Hey all. Oriana, her mom, and I are off to Tikal very early tomorrow morning. I'm hoping my cold eases up before then. I won't have internet again until Monday.
Hope everyone is doing well.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Cheslocks vs. Salazars
I’ve spent lots of time with Filiberto’s family in the last few weeks. As I’ve gotten to know them better, it occurred to me that it would be interesting to compare and contrast their family with mine. As I'm posting, I'm pretty sick, I'll add pictures and links next week.
Cheslocks vs. Salazars
Here’s the cast of characters
Salazars:
Filiberto 57 (on August 22)
Maria Elena 50 something
Oldest sister mid-late twenties, married 3 children
Marta 25, married two children, Herson 3 and Dailey 1 ½, has a business making aprons
Monica 21
Carmen 20, in university for business administration
Carlos 19, electrician’s certificate, in school again
Esvin 17, in high school
Cristobal 15, in school (held back 4 times)
Vicente 14, in school
Maria Benita 13, in school, cosmetics business
Juan Carlos 10, in school
Flor de Maria 8, in school
Cheslocks
David 57 Bachelor’s, Master’s, almost enough credits for PhD
Claire 50, Bachelor’s, almost enough credits for Master’s
Jen 27, in graduate school
Liz 25, engaged, working professional
Aaron 22, going back to school
Sammy 18, in high school
Filiberto’s family lives in an open air property with 4 rooms and a tin front door that does not lock. Filiberto and Maria Elena sleep in a room, with walls made of corn stalks, a dirt floor, and a corrugated tin roof to keep out the rain. I believe that Maria Benita, Juan Carlos, and Flor all sleep in this room as well. There is a new concrete room, built within the last 6 months, where Monica, Carmen, Carlos, Esvin, Cristobal, and Vicente sleep. In this room, the floors are concrete and I believe the roof is also corrugated tin. Marta, her husband, and their two small children have a room in the corner of the property with a dirt floor, walls made of corn stalks, and corrugated tin roof.
Filiberto’s family have one bathroom—which is not a flush toilet, it is more of an outhouse. They have electricity, but little lighting. They have running water. But, I don’t know how they shower. I haven’t seen an area or faucet that looks like it could be a shower. However, I have seen the girls bucket wash their hair before school.
In addition to the people that live in Filiberto’s house, there are lots of animals. There are 4 mules, 3 that work regularly carrying loads up the volcano. The fourth is unable to carry a load, but they are still taking care of her. There are 30 ducks (raised to slaughter), 3 roosters, 10 chickens (raised for eggs and possibly to slaughter), and a dog named Bunny.
The Cheslocks live in a split-level three bedroom, 2 ½ bathroom enclosed house with running water, 3 flush toilets and 2 showers, electricity, internet, cable television, and a secure roof and front door. The Cheslocks have a ¼ acre (possibly less) of land in the front and the backyard. The Cheslocks have 3 previously-abused dogs from a shelter, raised and cared for as family pets.
Both sets of parents run through 3 or 4 names before finding the correct one to address the child in front of them. Both households function because the moms do a lot of behind the scenes work: meeting with teachers, doctors, and helping with school projects. Both moms have talent in the kitchen—and keep their clans well fed. Both households seem to function in a state of chaos, people are always searching for lost items, and tidiness is not on the top of the priority list. Both families have a keen sense of what matters most—they enjoy each others company and are very close.
Filiberto and my Dad have a few things in common. Both men were born in the same year-1951. Both like sports and encourage their kids, boys and girls alike, to play sports. Both have crazy facial hair that periodically needs a female touch to remove—with my Dad, it’s one crazy eyebrow, with Filiberto, it’s a crazy moustache that seems to catch food and save it for later. Both men have some trouble with manual dexterity—my Dad can’t fold paper, Filberto has trouble peeling and placing the little stickers on his coffee bags. Both my Dad and Filiberto were very resistant to cell phone use. Filiberto still makes his kids or Maria answer his cell phone. Both my Dad and Filiberto have had the same job for more than 25 years and both have been married for almost 30 years (my parents 29, Filiberto and Maria Elena 28). Both men come home from a long day and expect their wives to feed them. Both men enjoy telling the stories of their childhoods—my Dad’s stories tend to be nicer than Filiberto’s though. Both men are religious—and neither thinks terribly deeply about religion, they just do what they’ve always done. Both Filiberto and my dad are sole providers for their families and want their kids to have better than they did.
However, those are where the similarities end. My Dad grew up middle class, went to college, and found work after finishing schooling. Filiberto finished the 4th grade in the Guatemalan system (it’s not a good system, so has effective 2nd grade education) and had to start working. Filiberto’s father died when he was young, leaving him the man of the house and taking care of his mom and sisters. When Filiberto and Maria Elena got married in 1980, Filiberto’s mom and sisters lived with them. His sisters eventually married and his mom lived with them until she died in 2000 at age 85.
My Dad’s success at work has been slow and reliable. Filiberto’s always been a farmer, but only in the last few years has he been making enough money to lift his family, slowly, out of poverty. My Dad makes roughly 100 times what Filiberto makes in one year. With that income, Filiberto has to feed, cloth, and provide shelter for 9 more people than my Dad.
Filiberto and my Dad might have a lot to learn from one another. Filiberto, unlike most Guatemalans, knows that there is a better life waiting for him if he works really hard. Given his economic situation, Filiberto is the happiest man I’ve met. For all of his relative success, my Dad could probably stand to be a little happier. On the other hand, my Dad could probably teach Filiberto a thing or two about applying mathematical knowledge to his business.
It’s clear to me that geography and luck has a lot to do with these differences. If Filiberto were born to an American family in 1951, I have no doubt that he’d be just as successful as my Dad. Whatever Filiberto lacks in skills and education he makes up for with more determination than anyone else I’ve ever met.
So, what’s the golden nugget here? American individualism preaches the pick-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps mentality. The notion that all poor people are poor because they aren’t doing enough to help themselves is bullshit. I’m sure there are some people padding welfare rolls for the extra check. But, I’m just as sure that if we give people a hand up—access to specific job training, access to equipment and small business loans with fair terms that people in communities everywhere would be better off.
I’m convinced that people like Filiberto are victims of geography. I plan to fight for people like Filiberto, because everyone needs some back up.
Cheslocks vs. Salazars
Here’s the cast of characters
Salazars:
Filiberto 57 (on August 22)
Maria Elena 50 something
Oldest sister mid-late twenties, married 3 children
Marta 25, married two children, Herson 3 and Dailey 1 ½, has a business making aprons
Monica 21
Carmen 20, in university for business administration
Carlos 19, electrician’s certificate, in school again
Esvin 17, in high school
Cristobal 15, in school (held back 4 times)
Vicente 14, in school
Maria Benita 13, in school, cosmetics business
Juan Carlos 10, in school
Flor de Maria 8, in school
Cheslocks
David 57 Bachelor’s, Master’s, almost enough credits for PhD
Claire 50, Bachelor’s, almost enough credits for Master’s
Jen 27, in graduate school
Liz 25, engaged, working professional
Aaron 22, going back to school
Sammy 18, in high school
Filiberto’s family lives in an open air property with 4 rooms and a tin front door that does not lock. Filiberto and Maria Elena sleep in a room, with walls made of corn stalks, a dirt floor, and a corrugated tin roof to keep out the rain. I believe that Maria Benita, Juan Carlos, and Flor all sleep in this room as well. There is a new concrete room, built within the last 6 months, where Monica, Carmen, Carlos, Esvin, Cristobal, and Vicente sleep. In this room, the floors are concrete and I believe the roof is also corrugated tin. Marta, her husband, and their two small children have a room in the corner of the property with a dirt floor, walls made of corn stalks, and corrugated tin roof.
Filiberto’s family have one bathroom—which is not a flush toilet, it is more of an outhouse. They have electricity, but little lighting. They have running water. But, I don’t know how they shower. I haven’t seen an area or faucet that looks like it could be a shower. However, I have seen the girls bucket wash their hair before school.
In addition to the people that live in Filiberto’s house, there are lots of animals. There are 4 mules, 3 that work regularly carrying loads up the volcano. The fourth is unable to carry a load, but they are still taking care of her. There are 30 ducks (raised to slaughter), 3 roosters, 10 chickens (raised for eggs and possibly to slaughter), and a dog named Bunny.
The Cheslocks live in a split-level three bedroom, 2 ½ bathroom enclosed house with running water, 3 flush toilets and 2 showers, electricity, internet, cable television, and a secure roof and front door. The Cheslocks have a ¼ acre (possibly less) of land in the front and the backyard. The Cheslocks have 3 previously-abused dogs from a shelter, raised and cared for as family pets.
