So I'm back in Canada, alternately reflecting on my journey and focusing right here and now . . . wondering what the hell I'm doing.
The travel experience, guat city to Toronto, was blessedly uneventful - my favourite kind. No major flight delays, no major crises . . . nothing. I did have, believe it or not, a US immigration officer flirt with me and invite me to the Caribbean for his birthday this summer. Given how formidable they can be, and how long I waited in line, I guess that's pretty noteworthy - especially since he was quite cute.
I arrived to a rather chilly Toronto retreat back towards winter (I had optimistically hoped that they'd be past this by now). So I'm very grateful that I packed my sweaters and warm pants . . . and the new wool coat that I bought in Pana just before I left. It's a rather abrupt and harsh contrast to my last night in Guatemala - hanging out under the stars until the last possible moment before crawling into bed. I almost locked up my hostel room and slept under the stars in a hammock . . . except that I don't actually sleep all that well in a hammock.
So, along with the cold on the outside, I also seem to have a cold on the inside, along with what I suspect is water transition blues . . . or something. My body has declared war on me - demanding that I sit still and rest, rather than race full speed ahead the way I'm wont to do. Although I can't say I'm all that happy about being so sick . . . it is ensuring that I take some time to think about what I want from this next leg of my journey, from this time here in Ontario, with my family.
It's also a time to fill in my blog with missing stories, while they're still fresh . . . knowing they will be harder to retrieve as time passes.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Acts of Dog and other things not covered by the small print
So . . . we´re all familiar with the phrase, "An Act of God" - it´s often used in insurance small print to provide an escape clause, whereby the insurance company does not have to fork out any money for the suffering of the insured. Usually it refers to natural disasters and other such things. In this case, someone with dyslexia was taking care of my fine print.
I have three dogs in my life in San Marcos. Pinto was my first dog-buddy. I discovered him when I was eating at Fe, while on the Moon Course, before I started working there. He was very friendly, but not well-received by most, as he had a ghastly tumor on his flank - about the size of a large lime, and really gross - because he was constantly chewing on it. Being me, I couldn't help but fall in love with him immediately and wanted to know who was responsible for him, and for ensuring he get the care he needs. Turned out that while he is 'owned' by a family up the path, they're not very reliable about following through on care for him if it costs money. So there's another foreigner that buys him big bags of food . . . and things like surgery for his tumor just keep getting put off.
My first act of Dog: at the end of January I got up early in the morning and went on the hunt for Pinto to take him to the monthly clinic offered by a vet from Guat City. Fortunately Christina, Pinto's owner was on-board, came with me and was totally supportive. While the dog was being operated on, Christina went home and returned with a wheel-barrow, which is what Pinto was taken home in when he emerged, groggy, from the surgery.
The next 2 weeks were fairly uneventful - although I'm sure the other dogs were making fun of him in the make-shift cone that his family created from a waste-basket. Like most dogs, he desperately wanted to chew at the stitches . . .and the cone was necessary to keep him away from it. It worked for about 10 days, after which he managed to catch the basket on a barbed-wire fence. I spent the next 4 days chasing him to get a cone back on as he chewed away at his stitches every chance he got. Quite despite him, however, we got through it, and he is healing very nicely. 4 months later you can barely see the scar.
Pinto was the first of my dog-loves in San Marcos, but I fell just as in love with the two beautiful dogs that live on the property where I´ve been staying for the last 3 months: Wispy and Sassy. Sassy is the smaller of the two dogs; black with gold markings and deep mournful eyes. She has an ability to get in and out of the property at will, and to get in and out of trouble with equal ease. She´s a little bit timid, and very loyal, and used to follow Katherine (the owner of my hut) everywhere. Now she follows me. Wispy is a bigger golden lab cross, a big chunky guy, who gets into trouble easily, but doesn´t have nearly the same grace or ability to get back out. Where sassy wisps in and out . . . he lumbers. No one is certain how he ended up named Wispy, except maybe for its irony. Some suggest it´s a reference to his brains . . . ie, he´s not very bright; but I have witnessed that his intelligence is simply selective, rather than lacking.
My second Act of Dog came towards the end of my stay in San Marcos. I was scheduled to work my last weekend at the restaurant, and was having some rather mixed feelings about it. My feeling of needing the money had taken priority over my feeling of being really done with the job and the restaurant. (You know that relationship that´s really done, and ready for transition, but you just keep hanging on???) So, Friday arrived and I got myself ready, physically and emotionally, for my night at work, reminding myself it was just two more shifts.
As I walked to work, I discovered Wispy on the path . . . surprised a little, as I was certain that I had left him inside the property . . . but who knows - maybe someone stopped by and he took the opportunity to go wandering. So, I greeted him with enthusiasm and walked him promptly back to the property. Previous experience has demonstrated that Wispy, out-of-the-yard while I'm at work, is not a good thing. When he's come to visit me in the past, he's just generally a trouble-maker . . . . in and out of the kitchen, following me around generally getting under the boss' feet. It's not pretty. He's also, more recently, gotten wise to my game of my walking him home . . . and tends to resist. Fortunately, I hadn't reached work yet, so he followed me home quite willingly.
I got to work and discovered the boss was in a less than stellar mood. Improved none by the appearance of Wispy, trotting in after me. Now I was suspicious - it seemed unlikely he'd been let out again. . . .but as far as I knew, while Sassy could get in and out of the yard at will, Wispy couldn't. Sooo . . . with some persuasion (ie. food) I managed to walk him home again. Unfortunately, as I returned to work, I discovered him on the steps of Fe - it appeared he'd found his own special route out of the yard and he was quite determined to stay. This did not improve my boss' mood . . . at all. So, we came up with a win-win solution. He paid me my base pay, and I took the dog home. It didn't take me long to find my gratitude and joy for this very annoying dog.
The next afternoon I went back to talk to the boss, and explained that since Niki & Dave were out of town, and the dogs were missing them - and therefore more likely to follow me, and since Wispy now had his own escape route . . . I couldn't promise he wouldn't follow me to work that night. We agreed that it was best if we just called things done. And so the relationship ended peacefully, and I didn't have to work my last two shifts. Many thanks go out to Wispy the annoying escape-artist.
Of course, lest I get too mushy about it . . . this all happened the weekend of Feria, the town festival. A big, noisy, drunken affair in which wandering dogs is not a good thing. With the family away, Sassy basically tried to carve herself into their front door . . .except when I was home - then she came and chilled in my hut. She is terrified by the noise - especially the fireworks. Wispy's more of an extrovert - so he followed me around and sought reassurance as long as I was around . . . hovering like Sassy . . . until Saturday night sometime when he buggered off and didn't come back.
This would be Act of Dog number 3. I spent two days worrying pathetically, envisioning horrible stolen-dog scenarios, alternately worrying about the worst and then cursing him for just being off having fun. It was Sassy's grief-stricken look all weekend that was my undoing. Fortunately,when the family returned I found out that Wispy has a regular house he goes to up in the Barrios where he feels safe when the world has gone crazy, and that's where he'd been all weekend. Chente brought him home the next morning. sigh.
Acts of Dog . . . and other things not covered in the small print. It's amazing how these four-leggeds can have such a huge impact on our life.
The morning I left San Marcos, it was saying goodbye to these pooches that brought me to tears. The sad look in Sassy's eyes as I hugged her goodbye . . . knowing I couldn't explain it to her, and that I would be just one more person who has left her. Thank goodness Wispy came back . . . and they have each other, and Rose . . . and a whole village that is theirs to roam. Pinto has many others who watch over him, and even travelers who come back just to see him. I trust they will all be ok, as I know that each of them has a little piece of my heart.
I have three dogs in my life in San Marcos. Pinto was my first dog-buddy. I discovered him when I was eating at Fe, while on the Moon Course, before I started working there. He was very friendly, but not well-received by most, as he had a ghastly tumor on his flank - about the size of a large lime, and really gross - because he was constantly chewing on it. Being me, I couldn't help but fall in love with him immediately and wanted to know who was responsible for him, and for ensuring he get the care he needs. Turned out that while he is 'owned' by a family up the path, they're not very reliable about following through on care for him if it costs money. So there's another foreigner that buys him big bags of food . . . and things like surgery for his tumor just keep getting put off.
My first act of Dog: at the end of January I got up early in the morning and went on the hunt for Pinto to take him to the monthly clinic offered by a vet from Guat City. Fortunately Christina, Pinto's owner was on-board, came with me and was totally supportive. While the dog was being operated on, Christina went home and returned with a wheel-barrow, which is what Pinto was taken home in when he emerged, groggy, from the surgery.
