15 min after the women) should let us get on their bus first. However when the bus passed us, it was full inside and out. I was not about to climb on top of an old school bus and risk my life for 15k just to run some race.

Luckily some guys from the Tigo phone company were headed in that direction and offered us a ride. About 15 of us piled into their suburban, and I ended up on Laura’s lap with my head out the sunroof. When we arrived at the start and unfolded ourselves from the car, we were all cramped and some a bit nauseous. Not the perfect start to a race, but we had no time to worry about it as we jogged to the starting line where the women were already lined up.

Now in my concept of a race start, all the runners start behind the line and wait for the gun to go off to start running. Apparently things are a little different here. The women kept inching forward and were not inclined to wait for the last bus of runners to arrive. So all of the sudden off we went. I am still not sure if there was any kind of countdown, but it was run or be trampled, so I ran. A minute later I heard what sounded like a herd of elephants behind me. Apparently the race officiators were no more successful in holding back the men than the women, and I was soon overtaken by a tidal wave of runners. The last bus never made it to the starting line, and the men on that bus just joined in a few km up the road. In fact, people joined in at all points, some even passed me as passengers on motorcycles and then got off a few km from the finish. The front-runners were monitored by a race committee, but for everyone else there seemed to be no rules or shame.

Along the route people handed out bags of water (yea that’s how we do it here) and fruit. Cars stopped on the side of the road and people came out of their house to cheer. Running through a community I work in, all the school kids came out and yelled “Lidia, Lidia!” which gave me just enough animo to walk briskly up the 2 km of straight-up mountain before reaching Patzún. Entering Patzún the streets were lined with people and it was fun to greet the people I knew. By the time I reached the finish-line formalities had been dispensed with, and there was a huge group of people obstructing the actual finish, so I had to weave my way to victory.

Upon proudly finishing my first 15K, my site mate, who has a wrist watch that measures distance (woah!) kindly informed me that it was really only 14.6 km. But this is Guatemala, what can you expect. Plus my t-shirt says 15K, and that’s good enough for me.

Independence Day Part II

I craftily got out of a third day of parades by agreeing to participate in Independence Day activities at one of our smaller schools. I love this school because it is very creative and reminds me a lot of my elementary school (this is very unusual for Guatemala). At the school we had a mini-parade through the 300-yard long main-drag of the aldea and I was very impressed with the kids costumes. The theme was “taking care of the environment” and kids were dressed as gorillas, whales, lions, chicks, chopped down trees, and a giant pineapple. I can’t believe I forgot my camera, but hopefully the teachers will pass me the picture of me in the giant pineapple costume.

All of the parents came to see the kids perform skits about drunks, lip syncs, and a dance by the 4th graders to “Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn,” I squirmed at the inappropriateness of the 4th graders’ choice of music, but I seemed to be the only one who noticed all the sexual innuendos in English. My talk on not throwing trash in the river and street fit in quite nicely with the program ;).

That evening, exhausted by such excitement, a huge lunch, and an never ending band-competition that the whole town came out to, I almost missed the piece-de-resistance of Independence Day. Everyone gathered at city hall to see yet another parade of students carrying flags, and sing yet again the national anthem, hymn of Central America, and song of Patzún. I was so proud of myself for knowing the first three words of the National Anthem and the whole song of Patzún that I almost didn’t notice the man atop the highest point of the highest tower of the Muni. But there he was, a soldier with no safety gear at all, holding the flag pole with one had and saluting the flag with the other, waiting to help lower the flag that they put up and take down once a year to celebrate the 15th. You’d think the architect would have thought of this minor snag in construction, but at least it made my night.

Independence Day Part I

My legs can’t take much more independence. 189 years of independence, three parades, and one 15k. And so far, I have only completed 2 parades. I’m skipping out of the next one so that my legs will still agree to carry me the 15k I have to complete next Sunday.

I have never heard of a country dedicating so much time and energy to celebrating Independence Day. Schools have been practicing for a month for the parades this week. Yesterday we walked in the pre-k parade. I was tired by the end; I have no idea how the pre-k kids stood up so long.

Today was primary school and Laura and I decided it would be a good idea to put on corte. We were invited to march alongside the school supervisor’s secretaries, as usual, but today they magically figured out who we were. So as we marched into the town square with hundreds and hundreds of people watching, they announced “And here come the North Americans who make up the healthy schools team! They look very pretty today dressed in traditional clothes from this town, etc., etc., etc.” The only good part of this public shaming was when they called us “Patzuneras.” Really all I wanted at that point was some water from one of the 14 year old “first aid workers” who had set up an outpost with camping tents.

Being a minor local celebrity does have its benefits however- unlike the students, we got to sit down during the ceremony. Still, the up and down required for all of the entrances and exits of more important figures and the 10 verses of the Guatemalan national anthem was quite the workout.

I'd like to take this opportunity to add on to friday's post...

And share three recent accomplishments that I am very proud of:

1) I did my part for world peace this weekend and taught Guatemalans tie-dye, both what it is and how to do it.

2) I can now accurately estimate a pound of tomatoes without the use of a scale.

3) I beat Laura at Bananagrams (once).

Update

Normally my blogs have some kind of theme, but today you will have to bear with my random update…

I’m so excited! This afternoon was my first time working with my new girls group and it was AMAZING! My site-mate is a youth development volunteer, so her Guatemalan counterpart suggested that she work with girls from a local orphanage, and she asked me to help. There are about 12 girls between the ages of 14-19 and we meet once a week to do activities and life skills talks. This week we baked a cake together, and next we are doing team-work. Its wonderful how this opportunity just fell into my lap, as I have been looking for something like this for a while. In my primary project I don’t get to work with kids, so I think it will be a nice variation from my normal work.

Otherwise work is going well. We are wrapping up the school year, and actually haven’t worked much lately because all of the schools have been preparing for Independence Day celebrations. The schools basically spend the first half of September not teaching, but preparing “alters,” poems, speeches, and songs to perform on the 15th . I am not looking forward to the three parades we will probably be expected to walk in. Everyone loves a gringa on parade. School ends in October, but that whole month is taken up with exams… so we are really nearing the end of the year.

