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 .