The next 2 weeks were fairly uneventful - although I'm sure the other dogs were making fun of him in the make-shift cone that his family created from a waste-basket. Like most dogs, he desperately wanted to chew at the stitches . . .and the cone was necessary to keep him away from it. It worked for about 10 days, after which he managed to catch the basket on a barbed-wire fence. I spent the next 4 days chasing him to get a cone back on as he chewed away at his stitches every chance he got. Quite despite him, however, we got through it, and he is healing very nicely. 4 months later you can barely see the scar.
Pinto was the first of my dog-loves in San Marcos, but I fell just as in love with the two beautiful dogs that live on the property where I´ve been staying for the last 3 months: Wispy and Sassy. Sassy is the smaller of the two dogs; black with gold markings and deep mournful eyes. She has an ability to get in and out of the property at will, and to get in and out of trouble with equal ease. She´s a little bit timid, and very loyal, and used to follow Katherine (the owner of my hut) everywhere. Now she follows me. Wispy is a bigger golden lab cross, a big chunky guy, who gets into trouble easily, but doesn´t have nearly the same grace or ability to get back out. Where sassy wisps in and out . . . he lumbers. No one is certain how he ended up named Wispy, except maybe for its irony. Some suggest it´s a reference to his brains . . . ie, he´s not very bright; but I have witnessed that his intelligence is simply selective, rather than lacking.
My second Act of Dog came towards the end of my stay in San Marcos. I was scheduled to work my last weekend at the restaurant, and was having some rather mixed feelings about it. My feeling of needing the money had taken priority over my feeling of being really done with the job and the restaurant. (You know that relationship that´s really done, and ready for transition, but you just keep hanging on???) So, Friday arrived and I got myself ready, physically and emotionally, for my night at work, reminding myself it was just two more shifts.
As I walked to work, I discovered Wispy on the path . . . surprised a little, as I was certain that I had left him inside the property . . . but who knows - maybe someone stopped by and he took the opportunity to go wandering. So, I greeted him with enthusiasm and walked him promptly back to the property. Previous experience has demonstrated that Wispy, out-of-the-yard while I'm at work, is not a good thing. When he's come to visit me in the past, he's just generally a trouble-maker . . . . in and out of the kitchen, following me around generally getting under the boss' feet. It's not pretty. He's also, more recently, gotten wise to my game of my walking him home . . . and tends to resist. Fortunately, I hadn't reached work yet, so he followed me home quite willingly.
I got to work and discovered the boss was in a less than stellar mood. Improved none by the appearance of Wispy, trotting in after me. Now I was suspicious - it seemed unlikely he'd been let out again. . . .but as far as I knew, while Sassy could get in and out of the yard at will, Wispy couldn't. Sooo . . . with some persuasion (ie. food) I managed to walk him home again. Unfortunately, as I returned to work, I discovered him on the steps of Fe - it appeared he'd found his own special route out of the yard and he was quite determined to stay. This did not improve my boss' mood . . . at all. So, we came up with a win-win solution. He paid me my base pay, and I took the dog home. It didn't take me long to find my gratitude and joy for this very annoying dog.
The next afternoon I went back to talk to the boss, and explained that since Niki & Dave were out of town, and the dogs were missing them - and therefore more likely to follow me, and since Wispy now had his own escape route . . . I couldn't promise he wouldn't follow me to work that night. We agreed that it was best if we just called things done. And so the relationship ended peacefully, and I didn't have to work my last two shifts. Many thanks go out to Wispy the annoying escape-artist.
Of course, lest I get too mushy about it . . . this all happened the weekend of Feria, the town festival. A big, noisy, drunken affair in which wandering dogs is not a good thing. With the family away, Sassy basically tried to carve herself into their front door . . .except when I was home - then she came and chilled in my hut. She is terrified by the noise - especially the fireworks. Wispy's more of an extrovert - so he followed me around and sought reassurance as long as I was around . . . hovering like Sassy . . . until Saturday night sometime when he buggered off and didn't come back.
This would be Act of Dog number 3. I spent two days worrying pathetically, envisioning horrible stolen-dog scenarios, alternately worrying about the worst and then cursing him for just being off having fun. It was Sassy's grief-stricken look all weekend that was my undoing. Fortunately,when the family returned I found out that Wispy has a regular house he goes to up in the Barrios where he feels safe when the world has gone crazy, and that's where he'd been all weekend. Chente brought him home the next morning. sigh.
Acts of Dog . . . and other things not covered in the small print. It's amazing how these four-leggeds can have such a huge impact on our life.
The morning I left San Marcos, it was saying goodbye to these pooches that brought me to tears. The sad look in Sassy's eyes as I hugged her goodbye . . . knowing I couldn't explain it to her, and that I would be just one more person who has left her. Thank goodness Wispy came back . . . and they have each other, and Rose . . . and a whole village that is theirs to roam. Pinto has many others who watch over him, and even travelers who come back just to see him. I trust they will all be ok, as I know that each of them has a little piece of my heart.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Feria!
Every little town in Guatemala has it's own town fair once a year: Feria. But in true Guatemalan style, although Feria is a single day - the celebration starts 3 or more weeks ahead, and continues for at least 8 days afterward. The preceding three weeks are a build-up: of vendors, of musicians, of food and of general partying and mayhem.
The Feria celebration is a mixed thing. The music is pretty good - lots of marimba bands and other live performances. The food is great; cheap Guatemalan tostadas and lots of Feria cookies (they look like bagels, but apparently they're like biscotti). The school bands kick into high gear and can be heard at all hours. Of course, so can the fire-crackers and the bomb-like things they set off in lieu of actual fireworks.
The music incites dancing - which generally I think of as a good thing, but in this case some of it made me sad. What I came to see, that others had warned me about, is that Feria is also an excuse for the indigenous to get rip-roaring drunk, and much like in Canada - there's nothing pretty about that. Watching old men and ancient women dancing the awkward weave and wobble of the pitifully inebriated is heart-breaking. Worse to watch young girls and their mothers try to drag home their dad, who is long past time to go home - and he is too drunk to leave. The first night that was all I saw. I didn't hang out that long in the village . . . I just wandered through, saw the lights, watched the few dancers and headed home.
Fortunately, the night I actually went out for the evening and hung-out on the dance floor, I also saw young couples enjoying the music, enjoying each other. I saw folks of all ages dancing, sharing the floor, sharing laughs . . . . I even got a picture of some adorable little girls, hanging out under the stage. That was on "Ocho Dia" . . .the 8th day. As I said, Feria has a three week lead up and then at least an 8 day follow up, known simply as "Ocho Dias" (8 days). On Ocho Dia I was hanging out by the stage, watching the conga player, dancing with my friends, listening to the children scream on the Ferris wheel, and watching the community dance.
Eight days earlier, on Feria Day, I had finally wandered up for a bit to get a better look at what was going on, and then settled in to see what was going to happen under the big-top. I couldn't tell if the band was just ending or about to begin. As I was trying to figure it out, I found myself in a staring contest with a most lovely Garafuna (Afro-Latin) man. When he patted the speaker he was sitting on and invited me over, I discovered that he was a conga player in the marimba band that had been playing all weekend . . . waiting for the next band to begin. I also discovered that he didn't speak any English - so my Spanish, highly under-developed for three and a half months, suddenly got an incredible workout. Turns out I had learned far more than I realized all that time - taking it in, even though I wasn't using it. In my last two weeks in Guatemala I spoke far more Spanish than in my prior three months. Jeshua turned out to be an amazing Spanish teacher.
So Feria was a memorable experience for me in many ways. I saw another side (several actually) of the local people, I met a lovely man, and I finally got my Spanish jump-started . . .enabling me in my last weeks in San Marcos to finally have some long-overdue real conversations with several of the locals who I had wanted to connect with.
The Feria celebration is a mixed thing. The music is pretty good - lots of marimba bands and other live performances. The food is great; cheap Guatemalan tostadas and lots of Feria cookies (they look like bagels, but apparently they're like biscotti). The school bands kick into high gear and can be heard at all hours. Of course, so can the fire-crackers and the bomb-like things they set off in lieu of actual fireworks.