Laura is celebrating the Jewish new years, so I decided to make a new year’s resolution as well. My resolution is to play Laura in Bananagrams once a day. I want to become a wordsmith and hope to one day defeat Laura, that grand champion of Patzún and probably the world.



Eli and mom’s visit was great! We were able to make it to Antigua and the lake and relaxed and ate yummy food. It was nice to have someone else help cook and my host fam absolutely loved Eli the human amusement park ride. We had a big lunch where they made me wear the traje that they gave me and the whole fam came. Mom held her own with Spanish and they were a huge hit overall. Despite the heavy rains that hit the country that week, we were able to get both mom and Eli out of the country safely. The day after we traveled back from the lake, landslides blocked off the roads and crushed a camioneta on the same highway, so we were happy to have gotten out of there in time.

Normal?

Yes, I just tried to blow dry my clean underwear. No, it didn’t work as well as expected. I should have sprung for the quick-dry, but Peace Corps said that I shouldn’t pack for a 2 year camping trip. What they didn’t tell me is that rainy season + no dryer, makes life tricky for someone who doesn’t do laundry ‘til they are wearing bathing-suit bottoms as underwear. Mom and E are coming to visit in a week, the list of things for them to bring just keeps getting longer. I am excited for their visit, as I think it will give me some perspective on the things here that I have gotten used to, or have become normal for me.

For example, while driving to a village where the landscape used to blow my mind, I only thought that it was “pretty.” The teachers next to me hardly seemed to notice anymore. It’s a bit sad to know that the amazing mountain vistas here no longer grab my attention like they used to, but it also makes me wonder what other amazing things I am failing to notice because they are familiar.

Another thing I notice that I am getting used to is living alone. Maybe that’s because I now have internet, which is almost like not being alone…but I wonder what having a roommate again will be like after I have gotten used to washing dishes when I want to and walking around in my long-underwear.

What else has become normal?

Resource Conservation in Guatemala

I haven’t blogged in a while, and I am thinking that that is because life has become almost normal here. At first everything was new and deserved to be written about, now things don’t jump out at me as easily. It can’t be that things have stopped happening to me, maybe I have just forgotten to notice so much.

I had a dream the other night that I was in a giant supermarket and was overwhelmed to see all of these foods that are out of season here. Perhaps it is now normal to me that what I eat depends on what season we are in. The mangos that so enticed me when I first arrived at site are gone, and have been replaced by apples. There is broccoli everywhere. Avocados are harder to find. There are less watermelons and pineapples. I kind of like this eating by season, but I had just managed to perfect my mango curry, and now I have to wait until next year to eat it again. At least I will have perfected eating locally.

It have also fallen into the habit of unplugging every appliance that I am not using. Phone charger, toaster oven, laptop. I can’t believe that I used to leave my computer running with an away message on my IM while I went to class. Here conserving energy is not just an ecological, but a financial priority. Thus, people only plug in their microwaves and TV’s when they use them. Perhaps this is a wise energy saving technique that we should adopt in the US.

Not only energy saving, but water saving is also a priority in households and communities here. In schools that don’t have water, the kids bring it in bottles from home and brush their teeth with water from a cup (yay kids are actually brushing their teeth!!). This technique saves a lot of water versus letting the faucet run while we brush. I am less surprised, although still exasperated, when I occasionally come home from a run, to find that I have no water, and have to go to work to tell people to bathe themselves, without showering myself.

When thinking about the practices here of buying in season and conserving energy and water, I remember that here these things are done out of necessity because of limited resources. I wonder if we in the US will conserve our abundant resources by adopting the same practices willingly, or if we will wait until dwindling resources force us into them.

Camionetas: Classics

My favorite camioneta classic? The Spanish version of “My Heart Will Go On,” hands down. The words may be different, but the feeling is the same every time it is played on the camioneta. It occurred to me while enjoying the melodious tones of this classic on a recent trip, that I spend way to much time on these sardine-can-like-vehicles-of-joy to not be writing about them on my blog.

When pondering the mystery of the camioneta, the first thing to consider is the issue of where all of these circa-1980 U.S. school buses came from, and how they got here. The sheer volume of their presence throughout the country is staggering. Did they all caravan down through Mexico? Were they shipped on a ship? Taken apart and transported piece by piece? It may always remain a mystery. But here they are, the Guatemalan versions of “pimp my ride,” painted bright colors and decked out with racks, rails, ridiculous stickers, and tassels. Each bus company has its own color pattern so they can be recognized from far off and can be boarded with barely a full stop. On these babies, the rule-of-thumb is three to a seat and “corranse pa’ atras jovenes.” This is simply a friendly reminder to keep squishing towards the back in the aisles as more people pile on from both ends. The very daring hang out the front and back doors and on the back ladder as we pummel down the highway at break-neck speeds.

But the bravest and most agile of all is the ayudante. His job is to pass through the aisle collecting bus fares, which vary depending on your starting and ending locations, and you just have to know. Because the aisle is often packed with people, ayudantes are a mix between shape-shifters and monkey-like humans. The worst are the fat ayudantes who force you into strangers’ laps when they pass. But the best pass through the press of people nimbly, or collect fares through the window from the outside of a moving bus. They scurry up to the roof from the front of the bus, and magically appear at the back door for more fares.

Camioneta drivers share my father’s view that the biggest one on the road wins, but apply this belief with much greater conviction in the absence of concretely enforced traffic laws. During a traffic jam the other day, my camioneta simply veered off into the lane of on-coming traffic and continued on its way. When faced with approaching cars, we moved a “lane” over to the left, which was actually just the cement area in front of all of the stores on that side of the road. I’m still not sure how we finally got back into our lane.

I like riding camionetas for the music, the company, and the leg room, but most of all, because they are the major form of transportation here, and help me feel like I do actually live here. They link the whole country, and are surprisingly reliable despite the general lack of an apparent schedule.

Unfortunately, camionetas have recently become an area of concern for those who monitor our safety as PCVs, and of great danger for many who rely on them for daily transportation. In the past month there has been a string of bombing and grenade attacks on camionetas (and other buses) leaving Guatemala City. I’ve heard that these attacks are related to the extortion of bus companies (which is a common reality here), competition, and politics. For now we are not allowed to use these buses to leave the capital, which basically means for me no more movies or grocery shopping trips there for a while. But for Guatemalans who have to travel in and out of the capital for work every day, it’s a much more serious risk they don’t have the choice to avoid.