Both sets of parents run through 3 or 4 names before finding the correct one to address the child in front of them. Both households function because the moms do a lot of behind the scenes work: meeting with teachers, doctors, and helping with school projects. Both moms have talent in the kitchen—and keep their clans well fed. Both households seem to function in a state of chaos, people are always searching for lost items, and tidiness is not on the top of the priority list. Both families have a keen sense of what matters most—they enjoy each others company and are very close.
Filiberto and my Dad have a few things in common. Both men were born in the same year-1951. Both like sports and encourage their kids, boys and girls alike, to play sports. Both have crazy facial hair that periodically needs a female touch to remove—with my Dad, it’s one crazy eyebrow, with Filiberto, it’s a crazy moustache that seems to catch food and save it for later. Both men have some trouble with manual dexterity—my Dad can’t fold paper, Filberto has trouble peeling and placing the little stickers on his coffee bags. Both my Dad and Filiberto were very resistant to cell phone use. Filiberto still makes his kids or Maria answer his cell phone. Both my Dad and Filiberto have had the same job for more than 25 years and both have been married for almost 30 years (my parents 29, Filiberto and Maria Elena 28). Both men come home from a long day and expect their wives to feed them. Both men enjoy telling the stories of their childhoods—my Dad’s stories tend to be nicer than Filiberto’s though. Both men are religious—and neither thinks terribly deeply about religion, they just do what they’ve always done. Both Filiberto and my dad are sole providers for their families and want their kids to have better than they did.
However, those are where the similarities end. My Dad grew up middle class, went to college, and found work after finishing schooling. Filiberto finished the 4th grade in the Guatemalan system (it’s not a good system, so has effective 2nd grade education) and had to start working. Filiberto’s father died when he was young, leaving him the man of the house and taking care of his mom and sisters. When Filiberto and Maria Elena got married in 1980, Filiberto’s mom and sisters lived with them. His sisters eventually married and his mom lived with them until she died in 2000 at age 85.
My Dad’s success at work has been slow and reliable. Filiberto’s always been a farmer, but only in the last few years has he been making enough money to lift his family, slowly, out of poverty. My Dad makes roughly 100 times what Filiberto makes in one year. With that income, Filiberto has to feed, cloth, and provide shelter for 9 more people than my Dad.
Filiberto and my Dad might have a lot to learn from one another. Filiberto, unlike most Guatemalans, knows that there is a better life waiting for him if he works really hard. Given his economic situation, Filiberto is the happiest man I’ve met. For all of his relative success, my Dad could probably stand to be a little happier. On the other hand, my Dad could probably teach Filiberto a thing or two about applying mathematical knowledge to his business.
It’s clear to me that geography and luck has a lot to do with these differences. If Filiberto were born to an American family in 1951, I have no doubt that he’d be just as successful as my Dad. Whatever Filiberto lacks in skills and education he makes up for with more determination than anyone else I’ve ever met.
So, what’s the golden nugget here? American individualism preaches the pick-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps mentality. The notion that all poor people are poor because they aren’t doing enough to help themselves is bullshit. I’m sure there are some people padding welfare rolls for the extra check. But, I’m just as sure that if we give people a hand up—access to specific job training, access to equipment and small business loans with fair terms that people in communities everywhere would be better off.
I’m convinced that people like Filiberto are victims of geography. I plan to fight for people like Filiberto, because everyone needs some back up.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Better Wet Than Bitten
Quirigua is located in the department of Izabal in the north eastern corner of Guatemala—that which closely borders Belize and Honduras. Oriana and I are still hoping to get to Copan in Honduras which reportedly has bigger and better ruins than Quirigua. The region itself is much lower altitude than where we’re staying outside of Antigua. Comparatively, it is tons hotter, more humid, with exponentially more mosquitoes than Antigua or our home in San Miguel Escobar. And because of that climate difference, it is a part of Guatemala that has malaria. I took my meds—no worries there. Seriously, it is a particularly miserable climate for people to live.
On our route, we stopped in Zacapa to spend the night. I won’t go into gory details—but we didn’t stay at the Ritz. My favorite part was that the toilet we had in our room didn’t have a toilet seat, there was no A/C, and I had to take a Benadryl to sleep and therefore, stop itching my mosquito bites. In the morning we woke up before 6 AM to catch a bus to Quirigua. Once we got close, we started to see lots and lots of banana trees. These were the property of United Fruit Company (Chiquita Banana, amongst others). United Fruit was the driving force behind U.S. and CIA intervention into the 1954 coup.
In 1954 there was a law, called the Agrarian Reform Act, that would have nationalized many farms and parceled small pieces of land to the farmers here. In that time, fincas (large farms) would contract entire families to work their land for little pay and often would not pay folks in actual currency but in finca currency. Ultimately, that situation proved tenuous as families could barely afford to feed their children, let alone pay off their “debt” to the finca and move out. Labor unions started to form, and fincas mounted all manner of union-busting techniques to ensure that their workforce would remain docile, uneducated, and willing to work. Because of the fear that United Fruit and many other fincas had of the repercussions of the Agrarian Reform, they mounted a U.S. backed effort to topple the government and install their own more moderate version.
All of this happened in 1954, and Guatemala has been destabilized ever since. I bring all this up, because it was on United Fruit’s land that these ruins were discovered. And United Fruit again, put up a stink when the government wanted to create a national park to house them.
As we drove down the side road to Quirigua National Park, all the eye can see is bananas. For me, that was important to put into perspective how significant the U.S. influence is here. It is also interesting to think about how intertwined global export markets have been in shaping how government here makes decisions.
The ruins range from 700 CE to 800 CE and they are principally in two different shapes. One is a squared column with drawings on all four sides. The second is a large round boulder—with literally drawings covering the entire surface of the rock.
I could try to explain what all the drawings mean, but that would take a long time—and I’m not an expert so as I add photos here, I’ll give you the highlights.
In addition to the column and boulder drawings, there are huge steps that create the boundaries of where the palace for the King of Quirigua used to be. As you climb up and over the first set of steps, there is yet another flight down that brings you to a now well-kept lawn where royal games were played. Mayans thought these games had significance because they’d be competing with other worldly beings, their Gods.
The steps were really difficult for me to do, with out stepping up bringing my other foot up, and then attempting the next step. In my head, Mayans were probably not that tall. Francisco corrected me saying that they were about 160 CM tall then—making them a little taller than me. I’m not sure if he was referring to men or women, but I would guess they were in better shape then and could get up the stairs more easily. Also, the steps were not covered with moss then—that probably helps.
Anyhow, there is virtually nothing around this site—and like other Mayan ruin sites, was only stumbled across as folks tried to clear the land and hit rock. As I looked around the surrounding area, it looks like there could be many other ruins underneath all the vegetation there. Due to lack of funds and perhaps interest, they remain covered today.
The entire time we were standing there I couldn’t help but hate mosquitoes. Thank goodness for bug repellent with deet. I’ve never seen 40 or so come at me so fast and be repelled like that. I would have had hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bites without the repellent. Then, as if sent by the Almighty, it started to rain. Francisco and I both agreed, “mejor mojado que picado”—better wet than bitten.
So, again staring at some of the etchings, I wondered what this people must have been like. Their drawings depict babies that morph into jaguars, and warriors with skulls. The columns usually depict a king or queen with their associated symbols of their reign. From the little I know, they didn’t have contact with other civilizations aside from Mayan territories at the time. People are still trying to figure out why they disappeared. It’s also worth mentioning that I had forgotten to charge my camera battery and my battery died sometime before climbing the steps at Quirigua.
After we had gotten our fill of the ruins, we made our way to a little truck stop of a town called Morales. We ate lunch at the counter at a lunch place. Since we had lots of time left before we needed to be back in Antigua, we decided to take advantage and go and visit Rio Dulce (Sweet River). We get into yet another bus, probably the 8th at this point, and make our way to Rio Dulce. Once we get there, we stopped and had a cup of coffee at what seemed to be an “extranjero” foreigner haven. We got some advice on where to stay and made our way to find that hotel. Of course, yet again, it started pouring. We finally found this place, put our things down and got ready to take on what Rio Dulce had to offer. This is the point at which I really wish I had packed an umbrella.
We walked up to the bridge that spans the river and spent some time there, we tried to find the Rio Dulce National Park—but it turned out to be more of a playground than a National Park. Honestly, I think we missed it somewhere along the way. Then we went back to another pier to check out the water again. The entire time—it was raining. I was sopping wet and perhaps less than enchanted with the water.