The music incites dancing - which generally I think of as a good thing, but in this case some of it made me sad. What I came to see, that others had warned me about, is that Feria is also an excuse for the indigenous to get rip-roaring drunk, and much like in Canada - there's nothing pretty about that. Watching old men and ancient women dancing the awkward weave and wobble of the pitifully inebriated is heart-breaking. Worse to watch young girls and their mothers try to drag home their dad, who is long past time to go home - and he is too drunk to leave. The first night that was all I saw. I didn't hang out that long in the village . . . I just wandered through, saw the lights, watched the few dancers and headed home.
Fortunately, the night I actually went out for the evening and hung-out on the dance floor, I also saw young couples enjoying the music, enjoying each other. I saw folks of all ages dancing, sharing the floor, sharing laughs . . . . I even got a picture of some adorable little girls, hanging out under the stage. That was on "Ocho Dia" . . .the 8th day. As I said, Feria has a three week lead up and then at least an 8 day follow up, known simply as "Ocho Dias" (8 days). On Ocho Dia I was hanging out by the stage, watching the conga player, dancing with my friends, listening to the children scream on the Ferris wheel, and watching the community dance.
Eight days earlier, on Feria Day, I had finally wandered up for a bit to get a better look at what was going on, and then settled in to see what was going to happen under the big-top. I couldn't tell if the band was just ending or about to begin. As I was trying to figure it out, I found myself in a staring contest with a most lovely Garafuna (Afro-Latin) man. When he patted the speaker he was sitting on and invited me over, I discovered that he was a conga player in the marimba band that had been playing all weekend . . . waiting for the next band to begin. I also discovered that he didn't speak any English - so my Spanish, highly under-developed for three and a half months, suddenly got an incredible workout. Turns out I had learned far more than I realized all that time - taking it in, even though I wasn't using it. In my last two weeks in Guatemala I spoke far more Spanish than in my prior three months. Jeshua turned out to be an amazing Spanish teacher.
So Feria was a memorable experience for me in many ways. I saw another side (several actually) of the local people, I met a lovely man, and I finally got my Spanish jump-started . . .enabling me in my last weeks in San Marcos to finally have some long-overdue real conversations with several of the locals who I had wanted to connect with.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Ready to go home . . . .the long route
Although I'm not exactly certain what caused the shift, it has finally come and I am ready to return to Canadian soil. I think it happened as I approached the prospect of a week in Antigua, celebrating Semana Santa. I know that it cemented upon my return to San Marcos.
I have been in Guatemala for four months, and will be here for just over another two weeks. There is no question it has been a life changing experience - though in what ways and to what extent, I suspect I won't really know for months yet.
In true Shosh-style, I essentially ran out of money after about my first month here, and so, faced with my own immanent and premature departure, I promptly panicked, pouted, whined and agonized. Then I stopped, remembered there was another way, and I put out a request to the universe: show me the money. I asked for a clear sign - is it time for me to go? Or should I stay? And if I'm to stay, show me how I'll pay for it. And then I let it go . . . and accepted that I didn't know if I was staying or leaving, but I was ok either way.
Within 36 hours I was offered a job as a waitress; a day later I was offered a place to stay, essentially for free, I just had to pay the hydro bill and take care of the cats. The universe provided - and it was effortless for me, I just had to let go.
Three months later, I have been working 5 nights a week at the restaurant, and teaching my dance class once a week. I've managed to save a little - just enough to go to Antigua for the week (again, with a free place to stay). One does not get ahead here, one gets by. And for as long as I've needed to be here, to be present to my growth, to soak in the lake and the energy of this sacred place, that has been enough.
When I left for Antigua, I was in definitive need of a vacation . . . . from my vacation???? It was a reminder of how profoundly I was not on vacation here, and although fundamentally, that's ok - I didn't come for a 'vacation' so much as a journey . . . I was tired from working 6 nights a week. Something had shifted.
When I returned to San Marcos from my week in Antigua, I landed with an emotional thump. I didn't want to return to work; I didn't want to work that hard just to 'be' here anymore. It wasn't the first time I had recognized that I could work half as hard to earn 10 times as much at home, but it was the first time it had really bothered me. Up until this point, the appeal of staying here out-weighed the appeal of earning money, instead of peanuts. For the first time, the prospect of returning to Canada, to work, felt exciting and full of possibilities. Up until that point, it had felt only daunting and somehow like a 'should' hanging over my head.
I've actually seen very little of Guatemala - this vast country of highlands, lowlands, mountains, lakes, ruins, beaches, fascinating people and culture. I have spent almost all of my time in San Marcos, learning, growing, resting, healing . . . and working. Once the emotional dust from my week in Antigua settled, I became clear that although there is so much more here I could do and see and experience - and I would like to return for all those things - I have gotten what I needed out of this journey. It has been exactly what it needed to be.
What surprises me, perhaps the most, is my choice to return to Ontario instead of BC. Not that I plan to stay there long - BC is truly my home - but some part of me is truly mystified by my choice to spend summer in smoggy, unrelenting, citified Ontario, rather than swimming off the rocks at home on Cortes. As that decision settled into my spirit (with some fine protest by my mind!!) I realized that I have a profound need to reconnect with my family. I don't fully understand it - beyond the obvious (I love them, I miss them . . . etc.), but something larger than me is clear I need to go home to them this summer, and so it shall be.
So, the journey home will be a longer, more circuitous one than I originally envisioned, but I trust that all things unfold as they are meant to. I have some exciting hopes and plans for my time in Ontario, and I am looking forward to reconnecting with many old friends in a way that just doesn't happen in 2-week visits. I plan to be back in BC by the end of September, grounded and ready to settle in to my home.
I have been in Guatemala for four months, and will be here for just over another two weeks. There is no question it has been a life changing experience - though in what ways and to what extent, I suspect I won't really know for months yet.
In true Shosh-style, I essentially ran out of money after about my first month here, and so, faced with my own immanent and premature departure, I promptly panicked, pouted, whined and agonized. Then I stopped, remembered there was another way, and I put out a request to the universe: show me the money. I asked for a clear sign - is it time for me to go? Or should I stay? And if I'm to stay, show me how I'll pay for it. And then I let it go . . . and accepted that I didn't know if I was staying or leaving, but I was ok either way.
Within 36 hours I was offered a job as a waitress; a day later I was offered a place to stay, essentially for free, I just had to pay the hydro bill and take care of the cats. The universe provided - and it was effortless for me, I just had to let go.
Three months later, I have been working 5 nights a week at the restaurant, and teaching my dance class once a week. I've managed to save a little - just enough to go to Antigua for the week (again, with a free place to stay). One does not get ahead here, one gets by. And for as long as I've needed to be here, to be present to my growth, to soak in the lake and the energy of this sacred place, that has been enough.
When I left for Antigua, I was in definitive need of a vacation . . . . from my vacation???? It was a reminder of how profoundly I was not on vacation here, and although fundamentally, that's ok - I didn't come for a 'vacation' so much as a journey . . . I was tired from working 6 nights a week. Something had shifted.
When I returned to San Marcos from my week in Antigua, I landed with an emotional thump. I didn't want to return to work; I didn't want to work that hard just to 'be' here anymore. It wasn't the first time I had recognized that I could work half as hard to earn 10 times as much at home, but it was the first time it had really bothered me. Up until this point, the appeal of staying here out-weighed the appeal of earning money, instead of peanuts. For the first time, the prospect of returning to Canada, to work, felt exciting and full of possibilities. Up until that point, it had felt only daunting and somehow like a 'should' hanging over my head.
I've actually seen very little of Guatemala - this vast country of highlands, lowlands, mountains, lakes, ruins, beaches, fascinating people and culture. I have spent almost all of my time in San Marcos, learning, growing, resting, healing . . . and working. Once the emotional dust from my week in Antigua settled, I became clear that although there is so much more here I could do and see and experience - and I would like to return for all those things - I have gotten what I needed out of this journey. It has been exactly what it needed to be.
What surprises me, perhaps the most, is my choice to return to Ontario instead of BC. Not that I plan to stay there long - BC is truly my home - but some part of me is truly mystified by my choice to spend summer in smoggy, unrelenting, citified Ontario, rather than swimming off the rocks at home on Cortes. As that decision settled into my spirit (with some fine protest by my mind!!) I realized that I have a profound need to reconnect with my family. I don't fully understand it - beyond the obvious (I love them, I miss them . . . etc.), but something larger than me is clear I need to go home to them this summer, and so it shall be.