Our Job and Some Thoughts on Development

Its raining again, I don’t know if you can tell by the picture. It reminds me of college when we would put too many clothes in the dryer and they wouldn’t dry. I couldn’t wait for the rain to stop, I had to do laundry, so I put on my rain boots, rain pants, and rain jacket, grabbed my umbrella, and made the trek across town where I have found someone with a washing machine who I pay good money to wash my clothes. Its totally worth it. My clothes and my hands love me for it. What I have yet to find, is a dryer. All that to say, its raining again, and thus I have decided to sit down and write an overdue blog entry.

There have been many things over these past few weeks that I have wanted to write about:
1) The ride we got to school with some men buying pigs who drove us all over creation while one of them told us about his experience in the US. His view on the welfare, “the US is great because the government pays you to have kids and you don’t have to work,” almost made my liberal self want to abolish all social welfare programs.

2) The teacher who called a requirement to celebrate the Day to Abolish Child Labor a farce because “children work because of poverty.” This teacher made me realize the irony of this requirement passed down from the Education Supervisor’s office. A majority of the children who would be participating in these activities would go out later that afternoon to work in the fields to help support their families.

3) Here is the big one- our job and development.

After finally visiting all of our schools and completing my first three months in site (I can’t believe it took that long), I have made some observations about development both regarding my program, and other organizations that work in our schools. There are a multitude of charitable organizations that work in my town that cover a broad range of topics. Usually they come in, provide aid or projects, and leave. It has, and will continue to be, our privilege to see the impact of these organizations over the short term, because, as our APCD is always telling us- in development, 2 years is the very short term.

We have seen a school where all of the materials were donated to build latrines, but after building one, the parents decided that they didn’t want to build the others. So there the materials sit behind the school, where the children go to use the bathroom despite two flush toilets (which don’t work anyway) and one latrine. In another school, an organization donated tooth brushes and even taught how to brush teeth. The children all brought the toothbrushes home and promptly forgot about them. Now that we want them to bring the toothbrushes back to school, they all seem to have disappeared. In both of these cases, materials were provided, but from what I can see, what was lacking was information and follow up. If the parents of the first school don’t have latrines in their homes or know why using them is beneficial to their health and well being, they have no reason to want to build them in their school, and the children have no reason to start using them. Same with the toothbrushes- without a why, they are useless. And simply providing a “why” is not enough to change habits, it takes time, repetition, and lots of patience to change communal knowledge and practices.

Sadly, because so many organizations have operated in this way here, when we arrive at schools, it is what is expected from us. We constantly have to explain that we don’t have material resources, but that we bring information and support. Many schools react positively to this different approach, but I don’t think that they all realized that this program requires a significant amount of work on their part.
Another recent experience drove home for me the importance of institutional change in development. Our work here is mostly grass-roots, working from the bottom up. I feel that this approach is important to understand and really serve the needs of a community, but I am not convinced that this approach alone is productive in making real change.

Schools here receive money from a few different government programs, one specifically provides for materials to maintain the school infrastructure- brooms, wastebaskets, soap to wash dishes, etc. There is a very specific list of items that may be purchased with these funds, and receipts must be turned in. We saw that “soap” was on the list, so we have been suggesting to schools that they use these funds to buy hand soap. In a recent meeting with our supervisor, we found out that schools are only permitted to buy soap with which to wash dishes and rags, and not hand soap. The list includes floor wax, but does not include hand-soap or toilet paper. That means that if a school wants to purchase these items they have to ask the students’ families for the money, or buy them out of their own pockets. This is an example of how institutionalized health priorities are here. If not even the government thinks that it is gross to wipe with your hand and then not wash-up after, well good luck with the schools and the students. These basic supplies are never going to be available in all schools unless there is a change on the institutional level.

I hope that our program will be successful in tackling these development challenges. Laura and I are the first 2 volunteers in what is planned to be a 20 year program. Hopefully over those all of those groups of children that start in kindergarten and practice healthy habits through sixth grade, something will stick in the schools and in the communities. Our APCD is also working to get Healthy Schools made into a law; maybe this will be helpful in making changes on a higher level that will support teachers in making hygiene and sanitation a priority in schools.

Photos of Agatha in my Town

Here are some pictures of my street when it rains for a prolonged period of time and also of the bridge leading into our town after Agatha.

Agatha, etc.

If there is one thing that I keep learning time and time again here its “go.” This should be the most basic principle of Peace Corps. If you are invited somewhere go. No matter what. Even if it is a half-invitation and you feel awkward and out of place. Go. Even if you are not invited. Go.

This evening there was a press conference in the Muni about the status of my town and the surrounding aldeas after Tropical Storm Agatha (I finally figured out that that was why it was raining so much). Laura and I found out about it after going to the Muni repeatedly and to different offices to ask what we could do to help the victims of the storm. Everyone kept telling us that the situation was under control and they would let us know if they needed anything. Finally they told us to come to the press conference where there would be more information. Laura lives far away and didn’t want to walk home in the dark, so she opted to watch the press conference online (our Muni might not be able to get potable water to those affected by the storm, but they are very high tech in the communication department). Although I dreaded going alone, I live close and had no excuse not to go.

When I got there I felt very tall, very white, and very out of place. But the more I randomly show up at the Muni (city hall), the more people get used to seeing me. I have never seen a press conference like this one. Well, I don’t think I have ever seen a press conference period, so I don’t actually have much to compare it to. Anyway, as soon as the mayor started talking, all of the radio reporters (no local TV here) started talking loudly on their cell phones and then proceeded to shove their phones in the mayor’s face while he talked. It would have been very distracting for me, but I guess he’s used to it.