The roofs in Rio Dulce are worth mentioning. Many of the houses we saw had roofs that were threaded together with dried corn husks or some other type of material that looks like that. They were threaded together by the thousand to create roofs. Same type that is on the roofs of the little huts that stood over the ruins.
Oriana has more pictures--I'll try to upload more soon. I've got more stuff coming your way tomorrow, gentle reader!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Off to Quirigua!
Oriana and I are off to Quirigua to see some Mayan ruins for the weekend. We're getting back on Saturday night.
Sunday morning Oriana is running a half-marathon with 5 of Filiberto's kids. I will be on the sidelines with a coffee...
Then we're going to a party at Fredy's house. Then girl's soccer.
Looks like it's going to be a jam-packed weekend.
I won't have e-mail access again until Monday. Grandmom Therese--hope you're feeling better!
Sunday morning Oriana is running a half-marathon with 5 of Filiberto's kids. I will be on the sidelines with a coffee...
Then we're going to a party at Fredy's house. Then girl's soccer.
Looks like it's going to be a jam-packed weekend.
I won't have e-mail access again until Monday. Grandmom Therese--hope you're feeling better!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Gringos like to eat Guatemalan children with a little salt
Sunday was another girl’s soccer afternoon. Surprisingly, however, there was no rain. The girls got tired after an hour and started to whine a little. We managed to get them excited again once it looked like a group of boys were going to storm the field.
After the game, we went over to Filiberto’s house to hang out with them. We’re not supposed to have favorites, but I think they’re our favorites. We talked, drank atol (hot drink made with corn, cinnamon, and other stuff), and laughed.
Filiberto was telling us all about failed development projects in the community. There was one particularly horrifying story, I haven’t fact-checked this one folks, but it sounds plausible. There was an “orphanage” down the street from our house. Families would leave their kids with the folks at the orphanage when they couldn’t afford to feed them, clothe them, etc. Families were allowed visitation rights. Eventually, families all started to receive the same bad news. A parent would show up for their visitation day, and the folks at the orphanage would tell them that they were terribly sorry, but their child had been very sick and died. They would assure the family that the medical and funeral expenses would be covered by the orphanage. Having virtually no education and even less in the way of money, parents would leave dismayed with little know-how about how to press the issue.
Filiberto says that a few years later, the local municipality decided they were kicking the orphanage off the land to create a hotel. When they started construction, they found dozens of bodies that had been mutilated. Apparently, the orphanage had been harvesting the childrens’ organs and selling them on the black market.
Appalled, Oriana and I didn’t really know what to say. I sympathized that no wonder Guatemalans were nervous around foreigners. Filiberto told us an even funnier one. Apparently parents here tell their children not to run in the street. If they do run in the street, a gringo (white person/foreigner) will eat them.
As a joke, alluding to this same myth, a recent tour participant had walked up to Herson
, Filiberto’s 3 year old grandson, and told him that he liked to eat little Guatemalan children with a little salt. Herson didn’t flinch, he thought it was funny. Not even ten minutes after we finished this story, Herson came out to say goodnight to everyone. And to me he said: “Buenas noches, gringa. Voy a dormir ahora.” (Good night, white girl. I’m going to sleep now.) As he said this, he lowered his head. Filiberto told me to put my hand on his head—it’s a sign of respect that little kids are supposed to show to their elders. Herson stood there until I put my hand on his head and said goodnight. He repeated the same thing for Oriana, Filiberto, and Maria Elena.
I don’t understand how foreigners can exploit a population that is so kind and so willing to let us into their lives. I’m hoping that our work will show at least a few Guatemalans that some foreigners just want to help.
After the game, we went over to Filiberto’s house to hang out with them. We’re not supposed to have favorites, but I think they’re our favorites. We talked, drank atol (hot drink made with corn, cinnamon, and other stuff), and laughed.
Filiberto was telling us all about failed development projects in the community. There was one particularly horrifying story, I haven’t fact-checked this one folks, but it sounds plausible. There was an “orphanage” down the street from our house. Families would leave their kids with the folks at the orphanage when they couldn’t afford to feed them, clothe them, etc. Families were allowed visitation rights. Eventually, families all started to receive the same bad news. A parent would show up for their visitation day, and the folks at the orphanage would tell them that they were terribly sorry, but their child had been very sick and died. They would assure the family that the medical and funeral expenses would be covered by the orphanage. Having virtually no education and even less in the way of money, parents would leave dismayed with little know-how about how to press the issue.
Filiberto says that a few years later, the local municipality decided they were kicking the orphanage off the land to create a hotel. When they started construction, they found dozens of bodies that had been mutilated. Apparently, the orphanage had been harvesting the childrens’ organs and selling them on the black market.
Appalled, Oriana and I didn’t really know what to say. I sympathized that no wonder Guatemalans were nervous around foreigners. Filiberto told us an even funnier one. Apparently parents here tell their children not to run in the street. If they do run in the street, a gringo (white person/foreigner) will eat them.
As a joke, alluding to this same myth, a recent tour participant had walked up to Herson
, Filiberto’s 3 year old grandson, and told him that he liked to eat little Guatemalan children with a little salt. Herson didn’t flinch, he thought it was funny. Not even ten minutes after we finished this story, Herson came out to say goodnight to everyone. And to me he said: “Buenas noches, gringa. Voy a dormir ahora.” (Good night, white girl. I’m going to sleep now.) As he said this, he lowered his head. Filiberto told me to put my hand on his head—it’s a sign of respect that little kids are supposed to show to their elders. Herson stood there until I put my hand on his head and said goodnight. He repeated the same thing for Oriana, Filiberto, and Maria Elena.I don’t understand how foreigners can exploit a population that is so kind and so willing to let us into their lives. I’m hoping that our work will show at least a few Guatemalans that some foreigners just want to help.
Dancing and Motorcycles
While Oriana played soccer, I spent Saturday afternoon writing to document the last week. Yes, gentle reader, you already read those entries.
We ate more leftovers from Friday night—thanks to our mini-fridge. Then we hung around and made plans with some friends to go dancing again. We got into Antigua and met up with one of our friends—he has a motorcycle. But, the club we were going to was a bit of a walk.
In essence, I was peer-pressured into being the third butt on a medium-sized motorcycle. If I’d ever been on a motorcycle before, perhaps this would have been a less uncomfortable experience. The entire ride, my ample tush was falling off the seat. Eventually, I ended up sitting on the back tire for most of the ride. I was thrilled when we arrived at the club.
We had a great time dancing. I need some serious dancing lessons though. The folks here are serious about their dancing—and I’m not the best at following the moves. In the month or so that we’ve been here, I haven’t really learned how to salsa, cumbia, or merengue. Hopefully, we’ll be able to fit that into the schedule in the next couple of weeks.
Anyhow, it was a good time. Two of our friends with bikes offered to take us home—and we were happy with that too, because they’d save us the cab fare. By the way, riding second butt is far more comfortable.
We ate more leftovers from Friday night—thanks to our mini-fridge. Then we hung around and made plans with some friends to go dancing again. We got into Antigua and met up with one of our friends—he has a motorcycle. But, the club we were going to was a bit of a walk.
In essence, I was peer-pressured into being the third butt on a medium-sized motorcycle. If I’d ever been on a motorcycle before, perhaps this would have been a less uncomfortable experience. The entire ride, my ample tush was falling off the seat. Eventually, I ended up sitting on the back tire for most of the ride. I was thrilled when we arrived at the club.
We had a great time dancing. I need some serious dancing lessons though. The folks here are serious about their dancing—and I’m not the best at following the moves. In the month or so that we’ve been here, I haven’t really learned how to salsa, cumbia, or merengue. Hopefully, we’ll be able to fit that into the schedule in the next couple of weeks.
Anyhow, it was a good time. Two of our friends with bikes offered to take us home—and we were happy with that too, because they’d save us the cab fare. By the way, riding second butt is far more comfortable.
Jade and Planning for Quirigua
On Friday night, we had made plans with Francisco, the jade artist, to go to his place and work on our pieces again. So, we started walking there around 8:30 AM on Saturday. We walked through the town in between our two villages, San Pedro, and waited to catch a bus up the substantial hill to San Juan del Obispo.
We arrived at Francisco’s a little after 9 AM. I think time just flies in his house. You can easily spend 8 hours there and not realize where the time went. His wife, Odelia, and daughter, Rosita, are so nice. Francisco is one of those folks you want to talk to for hours. He knows so much and virtually everything he says is uber-interesting.