So, the journey home will be a longer, more circuitous one than I originally envisioned, but I trust that all things unfold as they are meant to. I have some exciting hopes and plans for my time in Ontario, and I am looking forward to reconnecting with many old friends in a way that just doesn't happen in 2-week visits. I plan to be back in BC by the end of September, grounded and ready to settle in to my home.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Semana Santa in Antigua
Easter Week: The biggest celebration in Guatemala. In a way that many Westerners can't relate to, Christianity - in various strains - still powerfully guides life in Central America, especially among the indigenous. Religion here is far more evangelical and almost fundamentalist, though fortunately, it doesn't appear to spark quite the same level of violence as in other parts of the world. Devotion, however, is a living thing.
In San Marcos, one of its obvious elements is the daily sermons and psalms sung over the loud speakers from the two big churches every day (sometimes all day for days on end . . .)
With the arrival of Semana Santa, the entire country is mobilized into ritual, devotion, and creative acts of tribute to the story of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The epicenter is Antigua - so that's where I went to experience it. (Turns out the second biggest and similarly interesting festivities are right on the lake where I've been living, over in Santiago - but I didn't find that out until I got back).
Antigua: The celebration is at least a week long. It starts the Sunday before Easter and grows each day, in exponential proportions as Good Friday approaches. I arrived by chicken bus on Tuesday afternoon, and as I crossed through town to find where I would be staying, I could see that the streets were already beginning to fill with tourists, vendors, alfombras and processions. Alfombras are the incredibly beautiful tapestry carpets created on the roads that the processions then walk over. It's an incredible process to witness and contemplate. It was these carpets that really became the focus of my week.
My beautiful friend Leigh, Bless her, had rented an apartment for the week, and generously offered to let me stay with her. Among other things, Semana Santa means that accommodation in Antigua is incredibly hard to come by, and double the price of any other time of year. Leigh's generosity made this experience possible for me. (Muchas Gracias Chica!!!) This apartment became our base camp from which we went on excursions in search of food, processions, alfombras, stories and pictures. We found copious amounts of each.
It's hard to remember the sequencing of the week - between the colours, sounds, energy and lack of sleep . . . it's all a bit of a blur. We were warned early that sleep would be at a premium, as the processions and the parties were pretty much continuous, going right through the night, from Wednesday through Saturday morning This was no understatement, and it became clear quickly that there was no way to do and see everything, and that sufficient sleep was unlikely. It didn't Leigh and I long to find a favourite coffee shop to start each day at. Overlooking Parc Central, it provided an ideal launch point for the day, and a beautiful place for people watching and taking pictures of the festivities.
The Processions:
Each day was marked by processions. Early in the week saw one or two each day, by Friday there were four full processions, starting at 4am and continuing through to 2am Sat. morning. (If not later . . . ) Each procession demarcated a pivotal part of the crucifixion story - from the betrayal right to the crucifixion itself on Friday - this being the most graphic set of floats and most intense devotion by those in the procession.
The floats themselves were awe-inspiring. Full-size floats with large tableaus of Jesus and whichever other characters were relevant to the particular story of that procession. These floats, unlike those we might be used to in the Western world, are carried by men in purple robes - not on truck-beds, even though they are likely about the same size & weight. Watching the procession, you can see the strain on the faces of the men literally shouldering these burdens. Some floats, featuring the Virgin Mother, or another important female figure, were carried by women - these floats generally appeared to be smaller and lighter.
Each procession started in one of the many churches in the city, and culminated at one of them - sometimes the same one sometimes a different one, following a prescribed route and timetable. Although the focus/story of each procession was slightly different, the basic elements were consistent: Young boys/men in purple robes with big hanging censors smudged the path, including the carpets with incense (copal, I think). They were followed by a roman gladiator-style band - horns, drums . . . something to announce the coming procession; then the gladiators, on foot, on horse, and/or with chariots, then more people wearing robes, carrying portraits, banners and signs, followed finally by the men bearing the floats. Behind the floats trailed another band - this one in black suits, looking more like an orchestra. Behind the procession trailed the children and other folks seeking to collect some of the debris from the trampled alfombras.
One evening we got to watch a procession go directly under our window - some of the photos form that are incredible. Frankly, I have literally hundreds of incredible photos from that week. At least half of them are of the alfombras.
The alfombras:
Stunning, intricate, time-intensive, creative works-of-love. There are two basic types of alfombras: Wood chip stencil style and those created out of grass, straw, flowers, corn-husks, fruit, vegetables, carvings, and other assorted ingredients. Regardless of the type or the level of intricacy, they are incredibly time intensive, and clearly works of love and devotion. Even the simplest grass and straw alfombras take remarkable time and work to create. People locate them, in front of their home or business, based on the prescribed route maps so that they are ready a few hours before the procession will arrive at that location. Often this means that folks are out on the street at 1, 2, 3 in the morning creating them for processions that will start at 4am.
On Thursday night, Leigh and I went to bed early and set our alarm for 2 am so that we could wander the streets watching them be built. Just as the intensity grows exponentially over the week, so does the intricacy and beauty of the alfombras. We witnessed some of the most stunning pieces of artwork early that morning, wandering the darkened and quiet - but vibrantly alive streets. We watched the procession start at 4am, wandering ahead of it to catch photos before they walked over the carpets, obliterating them. I can't help but think that these carpets are not just acts of devotion, but an incredible exercise in detachment for their creators- knowing they will exist for but a few hours (sometimes for less time than they spent creating them) before being trod over the procession.
The food:
Our constant search for alfombras was trumped only by our daily search for the food vendors - who moved their obscenely large fair each day to correspond with where the most important processions culminated. To get an idea, picture your favourite fall fair- and all of the food vendors there, then double the number of vendors, triple the number of people . . . and of course, make the food Guatemalan. Tortillas heaped with meat, sauce and salads; Papusas (tortillas filled with gooey melted cheese), tostadas piled with guacamole, frijoles, beet salad and coleslaw; sandwiches aplenty, cotton candy, fried plantains, yucca, potatoes, etc.; candy apples, pineapple empanadas (like a calzone, but sweet), mangoes on a stick, coated in ground Pepita; pineapple juice, orchata (a sweet rice milk), chucitos, tamales . . . and of course, lots of soda and agua pura. And all of it CHEAP. Dinner for 25Q (about $3) meant eating til we hurt.
To provide some variety, we visited a couple of restaurants, in between our vendor hunts. One is my favourite from my first time in Antigua, when I first arrived here. The food was as fabulous as I remembered - a banquet of traditional Guatemalan stews, salads, and other sides to choose from. The prices were steeper than I remembered. It's remarkable how different my perspective on money and price is after four months here, and especially after working in a restaurant. Leigh had been craving Thai food for a few days, so we decided to give that a try one night also. Sadly, we both left still craving Thai food - as their version, while interesting, was definitively not Thai. And because we're both foodees, and cheap, we also made a few meals at the apartment - generally tortillas (we bought those - 5 for 1Q) and Guacamole (I made that). I think my belly is still recovering from all the food.
The People:
People watching at any large festive event is always interesting. This one didn't let me down. Because of the importance and scope of this celebration, it attracts thousands of people from across Guatemala and around the world. Because it's a religious celebration, it is family friendly, and it was quite amazing to watch the hundreds of processants in purple walk by - and realize that many of them were children, and some infants-in-arms . . .in purple! In the park, children ran around with noise-makers, balls, and glow-sticks - some playing, some selling them. Much like my first trip to Antigua, I was humbled by how young the children selling to tourists are - whether it's jewelery, cloth or services. My last trip, I discovered that the shoe-shine boys start as young as 5 or 6.
The Guatemalan chant - pan de banane, pan de coco, pan de chocolate???? which I hear every day in San Marcos had many refrains in Antigua over Semana Santa as women chanted out the contents of their food baskets - be it fruit, breads, sweet corn, etc.
The tourists were also incredibly interesting. My favourites were the Israelis that I found myself standing next to watching the Crucifixion process on Good Friday. Not that they particularly stood out visually, although their Hebrew speech made it obvious to me where they were from. But I found myself quite amused at the irony of so many jews hanging out watching the deeply religious Easter celebration in all its glory. I didn't get their full story - but it seemed they were a good-sized group. Certainly gave me a smile for the morning.
There are so many details and so much more about this rich week that I can't even begin to put into words. I know that I would love to do it again, and see more of the processions themselves, and have more time to hang on either end of the week so that I could better stretch myself without sleep for the good parts. I know that for everything I saw, there were at least 5 amazing things that I didn't . . . and in a phrase appropriate for the parallel Jewish holiday that same week: Daiaynu. It was enough.