I’m not quite sure what kind of news is arriving in the US about the situation here, but Guatemala is currently recovering from two natural disasters that occurred last week. The first is the eruption of the volcano Pacaya, which I climbed a few months ago and almost got forever lost on. This eruption affected the areas surrounding the volcano and the capital city, which was covered in volcanic sand. Then the rains came and complicated matters for those affected by the volcano and for other areas of the country. In Florida, where I come from, a tropical storm is no big deal. You prepare for a hurricane, then roll your eyes when it downgrades to a tropical storm. However here in Guatemala, two days straight of rain can have a big impact. Houses are not built as well, and many are built of mud bricks. Water entered everyone’s house to some extent, and some houses in more rural areas were washed away. Roads flooded, cracked, and were blocked by landslides and trees. The town where I live has two entrances; the back one was blocked by landslides, and a river running under the main entrance flooded and eroded the land under the highway. The market on Sunday was nearly empty, and prices have shot up in the past few days. By now, everything has mostly normalized in the urban area, but they say it will take a few months to repair the main entrance. So for now, to leave town you have to walk between buses on either side of the river.

School has been canceled by Presidential decree all week in the entire country; today Laura and I went to a directors’ meeting where they discussed for over a half hour if they were going to obey this Presidential decree or not. I can’t really imagine either of these things happening in the US.

Since we aren’t working we have been looking, rather unsuccessfully, for ways to help. When no one needed us for manual labor, we assumed that at least we could donate food, clothes, or water to the affected communities. But no one seems to know where such items would be collected or how they would be distributed. We got a lot of blank stares and answers to questions we hadn’t asked when we went to ask in the Muni what supplies were needed. To me it is utterly incomprehensible that they don’t have a donation center and truck to bring supplies to communities that don’t have food or water and whose possessions were all swept away in the storm. I have talked to many people here who want to help, but have no outlet. For me it is as simple as putting a big box in city hall and announcing on the radio what kinds of donations they need. When we asked today what was needed, we were told that they were still investigating needs and didn’t know. I found this all very frustrating. I know that the Muni is working hard to help communities, but I guess I just feel powerless and useless to help with such basic needs so close to me…

…Which brings me back to where we started: the press conference, and the value of going. I didn’t learn much at the conference about community needs or outlets for donations, but you don’t always get what you came for. Instead, I was introduced to the head of another NGO working in Patzún who also works with the Escuelas Saludables program, and will be an interesting contact in the future. I was also finally asked to help. It is very interesting the human reaction of wanting to contribute or act in a time of crisis. I am not convinced that it is purely unselfish, but de todos modos, Laura and I will finally be able to pitch in in some way. Added bonus to leaving my house this evening- I ran into my favorite aunt and got to have atoll with her and her husband. It really is the little things that make you happy.

I realize that in talking about what is happening here, I may have come off hard on the relief effort. I know that they are working hard and are dedicated, but practices that seem to me such natural reactions to a crisis, I have not seen implemented as a priority here. I must remind myself to step back and not judge or criticize based on my personal perceptions and expectations. All in all, it has at least been interesting to see the institutional and cultural differences in disaster response.

Exciting Updates from the Life of a Peace Corps Volunteer

It’s raining. It has been for a while now. We are on stand-fast because it is raining so much. That’s Peace Corps terms for happy weekend; don’t leave your site. A volcano erupted Thursday, covering the capital with black sand and not so much as a peep from Peace Corps, but it rains without stopping for a day or so and we are on lock-down. So much for my plans for a haircut.

The rain makes me feel extremely lazy, which is a bad thing because we are only one month in to a five month rainy season. The rain also makes the water muddy. I get water at my house every other day, and the past few days my pila has been brown. Four days ago we didn’t even fill it up the water was so dirty, today it was a translucent light brown. I just made sure to dry my dishes really well. Apparently this is normal for the first month of rainy season as the rain water is washing up all of the dirt…or something like that. I guess that explains mal de mayo (aka excessive stomach issues in the month of May).

So for now I am rained in. Tonight I took advantage of this situation to watch gross amounts of West Wing and make home-made pesto. If I come away with only one thing from Peace Corps it will be cooking skills, aka “the importance of a blender as a cooking implement.” I haven’t been able to find basil in the market, and was giving up hope when my landlady gave me a tour of our garden and I discovered a GIANT basil bush right outside my back door. We also have parsley, mint, eucalyptus, and various fruits. When it is not raining at night (rarely), the fireflies come out and I feel as if I live in an enchanted garden.

Another exciting thing to update you all about is my trip to the dentist. I’m sure it isn’t just my mother who has been worried about my tooth that was chipped in the line of duty while accompanying my site-mate to the hospital. I was a little nervous about getting my tooth fixed here because I have seen how most people come out after a trip to the dentist. But after more experienced volunteers assured me that I would emerge from the experience without any extraneous gold adornments in my mouth, I sucked it up and made the appointment. Everything went smoothly until the end when she let me hold the mirror to see how I liked my newly repaired tooth. All I can say is thank god for that mirror; otherwise I would have come out like some character from Twilight. From there it went something like a hair cutting appointment: a little shorter, a little off the back, oh my gosh too short! Etc. I was a bit nervous when the dentist answered her cell phone while drilling down my tooth and the assistant failed to register the panic in my facial expression, but I came out alive, and those who have gotten bored by now and stopped reading will never know the difference.

So as you can see, life here is pretty exciting. And, if I haven’t made it clear enough already, it continues to rain. Maybe I should look into getting a boat instead of a bicycle.

A Long Blog for a Long Week

This week was a week of highs and lows.

Let’s start with a high:
Laura and I finally figured out how to become celebrities over night. I’ll admit- it was a stroke of genius. I’ll also admit that it wasn’t our idea. This week was feria in our town, which is a town fair every municipality celebrates in honor of their patron saint. On the Tuesday before feria, the department of education planned a big parade for all of the schools, and seeing how Laura and I work within the municipal office of education, our supervisor invited us to walk with his secretaries. On the big day, Laura and I arrived at the rendezvous point ready to go. Now when I think of walking in a parade, I think practically about my attire- jeans and tennis shoes. But we were instructed to look our finest, so I bumped it up to a skirt and flats. I’m glad I did, because when we lined up to start marching we found ourselves right behind the feria’s beauty queens. They certainly did not share my concept of practicality, as they arrived ready to walk the route in what my host mom termed “tacones (heels) de table dancing.” How she knew that word in English I don’t really want to know. The beauty queens, in turn, came right after the Mayor and City Council. And this is how Laura and I found ourselves almost at the head of the parade. Turns out I wasn’t exactly born for parade walking. The marshal in charge of our line kept reprimanding me for either walking too fast or getting distracted by taking pictures and not walking at all. I also managed to trip more than all of the women in heels. Our supervisor, however, seemed happy, walking along with his harem of women.