We worked until about 1:30 PM. I finished my piece and began thinking about a second. Oriana had finished hers before me and was already working on the engraved on her second piece. Oriana had made plans to get a soccer lesson from one of Filiberto’s sons at 2:30 PM. So, as we started to get our things together—Francisco got us to agree to a cup of coffee and fried plantains before we left. Who can say no to fried plantains? Or coffee?
We talked about lots of stuff, but mostly we planned our trip to Quirigua. When we first arrived in Guatemala and were contemplating where we’d travel, Franklin mentioned that if we were going to make this trip, it was one that we should get Francisco to come with us. Francisco knows tons about Mayan civilization—and Quirigua has lots of Mayan ruins. So, the plan is to go this coming weekend. Oriana and I have already started our course of malaria pills in anticipation. And even cooler, Francisco’s daughter, Rosita, is going to come with us. I, ever the bad influence, suggested that maybe we could write her a note and get her excused from school. As far as I’m concerned, she’ll probably learn more this weekend than she would at school on Friday.
Should be exciting!
We arrived at Francisco’s a little after 9 AM. I think time just flies in his house. You can easily spend 8 hours there and not realize where the time went. His wife, Odelia, and daughter, Rosita, are so nice. Francisco is one of those folks you want to talk to for hours. He knows so much and virtually everything he says is uber-interesting.
We worked until about 1:30 PM. I finished my piece and began thinking about a second. Oriana had finished hers before me and was already working on the engraved on her second piece. Oriana had made plans to get a soccer lesson from one of Filiberto’s sons at 2:30 PM. So, as we started to get our things together—Francisco got us to agree to a cup of coffee and fried plantains before we left. Who can say no to fried plantains? Or coffee?
We talked about lots of stuff, but mostly we planned our trip to Quirigua. When we first arrived in Guatemala and were contemplating where we’d travel, Franklin mentioned that if we were going to make this trip, it was one that we should get Francisco to come with us. Francisco knows tons about Mayan civilization—and Quirigua has lots of Mayan ruins. So, the plan is to go this coming weekend. Oriana and I have already started our course of malaria pills in anticipation. And even cooler, Francisco’s daughter, Rosita, is going to come with us. I, ever the bad influence, suggested that maybe we could write her a note and get her excused from school. As far as I’m concerned, she’ll probably learn more this weekend than she would at school on Friday.
Should be exciting!
The Party--Oriana Turns 25!
On Friday, Oriana and I slept in a little, made some eggs and coffee for breakfast and chatted about the coming day. We arrived at work and the internet was down for no apparent reason. So, we set ourselves to cleaning up the office we work in. It serves as a storage facility of sorts for random junk, coffee that can’t be sold, and packaging supplies. That project took us about 3 hours. Then we did a few other quick things and headed off to drop extra items at our house and made our way over to Daniel’s house.
When we arrived, party planning was already underway. Rented chairs (we footed the bill for this also) were already in the house and tables were being set. Angelica, the oldest, was arranging flowers for centerpieces. I had mentioned to Maria that I wanted to sneak away to buy a cake for dessert. After all the chopping for various dishes was done, yeah, that includes more onions, Angelica and I snuck out to walk down the road to buy cakes at the good bakery. It was a bit of a hike since the closer bakery was closed. And, of course, it started to rain. So, on the way back, we had to stop a couple of times so I could wipe the water off my glasses. I was already paranoid about tripping and dropping the cake I was holding (I bought two, one wouldn’t have fed everyone).
Once we got back to the house, we hid the cakes and I dispatched a couple of the younger kids to buy candles. When I got back, Maria asked me to run over and grab Maria Elena, Filiberto’s wife, to help make tortillas and finish the cooking.
Making tortillas is really difficult, by the way. When I was here over spring break, we visited a women’s cooperative in a village called Santiago Zamora. The women there made us food and I asked if we could learn to make tortillas. The women there commented that in Guatemala, if you can’t make tortillas, you aren’t going to get married. Apparently, some of the villages create a mini-test for women before they get married. The bride-to-be is expected to make tortillas for the groom-to-be and his family. That way they know whether the bride-to-be will make a good wife or not—and more precisely, whether or not she’ll be able to feed her husband.
So, I ran over to Filiberto’s house to make sure that Maria Elena was planning to come and help. I ended up waiting and we walked over together. While I was waiting for her to finish getting ready, I chatted with her grandson, Herson, who is three years old and possibly the cutest little kid on Earth. I taught him how to do smooth and solid! (The folks on the Clark/Smith side would be proud!)
Maria Elena and I made our way back to Daniel’s house, where the other Maria was waiting for us to get started with the tortillas. Mine, not totally surprisingly, were not entirely round and there were quite a few with holes. Apparently, I’m not getting married any time soon—at least not to a Guatemalan.
A note about Guatemalan kitchens—everyone here uses wood stoves. Wood stoves produce serious amounts of heat and even more serious amounts of smoke. Women here often get eye infections because of all the smoke they have to deal with on a daily basis. While we were making tortillas, all the other pots of food were on the flame and I had to walk out of the kitchen a couple of times to rest my eyes.
Then we finished with the food preparation—and began to prep plates and silverware. We washed bowls, mugs for coffee, and spoons—enough for forty people. The female camaraderie in the kitchen brought back memories of cooking and cleaning with folks at my Grandma Julia’s old house—and more recently at my Grandma Velma’s and Aunt Cicely’s apartments.
The rain continued to come down, but so did the party guests. Who wouldn’t enjoy coming over for some free dinner? We were thirty plus folks when we started bringing out plates of food—and everyone was doing what folks with good food do—eating, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company.
Oriana was a little worried that no one would come to her party. On the contrary, I think the showing is an indication of how comfortable we’ve come to feel with families here. They treat us like family here—that is if you had family that didn’t speak your language and don’t look so much like you—but family all the same. I think we’re slightly abnormal volunteers here since we are only here for a short time, we’re trying to soak up every minute—and trying to spend our free time with the families that we know.
As folks started to finish their food, the clan of small children helped me stick candles in one of the cakes and find matches. Then, we brought the cakes out and three of the kids covered Oriana’s eyes while we tried to light all twenty-some candles. She was complaining that she couldn’t breath—what a wimp.
So, in keeping with the previous night, Byron and Guillermo were the evening’s photographers—we have lots of very crooked pictures, others are dark and you can’t discern features. But, they did an excellent job with capturing the cake, blowing out the candles, and the look on Oriana’s face when the kids let her see what was happening. Best yet, the thirty plus folks plowed through a terrible rendition of “Happy Birthday” in English, then through it in Spanish, and continued on with “Las Mañanitas.” After that, it was a roaring climax of “Ya Queremos Pastel” which means “We want cake already!”
There was enough cake for folks to get American-sized slices and some of the kids got seconds too. Everyone seemed to really have a ball. Then a bunch of the kids, Oriana, and I got up to dance. The adults (everyone over 40), thought that was hysterical and turned their seats around to jeer, laugh, and watch us.
Slowly, but surely, folks started to trickle out and eventually it was just Daniel’s kids and us dancing until 10 PM. We cleaned things up, stacked the chairs, washed what hadn’t been washed, and collected our doggie bag of food to take home (lunch and dinner the next two days).
We thanked Daniel and Maria profusely and made our way back to the house. Daniel and Maria were planning to be up at 4 AM to finish making the 400 tamales for their normal Saturday orders.
I think Oriana had a birthday worth remembering—it was certainly a good time!
When we arrived, party planning was already underway. Rented chairs (we footed the bill for this also) were already in the house and tables were being set. Angelica, the oldest, was arranging flowers for centerpieces. I had mentioned to Maria that I wanted to sneak away to buy a cake for dessert. After all the chopping for various dishes was done, yeah, that includes more onions, Angelica and I snuck out to walk down the road to buy cakes at the good bakery. It was a bit of a hike since the closer bakery was closed. And, of course, it started to rain. So, on the way back, we had to stop a couple of times so I could wipe the water off my glasses. I was already paranoid about tripping and dropping the cake I was holding (I bought two, one wouldn’t have fed everyone).
Once we got back to the house, we hid the cakes and I dispatched a couple of the younger kids to buy candles. When I got back, Maria asked me to run over and grab Maria Elena, Filiberto’s wife, to help make tortillas and finish the cooking.