*End note: In looking up the correct spelling for "alfombras", I found this website which describes fairly accurately and concisely some of what I've subjectively described above - check it out if you're curious: http://www.questconnect.org/guat_semana_santa.htm#Carpets
In San Marcos, one of its obvious elements is the daily sermons and psalms sung over the loud speakers from the two big churches every day (sometimes all day for days on end . . .)
With the arrival of Semana Santa, the entire country is mobilized into ritual, devotion, and creative acts of tribute to the story of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The epicenter is Antigua - so that's where I went to experience it. (Turns out the second biggest and similarly interesting festivities are right on the lake where I've been living, over in Santiago - but I didn't find that out until I got back).
Antigua: The celebration is at least a week long. It starts the Sunday before Easter and grows each day, in exponential proportions as Good Friday approaches. I arrived by chicken bus on Tuesday afternoon, and as I crossed through town to find where I would be staying, I could see that the streets were already beginning to fill with tourists, vendors, alfombras and processions. Alfombras are the incredibly beautiful tapestry carpets created on the roads that the processions then walk over. It's an incredible process to witness and contemplate. It was these carpets that really became the focus of my week.
My beautiful friend Leigh, Bless her, had rented an apartment for the week, and generously offered to let me stay with her. Among other things, Semana Santa means that accommodation in Antigua is incredibly hard to come by, and double the price of any other time of year. Leigh's generosity made this experience possible for me. (Muchas Gracias Chica!!!) This apartment became our base camp from which we went on excursions in search of food, processions, alfombras, stories and pictures. We found copious amounts of each.
It's hard to remember the sequencing of the week - between the colours, sounds, energy and lack of sleep . . . it's all a bit of a blur. We were warned early that sleep would be at a premium, as the processions and the parties were pretty much continuous, going right through the night, from Wednesday through Saturday morning This was no understatement, and it became clear quickly that there was no way to do and see everything, and that sufficient sleep was unlikely. It didn't Leigh and I long to find a favourite coffee shop to start each day at. Overlooking Parc Central, it provided an ideal launch point for the day, and a beautiful place for people watching and taking pictures of the festivities.
The Processions:
Each day was marked by processions. Early in the week saw one or two each day, by Friday there were four full processions, starting at 4am and continuing through to 2am Sat. morning. (If not later . . . ) Each procession demarcated a pivotal part of the crucifixion story - from the betrayal right to the crucifixion itself on Friday - this being the most graphic set of floats and most intense devotion by those in the procession.
The floats themselves were awe-inspiring. Full-size floats with large tableaus of Jesus and whichever other characters were relevant to the particular story of that procession. These floats, unlike those we might be used to in the Western world, are carried by men in purple robes - not on truck-beds, even though they are likely about the same size & weight. Watching the procession, you can see the strain on the faces of the men literally shouldering these burdens. Some floats, featuring the Virgin Mother, or another important female figure, were carried by women - these floats generally appeared to be smaller and lighter.
Each procession started in one of the many churches in the city, and culminated at one of them - sometimes the same one sometimes a different one, following a prescribed route and timetable. Although the focus/story of each procession was slightly different, the basic elements were consistent: Young boys/men in purple robes with big hanging censors smudged the path, including the carpets with incense (copal, I think). They were followed by a roman gladiator-style band - horns, drums . . . something to announce the coming procession; then the gladiators, on foot, on horse, and/or with chariots, then more people wearing robes, carrying portraits, banners and signs, followed finally by the men bearing the floats. Behind the floats trailed another band - this one in black suits, looking more like an orchestra. Behind the procession trailed the children and other folks seeking to collect some of the debris from the trampled alfombras.
One evening we got to watch a procession go directly under our window - some of the photos form that are incredible. Frankly, I have literally hundreds of incredible photos from that week. At least half of them are of the alfombras.
The alfombras:
Stunning, intricate, time-intensive, creative works-of-love. There are two basic types of alfombras: Wood chip stencil style and those created out of grass, straw, flowers, corn-husks, fruit, vegetables, carvings, and other assorted ingredients. Regardless of the type or the level of intricacy, they are incredibly time intensive, and clearly works of love and devotion. Even the simplest grass and straw alfombras take remarkable time and work to create. People locate them, in front of their home or business, based on the prescribed route maps so that they are ready a few hours before the procession will arrive at that location. Often this means that folks are out on the street at 1, 2, 3 in the morning creating them for processions that will start at 4am.
On Thursday night, Leigh and I went to bed early and set our alarm for 2 am so that we could wander the streets watching them be built. Just as the intensity grows exponentially over the week, so does the intricacy and beauty of the alfombras. We witnessed some of the most stunning pieces of artwork early that morning, wandering the darkened and quiet - but vibrantly alive streets. We watched the procession start at 4am, wandering ahead of it to catch photos before they walked over the carpets, obliterating them. I can't help but think that these carpets are not just acts of devotion, but an incredible exercise in detachment for their creators- knowing they will exist for but a few hours (sometimes for less time than they spent creating them) before being trod over the procession.
The food:
Our constant search for alfombras was trumped only by our daily search for the food vendors - who moved their obscenely large fair each day to correspond with where the most important processions culminated. To get an idea, picture your favourite fall fair- and all of the food vendors there, then double the number of vendors, triple the number of people . . . and of course, make the food Guatemalan. Tortillas heaped with meat, sauce and salads; Papusas (tortillas filled with gooey melted cheese), tostadas piled with guacamole, frijoles, beet salad and coleslaw; sandwiches aplenty, cotton candy, fried plantains, yucca, potatoes, etc.; candy apples, pineapple empanadas (like a calzone, but sweet), mangoes on a stick, coated in ground Pepita; pineapple juice, orchata (a sweet rice milk), chucitos, tamales . . . and of course, lots of soda and agua pura. And all of it CHEAP. Dinner for 25Q (about $3) meant eating til we hurt.
To provide some variety, we visited a couple of restaurants, in between our vendor hunts. One is my favourite from my first time in Antigua, when I first arrived here. The food was as fabulous as I remembered - a banquet of traditional Guatemalan stews, salads, and other sides to choose from. The prices were steeper than I remembered. It's remarkable how different my perspective on money and price is after four months here, and especially after working in a restaurant. Leigh had been craving Thai food for a few days, so we decided to give that a try one night also. Sadly, we both left still craving Thai food - as their version, while interesting, was definitively not Thai. And because we're both foodees, and cheap, we also made a few meals at the apartment - generally tortillas (we bought those - 5 for 1Q) and Guacamole (I made that). I think my belly is still recovering from all the food.
The People:
People watching at any large festive event is always interesting. This one didn't let me down. Because of the importance and scope of this celebration, it attracts thousands of people from across Guatemala and around the world. Because it's a religious celebration, it is family friendly, and it was quite amazing to watch the hundreds of processants in purple walk by - and realize that many of them were children, and some infants-in-arms . . .in purple! In the park, children ran around with noise-makers, balls, and glow-sticks - some playing, some selling them. Much like my first trip to Antigua, I was humbled by how young the children selling to tourists are - whether it's jewelery, cloth or services. My last trip, I discovered that the shoe-shine boys start as young as 5 or 6.
The Guatemalan chant - pan de banane, pan de coco, pan de chocolate???? which I hear every day in San Marcos had many refrains in Antigua over Semana Santa as women chanted out the contents of their food baskets - be it fruit, breads, sweet corn, etc.
The tourists were also incredibly interesting. My favourites were the Israelis that I found myself standing next to watching the Crucifixion process on Good Friday. Not that they particularly stood out visually, although their Hebrew speech made it obvious to me where they were from. But I found myself quite amused at the irony of so many jews hanging out watching the deeply religious Easter celebration in all its glory. I didn't get their full story - but it seemed they were a good-sized group. Certainly gave me a smile for the morning.
There are so many details and so much more about this rich week that I can't even begin to put into words. I know that I would love to do it again, and see more of the processions themselves, and have more time to hang on either end of the week so that I could better stretch myself without sleep for the good parts. I know that for everything I saw, there were at least 5 amazing things that I didn't . . . and in a phrase appropriate for the parallel Jewish holiday that same week: Daiaynu. It was enough.
*End note: In looking up the correct spelling for "alfombras", I found this website which describes fairly accurately and concisely some of what I've subjectively described above - check it out if you're curious: http://www.questconnect.org/guat_semana_santa.htm#Carpets
Friday, April 16, 2010
The School of Natural Living
This is a long entry - because there is so much to tell and describe. I'd apologize, but I'm not sorry. The experience just can't be condensed any further!