Another high:
Corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick, and…
The muni hired a marimba band to play for feria that is renowned throughout all of Guatemala- the Conejos Internacionales. Rough translation: The International Bunnies. In their powder blue suits they were quite impressive. One of them even tried to pick up one of my friends using the seductive “bunny ears” symbol, which basically looks like a peace sign when you pulse the two fingers to resemble rabbit ears. I know. I can’t believe it didn’t work. There were also fireworks, which were quite impressive for Guatemala.

This brings me to my first low: Close Calls during Feria.
The last fireworks were beautiful. They exploded right above our heads like a proverbial umbrella, and the sparks appeared to be raining down on us. But then there was one that didn’t burn out. As it got closer and closer, my sense of panic increased. But this is a “close call” section, so you will al be relived to know that the flaming piece of whatever fireworks are made of fell on the tin roof of the stage, and we were only showered with a few sparks.

The next close call begins with what was an insane idea anyway- riding the Ferris wheel. Laura’s host sister managed to convince me that I wouldn’t die or pee my pants, so I got inline with her and bought a ticket. As we neared the front of the line, the Ferris wheel stopped turning. I didn’t really think much of it until they got out the wrenches to try to repair the tractor. Yes, the tractor. The Ferris wheel was run by an honest to god tractor. When they put the tractor in reverse, the Ferris wheel went backwards. And fast. Instead of calling it the “Rueda de Chicago” they should call it the “Rueda de Muerto.” When that tractor broke down I was out of that line in a flash. If that broke, how do we know other more crucial parts of the monstrous ride wouldn’t break? Not a chance I was willing to take. Not to mention that I was about 5 people away from being stuck on the top of a very tall Ferris wheel for an indefinite amount of time. Here is another idea to ponder… Ferris wheels in a lightening storm??

We’ll go ahead and sandwich the lows in the middle of this extremely long blog entry. Low # 2: Injuries sustained by Laura and me while defending our site-mate’s honor (well, what’s left of it after the whole town watched him dancing to the music of the International Bunnies).
Some may tell you that it was a refrigerator that ruined the actual day of Feria for Laura and I, sending Laura to the hospital with a bump on her head and causing me to return from accompanying her minus part of a tooth, but we stand by our story and Colin’s honor. Please don’t worry, Laura is fine, I got to go shopping at a huge supermarket in Guate City, and thanks to Peace Corps, I have great dental insurance.

Mixed high and low: Taking my host-grandmother to the airport.
This Tuesday, the day finally came when my host-grandmother was to depart for the US. She went to visit her daughter who she hadn’t seen in fourteen years. She packed all kinds of Guatemalan food to take to her daughter, and we had multiple send off parties. When the time came to take her to the airport, we all piled into two cars to drive to Guate. Guatemalans have an art of fitting an infinite number of people into a finite amount of space, and we fit maybe 15 people into two cars. At the airport, the send off party numbered over 20, and it was both a joyous and sad occasion. Abuela hasn’t ever really traveled anywhere, and it was obvious that her kids and grandkids would miss her greatly, even though she will be back in three weeks. If any of you see a woman wandering around Los Angeles in traditional Guatemalan dress, that’s my abuela!

Final high of the week: A school visit.
This one is not quite as glamorous as the others, but we had a really wonderful school visit on Wednesday. The school we visited had about 20 students and is located in a small village about 20 minutes by car out of town. The road to get there winds through the mountains and overlooks deep ravines. Electricity in this school was once run by solar energy, but the solar panels donated by some NGO have long since been stolen, probably to sell for scrap metal. About 10 parents from the community came to meet us, and then gave us a tour of their village. It turns out that these few parents represented a majority of the families in the community. They proudly took us to see all of their houses, some of which were perched on a hill looking out over the mountains, and others which were located down winding paths through the woods. I was impressed with the openness and hospitality that these people shared with strangers in their community. I was also happy to see all of the students and teachers brush their teeth after snack, even though the school has never worked with the Healthy Schools program!

Mother’s Day: A cultural comparison.

Today here in Guatemala we are celebrating Mother’s Day. Or, at least some people are. Some schools celebrated on Friday, on Saturday I went to a Mother’s Day dinner and on Sunday, a Mother’s Day lunch. But today, May 10th, is the official holiday. After learning a bit about how this special day is celebrated here and comparing certain aspects with our traditions in the US, I have begun to ponder if we really love and appreciate our mothers enough back home.
In a decidedly practical American fashion, we in the US have opted to celebrate Mother’s Day every year on a Sunday. This way the festivities do not interrupt work or school. Both the economy and the education system forge ahead, unimpeded, perhaps even somewhat enhanced, by our recognition of these special women in our lives. Here on the other-hand, when Mother’s Day falls on a Monday, all mothers get the day off work. This means that all of the mothers who are teachers cancel classes all day, while at the same time most schools have some sort of celebration that they invite all of the children’s mothers to. I haven’t quite worked out the logistics of all this, but what a better way to show mom you love her than giving her the day off work and a show at school. The only potential problem I can see is that “sons” or “daughters” might mysteriously appear once a year to allow “mommy” a day off of work.
A day off of work is all well and good, but these moms can forget about their sleep-in and breakfast in bed. Here it is also deemed appropriate to show your mother how much you love her by waking her up at 5:30 am with a stream of fire-crackers and loudspeaker announcements to let her know just how special she is. I don’t know about your mothers, but it seems to me that my mother would consider this a form of torture, and not the highest form of appreciation. So what says “I love you” more to you, 4 days of celebratory meals and performances and a day off of work, or a fire-cracker free sleep-in?