Making tortillas is really difficult, by the way. When I was here over spring break, we visited a women’s cooperative in a village called Santiago Zamora. The women there made us food and I asked if we could learn to make tortillas. The women there commented that in Guatemala, if you can’t make tortillas, you aren’t going to get married. Apparently, some of the villages create a mini-test for women before they get married. The bride-to-be is expected to make tortillas for the groom-to-be and his family. That way they know whether the bride-to-be will make a good wife or not—and more precisely, whether or not she’ll be able to feed her husband.
So, I ran over to Filiberto’s house to make sure that Maria Elena was planning to come and help. I ended up waiting and we walked over together. While I was waiting for her to finish getting ready, I chatted with her grandson, Herson, who is three years old and possibly the cutest little kid on Earth. I taught him how to do smooth and solid! (The folks on the Clark/Smith side would be proud!)
Maria Elena and I made our way back to Daniel’s house, where the other Maria was waiting for us to get started with the tortillas. Mine, not totally surprisingly, were not entirely round and there were quite a few with holes. Apparently, I’m not getting married any time soon—at least not to a Guatemalan.
A note about Guatemalan kitchens—everyone here uses wood stoves. Wood stoves produce serious amounts of heat and even more serious amounts of smoke. Women here often get eye infections because of all the smoke they have to deal with on a daily basis. While we were making tortillas, all the other pots of food were on the flame and I had to walk out of the kitchen a couple of times to rest my eyes.
Then we finished with the food preparation—and began to prep plates and silverware. We washed bowls, mugs for coffee, and spoons—enough for forty people. The female camaraderie in the kitchen brought back memories of cooking and cleaning with folks at my Grandma Julia’s old house—and more recently at my Grandma Velma’s and Aunt Cicely’s apartments.
The rain continued to come down, but so did the party guests. Who wouldn’t enjoy coming over for some free dinner? We were thirty plus folks when we started bringing out plates of food—and everyone was doing what folks with good food do—eating, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company.
Oriana was a little worried that no one would come to her party. On the contrary, I think the showing is an indication of how comfortable we’ve come to feel with families here. They treat us like family here—that is if you had family that didn’t speak your language and don’t look so much like you—but family all the same. I think we’re slightly abnormal volunteers here since we are only here for a short time, we’re trying to soak up every minute—and trying to spend our free time with the families that we know.As folks started to finish their food, the clan of small children helped me stick candles in one of the cakes and find matches. Then, we brought the cakes out and three of the kids covered Oriana’s eyes while we tried to light all twenty-some candles. She was complaining that she couldn’t breath—what a wimp.
So, in keeping with the previous night, Byron and Guillermo were the evening’s photographers—we have lots of very crooked pictures, others are dark and you can’t discern features. But, they did an excellent job with capturing the cake, blowing out the candles, and the look on Oriana’s face when the kids let her see what was happening. Best yet, the thirty plus folks plowed through a terrible rendition of “Happy Birthday” in English, then through it in Spanish, and continued on with “Las Mañanitas.” After that, it was a roaring climax of “Ya Queremos Pastel” which means “We want cake already!”
There was enough cake for folks to get American-sized slices and some of the kids got seconds too. Everyone seemed to really have a ball. Then a bunch of the kids, Oriana, and I got up to dance. The adults (everyone over 40), thought that was hysterical and turned their seats around to jeer, laugh, and watch us.
Slowly, but surely, folks started to trickle out and eventually it was just Daniel’s kids and us dancing until 10 PM. We cleaned things up, stacked the chairs, washed what hadn’t been washed, and collected our doggie bag of food to take home (lunch and dinner the next two days).
We thanked Daniel and Maria profusely and made our way back to the house. Daniel and Maria were planning to be up at 4 AM to finish making the 400 tamales for their normal Saturday orders.
I think Oriana had a birthday worth remembering—it was certainly a good time!
Prepping for a Feast
On Thursday, we had another English class at Filiberto’s. We played a game for the first part and in honor of Oriana’s birthday, we learned the months of the year—and they already know numbers, so we learned how to tell folks when their birthdays are.
Per our arrangement with Daniel’s family, right after class, we went over to his house to begin preparing everything for the dinner on Friday. We paid for all the ingredients to cook the dinner. We were making “estufado.” Estufado is a beef stew—the meat cooks for 24 hours, not unlike cholent. Along with the estufado, we made rice and a salad—which is more like potato salad. The two younger boys, Guillermo and Byron, had a field day taking pictures and documenting the evening.
We cut up a variety of veggies, potatoes, and Maria, Daniel’s wife, cut the meat for the stew. We had a ball cooking there. We took turns crying when we chopped onions—we chopped lots of them. Daniel has nine children, five girls and four boys. Most of his girls have been coming to play soccer with us and Byron, Guillermo, and Delia have been coming to our English classes.
After Maria felt like we had prepared as much as necessary for Friday’s party, they invited us to eat dinner with their family. They ate black beans, cheese, and tortillas, or other bread and coffee. I love coffee with dinner, but the caffeine doesn’t do me any favors at that hour. Also, just as an aside, the cheese in Guatemala leaves something to be desired. We haven’t eaten a whole lot of it, but what we have eaten hasn’t been fantastic. That said, the cheese we ate at Daniel’s was good. Maybe we just aren’t buying the right type of cheese.
With eleven people, plus the two of us, you’d think there would be conversation at dinner—nope. There was a good 10 minutes of silence while people ate. It was a little awkward—and eventually I said I thought we needed a joke or two. That at least broke the silence—then folks started talking, laughing, and dinner felt like it should in a big family.
Everyone in Daniel’s family was falling asleep at the table and so Oriana and I excused ourselves, thanked our hosts and went back home.
We were scheduled to start preparations again at Friday at 2 PM.
Per our arrangement with Daniel’s family, right after class, we went over to his house to begin preparing everything for the dinner on Friday. We paid for all the ingredients to cook the dinner. We were making “estufado.” Estufado is a beef stew—the meat cooks for 24 hours, not unlike cholent. Along with the estufado, we made rice and a salad—which is more like potato salad. The two younger boys, Guillermo and Byron, had a field day taking pictures and documenting the evening.
We cut up a variety of veggies, potatoes, and Maria, Daniel’s wife, cut the meat for the stew. We had a ball cooking there. We took turns crying when we chopped onions—we chopped lots of them. Daniel has nine children, five girls and four boys. Most of his girls have been coming to play soccer with us and Byron, Guillermo, and Delia have been coming to our English classes.
After Maria felt like we had prepared as much as necessary for Friday’s party, they invited us to eat dinner with their family. They ate black beans, cheese, and tortillas, or other bread and coffee. I love coffee with dinner, but the caffeine doesn’t do me any favors at that hour. Also, just as an aside, the cheese in Guatemala leaves something to be desired. We haven’t eaten a whole lot of it, but what we have eaten hasn’t been fantastic. That said, the cheese we ate at Daniel’s was good. Maybe we just aren’t buying the right type of cheese.
With eleven people, plus the two of us, you’d think there would be conversation at dinner—nope. There was a good 10 minutes of silence while people ate. It was a little awkward—and eventually I said I thought we needed a joke or two. That at least broke the silence—then folks started talking, laughing, and dinner felt like it should in a big family.
Everyone in Daniel’s family was falling asleep at the table and so Oriana and I excused ourselves, thanked our hosts and went back home.
We were scheduled to start preparations again at Friday at 2 PM.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Party Planning and Buena Vista Corazon
Oriana’s birthday is on Friday (7/11) and we had been wracking our brains for what to do. We talked about holding the party at our house. Here’s our inventory: we have four chairs, two forks, two spoons, one medium frying pan, one pot and 4 plates and 4 bowls. Seriously, I’m not sure what kinda party we’d have been able to pull off.
In our chats with farmers and their families, Daniel’s wife, Maria, immediately offered to host the party at her house—and help us cook. It was a huge relief for us. We, of course, financed the cooking, and chair rental. So, we worked it out and the party was set for Friday at 6 pm.
In the same conversation, Maria gave us some of her AWESOME tamales. Here in Guatemala, tamales are wrapped in a banana/plantain leaves instead of corn husks. Maria sells some 400 tamales every Saturday.
We invited Angelica, Daniel’s oldest (she's 22), out with us to go see Buena Vista Corazon. Buena Vista Corazon is the band of Ignacio something or other. Ignacio, was a famous singer in the Buena Vista Social Club—he lives here in Antigua. And plays gigs three times per week. We’d invited Angelica to come out with us before—but I think she was scared. This time she accepted, and we planned to meet up in a little while to catch a van downtown.