I just spent about 24 hours on a Perma-Culture Eco-Farm / School just outside Santiago on Lake Atitlan. It was an amazing and memorable experience. We arrived about 2pm on Wednesday ... already discovering in the process of our departure/pick-up that our hosts function on Guatemalan time.
We arrived to one of the most beautiful pieces of land, covered in lush grass, foliage, crops, trees and buildings, carved out of the rock of the steep mountain-side. Our first sight, though, was the three hot tubs emerging from the lake at its shore . . . well, two were emerging, one was fully submerged. We discovered that with the changing water level of the lake the first one had fully succumbed to rising tideline - the other two have been under water for a couple of years, but have recently re-emerged, although they are expected to be under water again within the next couple of years, as the water levels are rising by about a meter a year with the global change in climate.
As an aside, I discovered that a huge chunk of San Marcos is expected to be underwater within about 15 years. Barrio 3 is the highly populated and built up area, mostly inhabited by gringos, that I currently live in; and was apparently just part of the lake until about 50 years ago anyway. It was built up with land-fill as the water level of the lake dropped and the shoreline receded. It will be very interesting to see what happens over the next 10-15 years. Enough about that though - back to the school!
Upon our arrival we were shown to our house for the night; at the top of the property, up about a million stone steps. It was stunningly beautiful - but just a taste compared to the view of the property, lake and mountains from there. We took some time to settle in, ground our bodies and our belongings and then headed down to begin our learning journey. We started in the outdoor cooking area, learning to make tortillas. The dough was already prepared; our job was to learn to make this dough (maza) into round little tortillas, without sticking it our hands, dropping it, squishing it, or creating weird wavy elipticals. Much tougher than you might think - and humbling to watch how quickly not only our teacher did it, but also her 13 year old son - who assisted as translator when necessary.
The hosts of the school are a family of eight - Antonio is a gringo, settled in Guatemala for many years, Susanna is an indigenous woman born here on the lake, and they co-parent six beautiful children. Amongst them there are three languages: English, Spanish and Kekchiquel. Antonio speaks English and Spanish, and I think understands some Kekchiquel, Susanna understands English quite well, but only speaks Spanish and Kekchiquel. Their oldest son, Marlon, is fully fluent in all three languages - I think the only one, so far, in the family as such - although all the children are learning English through their dad. The blend and contrast of languages and cultures here was quite beautiful and striking. Susanna was our cooking teacher for the 2 days and I feel like I learned almost as much about Kekchiquel culture as I did about Mayan cooking in that process.
Once tortillas were accomplished (I am quite proud of my ability to make them quickly and remarkably round - though I come nowhere close to their skilled speedy hands), we wandered back up some stairs, around a big tree, down some stairs, past the fish pond and arrived essentially just in front and slightly below the outdoor cooking area - into the lower kitchen. My photos are wholly inadequate to depict the setup of the property - but because it is carved into rock, it curves around in some ways that are sometimes less than efficient walking-wise, but absolutely beautiful. In the kitchen we learned to make guacamole and chilmole. Guac I'm quite comfortable with already, but Chilmole was a new one on me: it's essentially a tomato salsa with mint. Oh, my, Goddess!!!!!! Wow, was it good. And then we ate. Tortillas, guacamole and salsa. Surprisingly filling and SOOO yummy.
Our next task was to make chuchitas with the remaining tortilla dough - turns out it's essentially the same dough for several of my favourite dishes. mmmmmm. Chuchitos are what I knew as Tamales in Canada. They are corn dough wrapped around filling (usually tomato sauce and veggies or meat), wrapped in a corn husk and steamed. Learning to make them is again about learning to maneuver the dough - you start by making a tortilla, cup it, fill it, fold it and wrap it. My friend Sophia calls this the art of Edible Origami.
Mid-way through the process the rain began to fall . . . in earnest, so we hustled into the kitchen to complete assembly and get the chuchitos into a pot. We watched as Susanna created a steamer out of a big pot - lining the bottom with corn husks to cover the water, and then stacking in our little packets, covering the top with a damp cloth before putting the whole thing on the stove. With that task complete, save for letting them boil, we returned to our house, got our towels and headed for the Mayan sauna. We decided that sauna was better before dinner, rather than after.
The sauna was amazing - and a bit different from the ones I've gotten used to in San Marcos. Like everything else, it's quite traditional, rustic and brilliant. An open fire in the corner, with a big barrel of boiling hot water beside it, a rock face to be splashed with water (for steam) behind it, and a big tub on the floor filled with a mix of the boiling water and some cold water from the spigot beside the fire. The mix of water in the big tub is used to pour over your body as you sweat out the toxins. It's brilliant.
Boneless after our sauna, we climbed back up the many steps to our house where we found our dinner in a couple of pots on the stove. Chuchitos and frijoles (black beans). I was so baked I fell asleep without eating - it just required too much energy. Fortunately, chuchitos are just as yummy re-heated the next day - so I had mine with my tamales for lunch on day 2. Antonio had set us up with some 'camp' lanterns before our sauna, as the only power on the property is solar or gas. The lights are plugged in to solar panels during the day and used for light at night. Their longevity is determined by how sunny the day was. Between the sauna, the day's activities, and the lack of artificial light stimulation, it was an early night for all of us. I'm always amazed at how much earlier I naturally go to sleep when there is no electricity - even if it's just lights . . .somehow I stay up later when I have power. hmmmm . . .
The sunrise over the mountains from the house is stunning. I know this intuitively, even though I was too tired to drag my butt out of bed to see it. I vow to be more diligent next time I stay there - and I am reasonably confident there will be a next time.
Day 2 started with fresh fruit, Guatemalan coffee and hot chocolate and chilling out. Like Day 1, it flowed at a very leisurely pace. Our agreed-to 8am start actually looked more like fruit starting to be cut at 8:30, leisurely noshing while traditional corn gruel and black bean cereal was made, followed eventually by our lesson beginning around 10:30ish.
Day 2's project was Tamales. This we made almost from scratch. Susanna had soaked the rice overnight already and, after drying it in the sun, Antonio and Marlon had ground it. We started with the ground rice in a big pot, well covered in water - milky from the rice. We cooked that, stirring constantly, until it began a thick glue-like paste that took two to stir. This was deeply enlightening - tamales are not corn; they are rice - and the dough is a surprisingly yummy gruel. Since only one of us needed to stir the pot for most of that time, we worked on the sauce at the same time. The ingredient list was beautiful and the end result spectacular. Incredibly flavourful, not too spicy - sooo good.
When it was done cooking, we let the gruel cool while we finished making the sauce, chilled out and had more coffee and then we returned for our next origami lesson. We filled large leaves (I assumed banana, but turns out they are Calla-lily leaves!!!), with the rice mixture, created a dip for the sauce (just like mashed potatoes and gravy) and then gently spooned the rice up and over the sauce creating a little volcano like thing. Then the precarious folding began. Many leaves later, we again watched as Susanna filled a big pot with a little water, a bunch of corn husks and then piled the tamales in to the pot, carefully creating a circle of them, leaving the middle an empty pillar for steam to rise; and again, covering it with a wet cloth. This time they tamales were cooked on the fire outside - as the sun was shining.
While the tamales cooked, we headed down to the lake for our solar heated hot tub. My first bath in months - and only my second truly hot water experience in Guatemala. aaahhhh. Being the true gringos we are - we gathered some clay from the lake bed (it's prolific at their shore), and covered our faces in it for skin masks. We hung out in the hot tub until we were prunes while the kids giggled at us and swam in the lake around us. Once fully cooked, we each hopped in to the lake to rinse of the mask and enjoy a cool swim. All of us hopped back in the hot water once more for a soak before we headed back up for lunch.
After our leisurely (and enthusiastic) consumption of lunch, we cleaned up, said our goodbyes and prepared to head back. That too ended up being a long process - from rounding everyone up, to good-byes, to departure (including bailing out the back of the boat to counter its small hole) . . . and then a slow trip across the lake with a very full boat. We had one more person on the return trip, and a full gas tank. (apparently we had come across the day before on fumes). We landed back in San Marcos around 4pm, less than an hour before the rains started again. whew!
It's hard to believe it was only slightly more than 24 hours - it felt like more than 2 days. There is something to Guatemalan-time. Days are full without being hectic. There is time to just be, and it all gets done . . . eventually, and what doesn't isn't important.
I just spent about 24 hours on a Perma-Culture Eco-Farm / School just outside Santiago on Lake Atitlan. It was an amazing and memorable experience. We arrived about 2pm on Wednesday ... already discovering in the process of our departure/pick-up that our hosts function on Guatemalan time.