Fat and Happy in Guatemala

When the bus drops me off at the entrance to the community I think I am entering Neverland. The fog is so thick that it looks like I am going to walk off the end of the world in the next 10 feet. As I wind my way up the dirt road, out of the fog appears a fence post, then a horse tethered to it, the blurry edges of fields planted with vegetables, and finally a small school. The kids here are talkative, and the teachers engaged. Recess is extended as we digress in our conversation about the Healthy Schools Program to discuss new immigration laws in the US and my disloyalty to my country in my World Cup top picks.

Walking down from the school later that morning, the fog has cleared and the landscape unfolds before me like a green patchwork quilt on a lumpy bed. The mountain breeze feels familiar, like it knows me, although I can’t be sure from where. Is it the breeze that filled my sails on chilly days on the James River? Or is it the wind that whipped my hair around on Lake Michigan’s beaches? Either way it gives me a feeling of nostalgia that I can’t quite place. The mud-brick homes I pass are the kind that 6 months ago I had imagined myself living in in Peace Corps. Not that I am complaining about the painted cement walls that I am so lucky to have. It is 12:30, so when I greet a woman with a “Buenos Dias” and then quickly correct myself after consulting my watch, she laughs and stops to chat with me. I think how lucky I am to have this job, and how much I love walking.

It is a good thing that I am doing so much walking. Everyone seems to want to feed me here. This wouldn’t be a bad thing, except that all of the veggies I bought at the market over the last two weeks are going bad. And my host-aunt is continually forcing bread from her bakery on me. Today she entreated, “Just take one piece to make a bean sandwich for tomorrow’s morning snack.” “I don’t have any beans.” I replied pragmatically. “Ham?” she pondered. “No… but I do have jam.” “Perfect. A jam sandwich. I don’t want you getting sick from not eating.” Ha. That should be the least of her worries.

The moral of these stories is that I may be getting fat, but at least I am happy.

Good Morning

Its 6:30 am. Music starts blaring from loudspeakers in the street. I groan and roll over, thinking it will pass as normal. But the truck is parked in just a location so it seems to be inside my bedroom. Fireworks explode. More fireworks explode. Apparently they are not moving. I go out to my kitchen and then outside to see what is going on. I can’t hear the music quite as well out there as I can in my bed. There are no such things as public noise ordinances here. The sailing team would love it, but I don’t right now. So here I am, unfortunately awake on my first morning in my new house. Too bad I stayed up so late watching Lost episodes.
Yesterday I bid a fond farewell to my host family and moved two blocks down-hill into my casita. My landlady is very nice and I have two neighbors, but it is quiet with no kids running around. Although they did both call and text me last night to tell me they missed me. On my first day in two months choosing what I wanted to eat I cooked myself eggs and rice and beans. Hmmm… is this a bad or a good sign? Shopping for myself was fun, even though my host-mom actually did most of the bargaining and I came home with enough veggies to feed a small army.
On our one-month anniversary here in site things continue to go well. Laura and I visit schools when they don’t cancel on us. We are figuring out slowly how we are going to work. We continued to half-assedly train for our half-marathon which is in 3 weeks, and we enjoy running in the beautiful countryside here. Next on the list of things to buy is a bike. The hilly countryside would be so much fun to ride, and I could take it out to some of my schools. Then maybe I’ll buy some ear plugs.

Kaqchikel Lessons

Although studying Kaqchikel, the local Mayan language, is hard, after two weeks we are already seeing that it is worth the effort. When we present ourselves to parents in our rural schools in horribly pronounced and broken Kaqchikel we get a good laugh at least from all of the mothers. Then they start talking a mile a minute to us in Kaqchikel that we cannot understand.

Learning the language also gives interesting insight to the culture. For example, in Kaqchikel there are different words for brother and sister that specify a sister of a male, or a brother of a female. In Spanish and Kaqchikel there are specific nouns that differentiate between a married and unmarried man or woman. The difference is even more marked in Kaqchikel than Spanish. In English we have “Miss” or “Mrs.,” but these titles are rarely used unless addressing a specific person, and only apply to women. These aspects of the language show the importance in this culture of family to define identity.

Another cultural aspect reflected in the language is the generosity of the people here. I have been wondering for a while now why, when I am offered something, like say- a mango, they say “Quiere uno su mango?” (“Do you want your mango?”), instead of just “would you like a mango?”

Today I learned that in Kaqchikel every noun is preceded by a possessive pronoun. Instead of saying “I don’t have a brother,” one says “I don’t have my brother.” To ask for tortillas, one would say “Do you have your tortillas?” This grammatical structure has carried over to Spanish, resulting in “Do you want your mango?”

According to my gringa logic, if I needed a possessive pronoun to offer something to someone, I would have guessed that it would be “my.” As in “Would you like my mango?” Its mine and I am offering to give it to you. But here the transaction of offering something to me begins grammatically with it already being mine.
This idea is so beautiful and unselfish to me. I may be reading too much into it, but it seems to say that by offering something to another, nothing is taken away from the giver. I have time and time again met people here who live the idea that giving does not impoverish. No matter how much or how little they have, they are always ready to offer.

Guatemalan Logic

Sometimes I just don’t get Guatemalan logic. It’s worse than Cajun logic. Sometimes it turns out that they are right, like when they told us to add water to water-based paint so that it would go farther. But sometimes, it is just confounding. Like today when our mini bus that we take to school got stuck in the mud. The bus got stuck the first time on the way to school. We were instructed to all move to the back of the bus to weigh down the rear so the front of the bus would come up and let us escape the mud. This logic worked out well enough in this situation, and with a bit of pushing from some men that appeared out of nowhere, we were free.
But then came round-two on the way home. You would think that a lesson had been learned earlier in the day and that we would either A1) go around the deepest and wettest mud on the fairly solid mud to the side or B2) all get out so that the van would be lighter and could pass through like it did on its way to pick us up. But the driver revved his engine and we went straight through. Or, more correctly, straight in. Once again we tried the never-fail-everyone-to-the-back strategy, but this time it failed. Since the back tires were the ones that were stuck in the first place, with all the weight in the back we just sunk in farther and farther every time we tried to get out. Even when another truck tried (and failed) to pull us out, it just didn’t seem logical to any of the teachers for us to get out. Finally Laura took the initiative and climbed out the window where the mud was more firm. I followed and we finally cajoled the others out of the side door.
The situation looked bleak, and we were hungry, so we all started walking. I felt a little bad for leaving the driver there, but we weren’t helping any, and women don’t get dirty so…off we went. The countryside was beautiful and some nice man finally picked us up in his pick-up. When we finally got to highway, we sat ourselves down to wait for some kind of transportation to pass that wasn’t a moto. But lunchtime cravings overtook us, and we soon found a nice woman with a watermelon stand who forced her poor child to practice English with us. Finally someone’s dad arrived to give us all a jalon back home. As we rode back with our lovely new friends and enjoyed the last of our delicious watermelon, I thought, “why does the world have to be logical?” maybe a bit of illogical aberrance is what makes life beautiful, unpredictable, and interesting, even if it does make us late for lunch.