Then we stopped home and ate a tamale each. I got one with a little bit of pork in it—it was tasty. Oriana kept complaining that hers was spicy. I didn’t believe her. Then she spit out part of a very spicy chile. I said to drink some milk. That helped a little, but then she proceeded to run up the street to the bakery to buy some bread. It might not sound funny—but it was. Especially given that I like chile (spicy stuff) and she doesn’t. I probably would have enjoyed the chile tamale, where her lips were burning for the next 20 minutes.
Oriana calmed down and Angelica came over. We headed into Antigua and walked over to Studio 35—a bar I didn’t think I would like—but it’s a cool space. We got there a little early, but all the good tables were already taken. So, we settled in at a table towards the back of the room with the stage, ordered drinks and chatted.
After a while, the band started—we had seen Ignacio on the way into the bar. He was wearing a shirt with his name on it. I guess everyone’s approach to marketing oneself is a little different.
The music was fantastic and people were getting up and dancing. There were some professional dancers—or just very talented. I’m not sure I can distinguish between the two. They were dancing way better than I would be able to—even if I took lessons. I hadn’t been to a place with live music since living in Los Angeles, so this was a treat.
I think one of the most interesting parts of the evening was people watching. The bar was packed with foreigners. I’m starting to develop disdain for people who travel and can’t speak the language. Americans tend to be the worst type of travelers. It seems that Americans expect that people all around the world speak English. That just ain’t the case. Also, it seems that all that travelling Americans want to do is drink and eat food. It is becoming painfully obvious that of the previous Americans our neighbors have met, very few of them want to learn about Guatemalan culture and food.
Americans walked into the bar and looked for empty tables, just like we did, and then stood right in front of our table, blocking our view. Eventually, a flock of Americans walked into the bar and we realized this was our tour group from Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday’s tour group were high school students from Santa Cruz, CA. They were a fantastic tour group—asking tons of questions and sorting coffee like professionals, albeit significantly slower. They were the first tour that Oriana and I did by ourselves—and so I think there was a little more attachment. Anyhow, since there weren’t anymore seats, they kinda crowded around our table. Oriana and Angelica went to dance and I held down the fort.
After the second set, Angelica looked like she was going to pass out. Most of the farmers’ families wake up between 4 AM and 5 AM everyday—so it’s no wonder that at 10 PM, she was exhausted. We said goodbye to our Tuesday tour group and made our way back to San Miguel Escobar.
In our chats with farmers and their families, Daniel’s wife, Maria, immediately offered to host the party at her house—and help us cook. It was a huge relief for us. We, of course, financed the cooking, and chair rental. So, we worked it out and the party was set for Friday at 6 pm.
In the same conversation, Maria gave us some of her AWESOME tamales. Here in Guatemala, tamales are wrapped in a banana/plantain leaves instead of corn husks. Maria sells some 400 tamales every Saturday.
We invited Angelica, Daniel’s oldest (she's 22), out with us to go see Buena Vista Corazon. Buena Vista Corazon is the band of Ignacio something or other. Ignacio, was a famous singer in the Buena Vista Social Club—he lives here in Antigua. And plays gigs three times per week. We’d invited Angelica to come out with us before—but I think she was scared. This time she accepted, and we planned to meet up in a little while to catch a van downtown.
Then we stopped home and ate a tamale each. I got one with a little bit of pork in it—it was tasty. Oriana kept complaining that hers was spicy. I didn’t believe her. Then she spit out part of a very spicy chile. I said to drink some milk. That helped a little, but then she proceeded to run up the street to the bakery to buy some bread. It might not sound funny—but it was. Especially given that I like chile (spicy stuff) and she doesn’t. I probably would have enjoyed the chile tamale, where her lips were burning for the next 20 minutes.
Oriana calmed down and Angelica came over. We headed into Antigua and walked over to Studio 35—a bar I didn’t think I would like—but it’s a cool space. We got there a little early, but all the good tables were already taken. So, we settled in at a table towards the back of the room with the stage, ordered drinks and chatted.
After a while, the band started—we had seen Ignacio on the way into the bar. He was wearing a shirt with his name on it. I guess everyone’s approach to marketing oneself is a little different.
The music was fantastic and people were getting up and dancing. There were some professional dancers—or just very talented. I’m not sure I can distinguish between the two. They were dancing way better than I would be able to—even if I took lessons. I hadn’t been to a place with live music since living in Los Angeles, so this was a treat.
I think one of the most interesting parts of the evening was people watching. The bar was packed with foreigners. I’m starting to develop disdain for people who travel and can’t speak the language. Americans tend to be the worst type of travelers. It seems that Americans expect that people all around the world speak English. That just ain’t the case. Also, it seems that all that travelling Americans want to do is drink and eat food. It is becoming painfully obvious that of the previous Americans our neighbors have met, very few of them want to learn about Guatemalan culture and food.
Americans walked into the bar and looked for empty tables, just like we did, and then stood right in front of our table, blocking our view. Eventually, a flock of Americans walked into the bar and we realized this was our tour group from Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday’s tour group were high school students from Santa Cruz, CA. They were a fantastic tour group—asking tons of questions and sorting coffee like professionals, albeit significantly slower. They were the first tour that Oriana and I did by ourselves—and so I think there was a little more attachment. Anyhow, since there weren’t anymore seats, they kinda crowded around our table. Oriana and Angelica went to dance and I held down the fort.
After the second set, Angelica looked like she was going to pass out. Most of the farmers’ families wake up between 4 AM and 5 AM everyday—so it’s no wonder that at 10 PM, she was exhausted. We said goodbye to our Tuesday tour group and made our way back to San Miguel Escobar.
Typing for Success!
Don Timoteo is the coolest. We’ve been helping Timoteo and Filiberto learn how to use the computer. Timoteo is about 15 years younger. Filiberto says that there’s always something new to learn. He plans to continue learning until he’s 80. Well, for Filiberto, learning to use the “compu” at 57 is indeed a challenge. Timoteo has taken to typing much like the way a duck takes to water—he has passed through most of the levels of our internet typing program. He’s learned most of the keyboard too. So, when he gets the point where he doesn’t need to use the program anymore, we’re going to start writing e-mails. All the farmers with AGAIG have e-mail addresses—they just don’t have much time in their lives for this type of stuff. But, it is amazing what people can learn to do. I haven’t given up on Filiberto—the competition Timoteo is giving him might just push him forward.
Location, location, location!
In other news, I had to turn my first kid away from English class tonight. We have a lot of kids that are already coming regularly. But, I had to draw the line with a kid that can’t read yet. He’s still young, so I didn’t feel quite as bad. If he can’t read, he won’t follow the worksheets we’ve created—and ultimately will drain attention from kids who might actually learn.
In an effort to try to remain as inclusive as possible, we moved our class this week. We used to hold the classes in our house. Then kids from families we didn’t know started to knock on the door and ask when the next English class was. We had a conversation about this with two of the farmers. I expressed concerns about security—kids that were showing up have older brothers that hang on the corner. I trust the older brothers as far as I can throw them—which isn’t much.
So, in this conversation, we talked about moving the class to the church or the municipal building, or even borrowing a hallway at the school. We planned to go with Filiberto and Timoteo to talk to the folks at the church to arrange space. Then the next day they came back to us with a different plan—we would hold the class at Filiberto’s house and that way he could take note of which kids were coming and help out if we got any rowdy kids. Personally, I think he wanted to stick around for the extra English class.
Our first English class at Filiberto’s went fantastically. We have a lot less light there, but there were enough seats for everyone and we sat around a table. At our house, we were all in a circle on the floor.
More structure breeds better attention. We played a game this time and they were leaning forward in their seats the whole time.
It is so refreshing to be in a teaching situation where kids are there to learn. Unlike soccer, these kids show up without us having to round them up. And when they see us in the street, they are constantly asking when the next class is, even if they already know. Although, even for soccer, the kids have been rounding us up lately.
In an effort to try to remain as inclusive as possible, we moved our class this week. We used to hold the classes in our house. Then kids from families we didn’t know started to knock on the door and ask when the next English class was. We had a conversation about this with two of the farmers. I expressed concerns about security—kids that were showing up have older brothers that hang on the corner. I trust the older brothers as far as I can throw them—which isn’t much.
So, in this conversation, we talked about moving the class to the church or the municipal building, or even borrowing a hallway at the school. We planned to go with Filiberto and Timoteo to talk to the folks at the church to arrange space. Then the next day they came back to us with a different plan—we would hold the class at Filiberto’s house and that way he could take note of which kids were coming and help out if we got any rowdy kids. Personally, I think he wanted to stick around for the extra English class.