We arrived to one of the most beautiful pieces of land, covered in lush grass, foliage, crops, trees and buildings, carved out of the rock of the steep mountain-side. Our first sight, though, was the three hot tubs emerging from the lake at its shore . . . well, two were emerging, one was fully submerged. We discovered that with the changing water level of the lake the first one had fully succumbed to rising tideline - the other two have been under water for a couple of years, but have recently re-emerged, although they are expected to be under water again within the next couple of years, as the water levels are rising by about a meter a year with the global change in climate.
As an aside, I discovered that a huge chunk of San Marcos is expected to be underwater within about 15 years. Barrio 3 is the highly populated and built up area, mostly inhabited by gringos, that I currently live in; and was apparently just part of the lake until about 50 years ago anyway. It was built up with land-fill as the water level of the lake dropped and the shoreline receded. It will be very interesting to see what happens over the next 10-15 years. Enough about that though - back to the school!
Upon our arrival we were shown to our house for the night; at the top of the property, up about a million stone steps. It was stunningly beautiful - but just a taste compared to the view of the property, lake and mountains from there. We took some time to settle in, ground our bodies and our belongings and then headed down to begin our learning journey. We started in the outdoor cooking area, learning to make tortillas. The dough was already prepared; our job was to learn to make this dough (maza) into round little tortillas, without sticking it our hands, dropping it, squishing it, or creating weird wavy elipticals. Much tougher than you might think - and humbling to watch how quickly not only our teacher did it, but also her 13 year old son - who assisted as translator when necessary.
The hosts of the school are a family of eight - Antonio is a gringo, settled in Guatemala for many years, Susanna is an indigenous woman born here on the lake, and they co-parent six beautiful children. Amongst them there are three languages: English, Spanish and Kekchiquel. Antonio speaks English and Spanish, and I think understands some Kekchiquel, Susanna understands English quite well, but only speaks Spanish and Kekchiquel. Their oldest son, Marlon, is fully fluent in all three languages - I think the only one, so far, in the family as such - although all the children are learning English through their dad. The blend and contrast of languages and cultures here was quite beautiful and striking. Susanna was our cooking teacher for the 2 days and I feel like I learned almost as much about Kekchiquel culture as I did about Mayan cooking in that process.
Once tortillas were accomplished (I am quite proud of my ability to make them quickly and remarkably round - though I come nowhere close to their skilled speedy hands), we wandered back up some stairs, around a big tree, down some stairs, past the fish pond and arrived essentially just in front and slightly below the outdoor cooking area - into the lower kitchen. My photos are wholly inadequate to depict the setup of the property - but because it is carved into rock, it curves around in some ways that are sometimes less than efficient walking-wise, but absolutely beautiful. In the kitchen we learned to make guacamole and chilmole. Guac I'm quite comfortable with already, but Chilmole was a new one on me: it's essentially a tomato salsa with mint. Oh, my, Goddess!!!!!! Wow, was it good. And then we ate. Tortillas, guacamole and salsa. Surprisingly filling and SOOO yummy.
Our next task was to make chuchitas with the remaining tortilla dough - turns out it's essentially the same dough for several of my favourite dishes. mmmmmm. Chuchitos are what I knew as Tamales in Canada. They are corn dough wrapped around filling (usually tomato sauce and veggies or meat), wrapped in a corn husk and steamed. Learning to make them is again about learning to maneuver the dough - you start by making a tortilla, cup it, fill it, fold it and wrap it. My friend Sophia calls this the art of Edible Origami.
Mid-way through the process the rain began to fall . . . in earnest, so we hustled into the kitchen to complete assembly and get the chuchitos into a pot. We watched as Susanna created a steamer out of a big pot - lining the bottom with corn husks to cover the water, and then stacking in our little packets, covering the top with a damp cloth before putting the whole thing on the stove. With that task complete, save for letting them boil, we returned to our house, got our towels and headed for the Mayan sauna. We decided that sauna was better before dinner, rather than after.
The sauna was amazing - and a bit different from the ones I've gotten used to in San Marcos. Like everything else, it's quite traditional, rustic and brilliant. An open fire in the corner, with a big barrel of boiling hot water beside it, a rock face to be splashed with water (for steam) behind it, and a big tub on the floor filled with a mix of the boiling water and some cold water from the spigot beside the fire. The mix of water in the big tub is used to pour over your body as you sweat out the toxins. It's brilliant.
Boneless after our sauna, we climbed back up the many steps to our house where we found our dinner in a couple of pots on the stove. Chuchitos and frijoles (black beans). I was so baked I fell asleep without eating - it just required too much energy. Fortunately, chuchitos are just as yummy re-heated the next day - so I had mine with my tamales for lunch on day 2. Antonio had set us up with some 'camp' lanterns before our sauna, as the only power on the property is solar or gas. The lights are plugged in to solar panels during the day and used for light at night. Their longevity is determined by how sunny the day was. Between the sauna, the day's activities, and the lack of artificial light stimulation, it was an early night for all of us. I'm always amazed at how much earlier I naturally go to sleep when there is no electricity - even if it's just lights . . .somehow I stay up later when I have power. hmmmm . . .
The sunrise over the mountains from the house is stunning. I know this intuitively, even though I was too tired to drag my butt out of bed to see it. I vow to be more diligent next time I stay there - and I am reasonably confident there will be a next time.
Day 2 started with fresh fruit, Guatemalan coffee and hot chocolate and chilling out. Like Day 1, it flowed at a very leisurely pace. Our agreed-to 8am start actually looked more like fruit starting to be cut at 8:30, leisurely noshing while traditional corn gruel and black bean cereal was made, followed eventually by our lesson beginning around 10:30ish.
Day 2's project was Tamales. This we made almost from scratch. Susanna had soaked the rice overnight already and, after drying it in the sun, Antonio and Marlon had ground it. We started with the ground rice in a big pot, well covered in water - milky from the rice. We cooked that, stirring constantly, until it began a thick glue-like paste that took two to stir. This was deeply enlightening - tamales are not corn; they are rice - and the dough is a surprisingly yummy gruel. Since only one of us needed to stir the pot for most of that time, we worked on the sauce at the same time. The ingredient list was beautiful and the end result spectacular. Incredibly flavourful, not too spicy - sooo good.
When it was done cooking, we let the gruel cool while we finished making the sauce, chilled out and had more coffee and then we returned for our next origami lesson. We filled large leaves (I assumed banana, but turns out they are Calla-lily leaves!!!), with the rice mixture, created a dip for the sauce (just like mashed potatoes and gravy) and then gently spooned the rice up and over the sauce creating a little volcano like thing. Then the precarious folding began. Many leaves later, we again watched as Susanna filled a big pot with a little water, a bunch of corn husks and then piled the tamales in to the pot, carefully creating a circle of them, leaving the middle an empty pillar for steam to rise; and again, covering it with a wet cloth. This time they tamales were cooked on the fire outside - as the sun was shining.
While the tamales cooked, we headed down to the lake for our solar heated hot tub. My first bath in months - and only my second truly hot water experience in Guatemala. aaahhhh. Being the true gringos we are - we gathered some clay from the lake bed (it's prolific at their shore), and covered our faces in it for skin masks. We hung out in the hot tub until we were prunes while the kids giggled at us and swam in the lake around us. Once fully cooked, we each hopped in to the lake to rinse of the mask and enjoy a cool swim. All of us hopped back in the hot water once more for a soak before we headed back up for lunch.
After our leisurely (and enthusiastic) consumption of lunch, we cleaned up, said our goodbyes and prepared to head back. That too ended up being a long process - from rounding everyone up, to good-byes, to departure (including bailing out the back of the boat to counter its small hole) . . . and then a slow trip across the lake with a very full boat. We had one more person on the return trip, and a full gas tank. (apparently we had come across the day before on fumes). We landed back in San Marcos around 4pm, less than an hour before the rains started again. whew!
It's hard to believe it was only slightly more than 24 hours - it felt like more than 2 days. There is something to Guatemalan-time. Days are full without being hectic. There is time to just be, and it all gets done . . . eventually, and what doesn't isn't important.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Chicken Bus
The chicken bus is not just a form of transportation from a to b, but rather a full-spectrum experience. I'm not sure why they are called 'chicken' buses - as they are old discarded school buses from the US . . . although it may be related to the possibility that the passenger manifest, such as it is, may include chickens.