What the heck are the gringas doing?

What the heck are the gringas doing?

This is what I imagine many people in our community think when they see us.

Almost every day we go out to run in our matching black capris, white shirts, and baseball hats. Sometimes we go in the morning, sometimes in the evening; the people in the aldeas we run through must think we are some strange twins who never work.

When we do work, the situation often plays out like one morning last week, when we were standing in front of the muni (municipal building) for an hour and a half waiting for our teachers to come pick us up. “What the heck are the gringas doing loitering in front of the muni?” I imagine people are thinking. I wonder if they have ever heard of people-watching?

I bet they get a kick out of us wandering circles around the market buying two of every type of mango so we can try them all.

Today I didn’t have to work and my host dad who usually drives the kids to school was out of town, so I offered to take the kids to school. In a fashion all too familiar to me from my own upbringing, they woke up late, took forever to get ready, and we had to rush to school. It’s nice to live with a family I can identify with. On the way there and back, I of course greeted everyone we passed. As soon as I got home there was a phone call to say that my host sister’s teacher was gone and she didn’t have class. So it was back to the school for me to pick her up. When I greeted them for the third time that morning all of the neighbors began to wonder, “What the heck is the gringa doing walking back and forth along the same street all morning?” I got even stranger looks when I went into the principal’s office to pick up my sister. “You’re leaving with her?” they asked my sister. Yea, I would also be suspicious of some random gringa coming to pick up a child. Especially with the reputation we have for being child robbers. But luckily for me and little sis, security here is much more lax than in some places and with her affirmation off we went.

Sometimes my strange actions might be maddening to some. Like today when I used the bus to travel within the town… Doesn’t sound like a big deal, but apparently it’s a no-no. I don’t think the driver was very happy when I wouldn’t “correr atras,” or push my way to the back of the bus to make way for more and more passengers to pile on, because I was getting off in 4 blocks. But what could I do, I was late and the mini buses for in-town travel weren’t running yet.

There are also some good “what the heck are the gringas doing” moments. Like when we introduce ourselves to a room full of parents in their native kaqchikel. The only problem there is that then they expect us to know more than five words… poco a poco.

Reasons why living with my host family is great!

Saturday night my host mom took me to the market with her. The market actually happens Sunday morning, but all of the fruit sellers come out Saturday night to get a jump on things. I wish I felt less invasive and touristy walking around with a camera because the market was absolutely gorgeous. Piles of all kinds of fruits filled makeshift tables illuminated by single light bulbs. There were baskets of pineapple, watermelon, papaya, bananas, and cantaloupe. Women in their colorful guipiles (traditional blouses) bartered with vendedores over mounds of orange, green, yellow, and red mangoes of five different classes. My host-mom introduced me to her butcher so he would clean all of the fat off the meat for me like he does for her. Then I watched him hack apart a cow to sell us some ribs.

The market reminds me that I live in a different country and a different culture. The simple act of buying groceries is so foreign to me. It’s not just the color and disorganized noise of the market in contrast with the stark orderliness of a grocery store. Each week it seems that there are fruits and vegetables I have never seen before. At every turn there is another person selling more of the same thing. Which do I buy from? You don’t appreciate the simplicity of fixed prices until you have to bargain without any idea of what a fair price is.

While all of this is very excited and contributes to my love of going to the market, this is also the place that I feel the most different, the most like an outsider. Prices are different for me, and that’s just a fact. I have been lucky in my life to rarely, if ever, feel discrimination due to my appearance, so I imagine this is a good learning experience for me. It’s a horrible feeling to hear the prices that are quoted to my host-mom in comparison to what I have paid. But my host-mom is slowly teaching me what things should cost, and with this newfound knowledge my bargaining will improve. She is also teaching me how to choose my fruits and vegetables so they are the freshest and will last me all week. She has tricks for everything- this fruit has to sound like this, this fruit has to be hard, this fruit soft etc. etc.

In the market they also sell ropa tipica (typical clothing of the area) and even though I would look silly wearing it, I always admire it and want to buy it. After a trip to the market last Sunday my host mom realized my obsession with ropa tipica and gifted me a piece of corte fabric to have sewn into a skirt. When the women here wear corte (traditional skirts), they just use a huge piece of fabric which they wrap around them in special way and secure with beautiful belts (fajas). I am really excited about my imitation skirt, even if I will probably look like a fool. Apparently my host aunts are excited too because they are already planning what blouses to find me that would match.

Living with kids has definitely been good for my Spanish. I found a book of Disney fairytales in English among the things that the old volunteer left and gave it to my 8 year old host sister. Tonight she brought it out and asked me to read it to her in Spanish. I don’t know if you have ever tried to read a story written in English out loud in Spanish, but I’m not sure I did Snow White justice.

Pics of the water park, our rug, my host fam, etc...

First post as a real volunteer

It feels like it has been way to long since my last blog entry, although its probably only been about a week. But what a full week its been. Instead of trying to recount all that has happened to me in witty prose, I will just give the highlights.

 Last week (or the week before) I swore in as a Volunteer. That’s right, now you can put PCV instead of PCT on those letters! This also means I can stay out after dark without turning into a pumpkin. My first week as a Volunteer conveniently coincided with Semana Santa, which means I start off work with a vacay! Let the two years begin!