Our first English class at Filiberto’s went fantastically. We have a lot less light there, but there were enough seats for everyone and we sat around a table. At our house, we were all in a circle on the floor.
More structure breeds better attention. We played a game this time and they were leaning forward in their seats the whole time.
It is so refreshing to be in a teaching situation where kids are there to learn. Unlike soccer, these kids show up without us having to round them up. And when they see us in the street, they are constantly asking when the next class is, even if they already know. Although, even for soccer, the kids have been rounding us up lately.
Mini-Rant: Pooper Scooper Service Wanted
I spend lots of time looking down at my feet here in Guatemala. Many of you know I don’t have the best sense of balance in the world. In Antigua, sidewalks are at all different levels—you are constantly stepping up and down—and if you don’t pay attention, you’ll trip. In addition, you have to keep an eye out for these concrete windows that are built out into the sidewalk space—they all have iron bars—and they are all about should height. If you aren’t careful, you can walk right into one of them.
In San Miguel Escobar, it’s less about uneven concrete on the streets or cobblestone and more about avoiding dog and horse poop. This is a farming town with loads of stray dogs that do their business everywhere. We have a dog that marks our door. At least it’s only one dog.
And then, of course, there’s horse/mule poop. Trying to avoid stepping in this stuff is like trying to avoid stepping on cracks in the sidewalk in New York City. In essence, very difficult.
As a current resident, I would approve a tax that appropriated money for a town-wide weekly pooper scooper service. But, let’s be real. Most folks here are trying to get both running water and electricity, a flush toilet or concrete walls if they are lucky.
In San Miguel Escobar, it’s less about uneven concrete on the streets or cobblestone and more about avoiding dog and horse poop. This is a farming town with loads of stray dogs that do their business everywhere. We have a dog that marks our door. At least it’s only one dog.
And then, of course, there’s horse/mule poop. Trying to avoid stepping in this stuff is like trying to avoid stepping on cracks in the sidewalk in New York City. In essence, very difficult.
As a current resident, I would approve a tax that appropriated money for a town-wide weekly pooper scooper service. But, let’s be real. Most folks here are trying to get both running water and electricity, a flush toilet or concrete walls if they are lucky.
What a case of the Mondays...(last week)
On Monday, we started off the day a little weird. You could have said we had a "case of the Mondays." (Watch Office Space for the reference) We only had one of the keys to the office—and when Franklin’s computer is off and the office locked—we have no internet and no access to the network files. We had very little to do.
Franklin finally called in, but it was to run up to the town square to meet up with a tour group to stall them until Franklin could get there. The tour group was sort of a motley crew. Anyhow, I met up with the tour group, started talking and led them to the first house we’d be visiting. Then just as I was going to start stalling by talking about the family a little, Franklin showed up with Kristen, the woman that I translated for the previous week. Once Franklin got there, I was getting ready to walk back to the office but Kristen asked if I could stick around and help her ask additional questions from the producers. So, I ended up hanging out for the whole tour, translating when appropriate, and helping Angelica make sales.
Once back at the office, it was around 4 pm, I finally ate something. My blood sugar was super low. Then I decided to hang out at the office to post some of my writing from last week. Oriana took the keys and went home because she had a horrible headache. I hung around and helped Jessica a little with the coffee farmers’ English class. On the way back to the house, Filiberto and Maria Benita walked with me. It was kinda lucky because I thought I might never get inside. Oriana must have been in a coma. We banged on the door for a long time. Maybe 15 minutes. Filiberto thought it might be a good idea to throw rocks over the wall. Even though this wasn’t his brightest idea, Filiberto’s the guy you want around in a pinch. Finally, lights were switched on, we banged a little longer and Oriana came to the door.
Franklin finally called in, but it was to run up to the town square to meet up with a tour group to stall them until Franklin could get there. The tour group was sort of a motley crew. Anyhow, I met up with the tour group, started talking and led them to the first house we’d be visiting. Then just as I was going to start stalling by talking about the family a little, Franklin showed up with Kristen, the woman that I translated for the previous week. Once Franklin got there, I was getting ready to walk back to the office but Kristen asked if I could stick around and help her ask additional questions from the producers. So, I ended up hanging out for the whole tour, translating when appropriate, and helping Angelica make sales.
Once back at the office, it was around 4 pm, I finally ate something. My blood sugar was super low. Then I decided to hang out at the office to post some of my writing from last week. Oriana took the keys and went home because she had a horrible headache. I hung around and helped Jessica a little with the coffee farmers’ English class. On the way back to the house, Filiberto and Maria Benita walked with me. It was kinda lucky because I thought I might never get inside. Oriana must have been in a coma. We banged on the door for a long time. Maybe 15 minutes. Filiberto thought it might be a good idea to throw rocks over the wall. Even though this wasn’t his brightest idea, Filiberto’s the guy you want around in a pinch. Finally, lights were switched on, we banged a little longer and Oriana came to the door.
Last Weekend Roundup: July 5-6
On Saturday, Oriana and I had planned to spend the day hanging out with Francisco, AGAIG’s jade artist, and his family. When we showed up, he said “So, what are you going to make today?”
Oriana and I both worked on new pieces. I used the diamond saw first to cut my piece out, and then began the process of sanding it into the right shape. Jade is about a 7 on the hardness scale. The only rocks harder are stones like rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. So, to cut jade, you need to use a diamond saw. Then I spent the rest of the day sanding. You have to sand it forever to get it to the right level of smoothness that you’d see in a jewelry store. I’ll have to go back over there to finish it.
I’m not telling you what the piece is…because it’s a present.
Francisco’s wife, Odelia, made us stop and eat some lunch. We sat down and proceeded to talk about Francisco’s childhood, about Mexican slang that is ruining Guatemalan Spanish, about old folks in the village, and about poverty.
We talked with Francisco about making a trip to the mountains to hunt for jade. That will likely happen in August. We’re planning a trip to see some Mayan ruins in Quirigua in a week or so. We’re hoping Francisco will join us.
We worked some more on the pieces and then had to run to try to catch the last bus back to Antigua. We were meeting Erin and Laura for another AGAIG volunteer’s going away party. So, we hung out at the party for a while and then went to a tucked away club that we’d heard about from locals—we were the only two Americans there. It was kinda nice. We danced a while there and then the club closed down for the evening. We flagged a cab luckily—it was pouring—and were on our way back to San Miguel.
On Sunday, we woke up late, did some laundry and got ready to play soccer up at the cancha. We played for the full two hours. It started to pour and I couldn’t see very well with my glasses wet and foggy. Oriana stayed up at the cancha to play with the boys.
I walked the girls home—we were all sopping wet. The whole time we were walking, the girls were making jokes and each time we dropped one off they would ask if we were playing again next Sunday. They all seem to really enjoy the two hours we’ve carved out for female bonding on the soccer field. Even three weeks ago, these girls were deathly afraid of the ball—they did much better this week and they’ll likely continue to improve.
Oriana and I both worked on new pieces. I used the diamond saw first to cut my piece out, and then began the process of sanding it into the right shape. Jade is about a 7 on the hardness scale. The only rocks harder are stones like rubies, sapphires, and diamonds. So, to cut jade, you need to use a diamond saw. Then I spent the rest of the day sanding. You have to sand it forever to get it to the right level of smoothness that you’d see in a jewelry store. I’ll have to go back over there to finish it.
I’m not telling you what the piece is…because it’s a present.
Francisco’s wife, Odelia, made us stop and eat some lunch. We sat down and proceeded to talk about Francisco’s childhood, about Mexican slang that is ruining Guatemalan Spanish, about old folks in the village, and about poverty.
We talked with Francisco about making a trip to the mountains to hunt for jade. That will likely happen in August. We’re planning a trip to see some Mayan ruins in Quirigua in a week or so. We’re hoping Francisco will join us.
We worked some more on the pieces and then had to run to try to catch the last bus back to Antigua. We were meeting Erin and Laura for another AGAIG volunteer’s going away party. So, we hung out at the party for a while and then went to a tucked away club that we’d heard about from locals—we were the only two Americans there. It was kinda nice. We danced a while there and then the club closed down for the evening. We flagged a cab luckily—it was pouring—and were on our way back to San Miguel.
On Sunday, we woke up late, did some laundry and got ready to play soccer up at the cancha. We played for the full two hours. It started to pour and I couldn’t see very well with my glasses wet and foggy. Oriana stayed up at the cancha to play with the boys.