I had my first (and likely my only) chicken bus experience en route to Antigua for Semana Santa. I traveled with my friend Steph, which is good, because I might well have lost my nerve mid-way to Antigua if not for her steady certainty.
The relatively short trip to Antigua, when done by shuttle is a door to door operation in a single vehicle (flat-tires and other such break-downs not-withstanding) To do the same journey by chicken bus requires four transfers. Each bus change requires the concurrent transfer of one's luggage off the roof of one bus and onto the roof of the next. Watching the process is both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
Each bus has two workers - one is the driver, and the other I'll call the 'handler'. He takes fares, deals with the people and handles the luggage. As far as I can tell, insanity is part of both job descriptions. Absolute fearlessness is essential for the handler. At major transfer points he is the one that takes the baggage, recently removed from the previous bus, and installs it at the top of his bus. He also removes the baggage and passes it off to its owners at each departure, tucking up new pieces as folks get on the bus. None of this sounds terribly glamorous . . . until you are witnessing the process.
Maneuvering luggage on top of the bus means climbing the ladders at the back on either side of the emergency exit door. (used as a regular entrance and exit - that's where we boarded and departed each of our buses) What makes the luggage process spectacular is that the handler runs up and down these ladders while the bus is in motion. The big load is dealt with at the major transfer points with the bus stopped, but after that, he runs up the ladder in anticipation of someone's exit, hucking their stuff down at them as the bus begins its departure. Sometimes that means he hops off the ladder at the back and runs beside the bus to the front, jumping on there as the bus begins its acceleration. (Marathoners have nothing on these guys).
One would think that given that this all happens around people on-boarding and off-boarding that at least the bus is moving fairly slowly. That would be a deeply erroneous assumption. Remember the insanity clause. The bus generally goes at top speed, careening around corners (many prayers were said on that journey), and screaming to a not-quite-stop so folks can on-board or off-board at random spots along the road. Actual bus-stops not required - neither a demarcated spot or an actual full-stop of the bus. Locals seem to have almost the same ease hopping on and off a moving a vehicle as the handler, though I admit he did come to a full stop for brief moments for some passengers . . . but not for all.
We were on bus 3 of 4 was when the rain came. The bus was only about a quarter full. In addition to Steph and I there was one other traveler - a Norwegian girl, and all three of us had our big packs on top of the bus. We were watching the sky darken, and the wind pick up . . . and little drops begin to fall . . . and I wondered aloud about our packs up above . . . If the rain stayed light, we might be ok, if it picked up, we were all screwed. It would be days before the contents dried. As the rain got more enthusiastic, I decided to risk the ask. I wandered up to the front (holding on for dear life as we continued to ricochet along the highway in the rain) and offered my most charming and sheepish grin to the handler. In my sad Spanish, I asked if perhaps he could retrieve our packs from the top and bring them in? I was pleasantly amazed when he agreed - with an indulgent you-dumb-gringos look, mind you, but it didn't feel mean . . . just humourous.
I had made the assumption that if the handler agreed, the bags would come down at the next stop, or maybe even that they would stop the bus to do it. No sir. At full throttle, going up a hill and around corners, in the pouring rain, that man hopped out the back door, swung up the ladder to the top of the bus, unhooked our packs from the rack, and swung each of them down to some locals who hauled them in the door. The Norwegian girl's pack must've weighed close to 50 pounds. It's amazing to me that this experience fit into one paragraph - because truly, it felt so much bigger than that. I cannot begin to fathom the fearlessness, sense of immortality . . . I don't even know how to process belief set that goes with swinging one's body and someone else's heavy bags off the back of a bus hurtling through pouring rain on curving hills at full speed . . .
The rest of the journey was completely uneventful. I'm not sure, really, how it could have been anything but, by comparison! We made our last transfer, back in the sunshine, though we put our rain covers on our packs just in case. The last bus had good music, so we bopped along; it was also the fullest, so I shared a seat with two other people. Remember that these are children's school buses - designed to seat 2 children to a seat, not 2-3 adults and a child. Crammed to the gills, we arrived in Antigua without incident, pulling in to the most colorful yard of buses I've ever seen. Dozens of brightly coloured chicken buses, parked in rows, waiting to depart, belching smoke, hanging out ... wow. A truly Guatemalan experience. And don't worry Mom & Dad, I'm perfectly safe!
I had my first (and likely my only) chicken bus experience en route to Antigua for Semana Santa. I traveled with my friend Steph, which is good, because I might well have lost my nerve mid-way to Antigua if not for her steady certainty.
The relatively short trip to Antigua, when done by shuttle is a door to door operation in a single vehicle (flat-tires and other such break-downs not-withstanding) To do the same journey by chicken bus requires four transfers. Each bus change requires the concurrent transfer of one's luggage off the roof of one bus and onto the roof of the next. Watching the process is both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
Each bus has two workers - one is the driver, and the other I'll call the 'handler'. He takes fares, deals with the people and handles the luggage. As far as I can tell, insanity is part of both job descriptions. Absolute fearlessness is essential for the handler. At major transfer points he is the one that takes the baggage, recently removed from the previous bus, and installs it at the top of his bus. He also removes the baggage and passes it off to its owners at each departure, tucking up new pieces as folks get on the bus. None of this sounds terribly glamorous . . . until you are witnessing the process.
Maneuvering luggage on top of the bus means climbing the ladders at the back on either side of the emergency exit door. (used as a regular entrance and exit - that's where we boarded and departed each of our buses) What makes the luggage process spectacular is that the handler runs up and down these ladders while the bus is in motion. The big load is dealt with at the major transfer points with the bus stopped, but after that, he runs up the ladder in anticipation of someone's exit, hucking their stuff down at them as the bus begins its departure. Sometimes that means he hops off the ladder at the back and runs beside the bus to the front, jumping on there as the bus begins its acceleration. (Marathoners have nothing on these guys).
One would think that given that this all happens around people on-boarding and off-boarding that at least the bus is moving fairly slowly. That would be a deeply erroneous assumption. Remember the insanity clause. The bus generally goes at top speed, careening around corners (many prayers were said on that journey), and screaming to a not-quite-stop so folks can on-board or off-board at random spots along the road. Actual bus-stops not required - neither a demarcated spot or an actual full-stop of the bus. Locals seem to have almost the same ease hopping on and off a moving a vehicle as the handler, though I admit he did come to a full stop for brief moments for some passengers . . . but not for all.
We were on bus 3 of 4 was when the rain came. The bus was only about a quarter full. In addition to Steph and I there was one other traveler - a Norwegian girl, and all three of us had our big packs on top of the bus. We were watching the sky darken, and the wind pick up . . . and little drops begin to fall . . . and I wondered aloud about our packs up above . . . If the rain stayed light, we might be ok, if it picked up, we were all screwed. It would be days before the contents dried. As the rain got more enthusiastic, I decided to risk the ask. I wandered up to the front (holding on for dear life as we continued to ricochet along the highway in the rain) and offered my most charming and sheepish grin to the handler. In my sad Spanish, I asked if perhaps he could retrieve our packs from the top and bring them in? I was pleasantly amazed when he agreed - with an indulgent you-dumb-gringos look, mind you, but it didn't feel mean . . . just humourous.
I had made the assumption that if the handler agreed, the bags would come down at the next stop, or maybe even that they would stop the bus to do it. No sir. At full throttle, going up a hill and around corners, in the pouring rain, that man hopped out the back door, swung up the ladder to the top of the bus, unhooked our packs from the rack, and swung each of them down to some locals who hauled them in the door. The Norwegian girl's pack must've weighed close to 50 pounds. It's amazing to me that this experience fit into one paragraph - because truly, it felt so much bigger than that. I cannot begin to fathom the fearlessness, sense of immortality . . . I don't even know how to process belief set that goes with swinging one's body and someone else's heavy bags off the back of a bus hurtling through pouring rain on curving hills at full speed . . .
The rest of the journey was completely uneventful. I'm not sure, really, how it could have been anything but, by comparison! We made our last transfer, back in the sunshine, though we put our rain covers on our packs just in case. The last bus had good music, so we bopped along; it was also the fullest, so I shared a seat with two other people. Remember that these are children's school buses - designed to seat 2 children to a seat, not 2-3 adults and a child. Crammed to the gills, we arrived in Antigua without incident, pulling in to the most colorful yard of buses I've ever seen. Dozens of brightly coloured chicken buses, parked in rows, waiting to depart, belching smoke, hanging out ... wow. A truly Guatemalan experience. And don't worry Mom & Dad, I'm perfectly safe!
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