 After a tearful goodbye with my host family, my host dad accompanied me on the bus all the way to my new site. I could have never carried all those bags alone

 My new host family is wonderful! All the aunts call me “sobrina” and make me call them “tia.” My host dad picked us up in his car when we went to the nearest big town to buy paint and things for our apartments (I guess this doesn’t seem like a huge deal, but when you think about trying to transport 3 gallons of paint and a full length mirror on a camioneta…).

 Last week we went to a Guatemalan water park with my host siblings and cousins. It had monkeys. And ostriches. While we were there some woman said to my host mom (about me), “she’s so white she looks like a gringa!” I can’t decide if this was a compliment because maybe she thought I was Guatemalan or an insult because my skin is so white I glow in the dark.

 Despite being on vacation, Laura and I crashed an important meeting at the Municipality. We infiltrated the Education Commission, obtained an invitation to use the Muni’s realllly nice computer lab, and scored a free lunch. Thanks host-dad who works for the Department! While we were there, Laura also got dive-bombed by a pigeon… way to bring more attention to our unsolicited presence.

 With my new host family I am experiencing all the joys of bucket-bathing. I was a bit apprehensive at first, but now I much prefer a hot bucket bath to a lukewarm shower with terrible water pressure. The only problem is that you have to heat up your water on the stove which means planning ahead and lots of questions about when I am going to bathe next.

 Despite the impression bucket baths might give, the house is actually very nice. The only problem is that they only get water 2 hours a day, from about 4 to 6 am. To have enough water for the day they have to fill huge buckets and a pila (this word has no translation in English that I can think of. It serves to hold water when there is not a constant supply and wash clothes when there is no washing machine. These are foreign concepts to most of us in the US, and for this reason- no translation.) With my arrival my host-dad got really excited about putting a water deposit on the roof and building a real shower. I am not sure if this is for my benefit or theirs, but I do know that a few days ago they started smashing away at the concrete in the bathroom. That’s how construction seems to go here: do-it-your-self and see if it works after you have made the hole in the ceiling. This strategic planning theory can also be seen in Laura’s apartment, where there is a raised bathroom floor in her bedroom (tile, drain, and all), but no bathroom, and a skylight covered with plywood in her living room floor.

On Friday I got to go to the great grandparent’s house to construct a “rug” for the Semana Santa processions. The rugs are made out of flowers, dyed sawdust, pine needles, and fruit. They are absolutely gorgeous and get trampled by the processions. I’ll put up some pictures .

Regateamos

Here is one cultural phenomenon that I just can’t quite seem to get the hang of- bargaining. I normally just let my host family take care of it. I learn what vegetables should really cost by watching Estella haggle like pro every Sunday morning at the market. When I wanted to buy a table cloth for my new house, I brought her along to get me the best price possible.

I figure I have a double handicap in the matter.1) Different currency, different market; I have no idea what things should really cost here. 2) I am tall and white; this means I always look like a tourist, and prices are automatically higher for me. Even my host family reminds me of this repeatedly. The only things that I have gotten really good at bargaining for are bananas and DVDs, and contrary to popular belief, you can’t live off of those two items alone. For these reasons, I am pretty nervous to head out to my site and face the shopping world on my own.

Recently I have found myself bargaining for strange things. I can’t decide if I am just becoming a savvy Guatemalan consumer, or if I am being obnoxious and accidentally bargaining at inappropriate moments. If the second is true, perhaps Guatemalans are simply too un-confrontational to argue with the crazed gringa. Take this afternoon for example. I used to pay monthly for my gym membership, but now that I am leaving in a week, I got special permission to pay per visit. Today when I went to pay, the women at the desk told me that it would be Q 15 because I used the treadmill. I innocently mentioned that her husband had told me it would be Q 10 per visit, and all I got in response was an “esta bien.” Is it really appropriate to bargain at the gym? Was she ripping me off, or did I just rip her off?

An even more blatant example of my inappropriate bargaining occurred on the bus the other day. Buses here don’t announce what they charge. Since people usually only travel the same few routes, everyone basically knows what they should pay. Seeing that we are foreigners, ayudantes who collect the fares often assume we don’t know the prices and try to overcharge us by not giving change. This has happened to me and my friends multiple times, and the ayudantes have absolutely no shame when you confront them to get your correct change. Coming home from my site visit, I boarded a bus from Chimal to my training site. I handed the ayudante a 5, expecting Q2 back in change. When he turned to charge the next passenger, I politely asked for my change. I was outraged when he told me that it was Q5 exactly and argued that he should only charge me Q3. Imagine my sense of self-satisfaction when he grudgingly gave me my Q2 in change. Now imagine my embarrassment when I soon remembered that I usually pay Q4 on that route, and when my host family confirmed my fears that some buses do actually charge Q5. They of course, got a huge laugh out of my bold actions and my brilliant reasoning that in the other direction Q5 can get you three times the distance. I, however, just felt like an jerk.

Bus Strike and My Ensuing Boredom

Today I woke up early, got dressed quickly, and was well on my way to getting to the PC center not only on time, but early! Then I received a phone call that there were no buses and the highway to the capital was blocked. Now, I lived in Argentina, so I am used to strikes and burning tires in the middle of the road. But from my experience, these strikes are usually to demand something from the government- a raise in teachers’ wages, more classes in the public university, or better health care. In this case, however, the buses are privately owned companies that are striking to raise pasaje (the amount they charge from one location to another). I guess it almost makes sense if the drivers are asking to raise pasaje and striking against their own companies who don’t want to, but I am not convinced that that is the case. Another possibility is that the strike is to show passengers how much they need the buses so that they won’t get mad when prices are raised. But why wouldn’t a private company just raise the prices when they wanted to? Or it is possibly a problem between unions. I am obviously still missing some important pieces of this puzzle. I will continue to contemplate the situation while I wait for instructions from PC.

While I am here with nothing to do, I would like to share one way in which I have contributed to this country so far. I taught my host-family to pop popcorn in the microwave. Life changing, I know. They have had a microwave for a while, but it was broken until a cousin fixed it. So then I taught them to pop their own popcorn and it was like Christmas. I knew I should have put my microwave skills on my resume.