I walked the girls home—we were all sopping wet. The whole time we were walking, the girls were making jokes and each time we dropped one off they would ask if we were playing again next Sunday. They all seem to really enjoy the two hours we’ve carved out for female bonding on the soccer field. Even three weeks ago, these girls were deathly afraid of the ball—they did much better this week and they’ll likely continue to improve.
Monday, July 7, 2008
July 4th Just Ain't The Same
July 4th isn’t quite the same in a foreign country. It also isn’t a particularly popular day to celebrate here because the U.S. is responsible for the 1954 coup (the Wikipedia entry is actually pretty good) that destabilized Guatemala for the following 42 years.
Folks here are fascinated with the American way of life but it’s only to a certain extent. In any case, we didn’t do too much celebrating. There are fireworks everyday—but that is for a different post.
Things at the office were slow. We had a typing class with a couple of farmers—and then got ourselves together to go into Antigua for dinner. After a certain time, all the shops in San Miguel Escobar are closed and your dinner options are few and far between.
So, we ate at a cheesy tourist spot and watched bad reggaton videos on MTV Tres. Then, we followed blaring music to the central park—there was a band playing—and they weren’t half bad.
While we stood there, there were about 4 different bands that played. Few of them had original songs, but it was almost better that they covered other songs. There were a bunch of One of the bands covered Rihanna’s song “Umbrella”. That was hysterical—it was raining—people had umbrellas out, but of course no one understood the song at all because it was in English.
After that, we went dancing. As soon as I walked into the club, a very tall girl clocked me in between the eyes with her elbow. Luckily I had just taken my glasses off because they were fogging up. Anyway, the blow hurt a lot. I felt like I was going to have a bump or a welt. At least that would have proved that it hurt.
Anyway, we danced for a while. Twenty-something boys are very persistent individuals. It was merengue night, but it was so crowded that it was actually difficult to dance. We left the club, soaked with sweat, and made our way back to San Miguel.
That's how we spent July 4th this year. Hopefully, there'll be a little more fanfare wherever I am next year.
Folks here are fascinated with the American way of life but it’s only to a certain extent. In any case, we didn’t do too much celebrating. There are fireworks everyday—but that is for a different post.
Things at the office were slow. We had a typing class with a couple of farmers—and then got ourselves together to go into Antigua for dinner. After a certain time, all the shops in San Miguel Escobar are closed and your dinner options are few and far between.
So, we ate at a cheesy tourist spot and watched bad reggaton videos on MTV Tres. Then, we followed blaring music to the central park—there was a band playing—and they weren’t half bad.
While we stood there, there were about 4 different bands that played. Few of them had original songs, but it was almost better that they covered other songs. There were a bunch of One of the bands covered Rihanna’s song “Umbrella”. That was hysterical—it was raining—people had umbrellas out, but of course no one understood the song at all because it was in English.
After that, we went dancing. As soon as I walked into the club, a very tall girl clocked me in between the eyes with her elbow. Luckily I had just taken my glasses off because they were fogging up. Anyway, the blow hurt a lot. I felt like I was going to have a bump or a welt. At least that would have proved that it hurt.
Anyway, we danced for a while. Twenty-something boys are very persistent individuals. It was merengue night, but it was so crowded that it was actually difficult to dance. We left the club, soaked with sweat, and made our way back to San Miguel.
That's how we spent July 4th this year. Hopefully, there'll be a little more fanfare wherever I am next year.
Cooking with a Pro
Oriana and I wanted to learn how to make tortillas by hand. We asked Filiberto’s wife, Maria Elena, if she would be so kind as to teach us. The day came—and we asked if we could go to the market with her. The market in Antigua is a pretty intimidating place. I guess, at first, most markets are somewhat hard to take in—especially when one is used to grocery shopping in a super store. Maria Elena said that she’d be going to the market at 6:00 am. When Filiberto came by to tell us what time to be ready—he said that we could go at 7 am. We said we wanted to do things the way she normally does them—and we compromised and set off at 6:30 AM.
We were buying things to make a dish called pepian. Pepian usually includes chicken, a very yummy spiced sauce, and rice with veggies. First of all, going to the market at 6:30 am makes it a lot easier to get around. All the other times we’d been to the market—it had been between 10 am and 3 pm—the busiest times. Maria Elena explained that it’s much easier to get around the market when the stands are just starting to set up, there are far fewer people, everything is fresh and hasn’t been sitting out all day. So, like two novices, we followed her around the market to pick up our ingredients. We picked up a local type of zucchini then tomatoes, cilantro, rice, potatoes, string beans, mil tomatoes (very tiny green tomatoes) and a few other things.
The best part about going to the market with Maria Elena was that we saw parts of the market that tourists would never find, and I think that the locals don’t want the tourists to ruin. There is an entire outdoor section where the owners/farmers set up shop and the produce is often better and cheaper than at the regular stands. Everywhere we turned, someone would ask “Que va a llevar, Chula?”—this basically means “What are you going to buy, honey?”
Maria Elena is a pro when it comes to shopping at the market. Folks know her and she knows that she has to pinch centavos (a centavo is worth less than a penny) to feed her family of 13, actually 15 if her daughter and kids eats with them.
When we left the market and Oriana and I realized we didn’t buy any chicken we were a little nervous. There are always chickens running around the Salazar household, but we feared we would be slaughtering one of them to make our meal. This was especially disturbing because when I was interviewing Maria Benita, Maria Elena’s thirteen year old daughter for the As Green As It Gets website, she listed as one of her skills that she can kill and pluck a chicken in less than ten minutes. So, I voiced this concern on the walk back to the bus—and Maria Elena laughed really hard. She said we’d be buying chicken in San Miguel Escobar (where we live) because it’s fresh and cheap there—and no, we wouldn’t be learning to kill chickens today. Thank goodness.
So, we got back to the house—and we ate breakfast—beans, tortillas, and coffee. The beans were so yummy, and of course, so was the coffee, it’s Filiberto’s.
Maria Elena told us about when she used to sell in the market—and how that was a tough way to try and make your money. They used to sell sweet potatoes, carrots, beans, corn, amongst other things. Now that all of their fields are filled with coffee she said, they don’t have to sell other food items in the market.
Then once breakfast was over—it’s not even 8 am yet, the fun begins. We roast tomatoes, onions, and a couple different types of chile on the comal (cast iron skillet) on an open fire. The fire is made at first with wood. Eventually, we’ve got so many pots, etc. going, that one of the kids brings out a huge basket of dried corn cobs—no corn left—that end up being pretty good tinder.
Then we cut up the veggies. Then Maria Elena hacks apart the chicken, purchased next door, with tremendous force. Chickens here are sold, by weight, and typically with all the internal organs. The last time I purchased chicken, from a different coffee farmer’s wife, Amalia, I politely told her that I would pay what everything weighed, but would she please cut off all the gross stuff for me. Amalia is Miguel’s wife. They used to be in the chicken business—and did well for a long time. Since Tyson chicken has been in town, they have slowly but surely had to switch gears and pay more attention to growing their coffee business.
Maria Elena gives us an internal tour of the chicken carcass—the liver, entrails, heart, amongst other things I didn’t look at very long. The meat and bones got thrown into a giant pot with seasoned water.
Then we took roasted veggies and blended them together. Added that mixture to the seasoned broth, added potatoes. Meanwhile veggies and rice were combined in a separate pot. Then one of the cooler tricks I’ve seen before—Maria Elena didn’t have a lid for the rice pot. She took a piece of plastic trash bag and laid it overtop. The thing melted itself into an almost perfect seal. Now, I know that there are all kinds of fumes, etc. that can come from doing this trick—however, it was pretty cool.
Then the last part was taking corn that had been plucked off the cob upto the grinder. On this trip Maria Benita (13 year old) came with us. She carried her corn on top of her head—she held it there, but most women here can balance it on their head without holding on. So, we arrive at the grinding place and wait in line. There is a younger single woman with jeans on, a mom with multiple kids, a traditionally-dressed grandmom with one baby strapped to her back and two other kids, and one other young looking woman but in traditional dress. So, here’s how this works. There’s a guy that operates the grinder, he pours your corn in and then the machine adds water and out comes masa (ground corn plus water). Masa is a sticky type of dough that is what folks actually use to make their corn tortillas.
I am standing and watching, as the mixture starts to spit out of the dispenser at the bottom, each women has to bend over to collect her masa into a ball. Then once your corn is through, then there’s a moment where you collect up all the little bits, put the giant pile of masa in your tub, and pay the guy manning the grinder. It’s only about 2 Quetzales (about 25 cents US) but I think the price depends on how much you grind.
Anyhow. We walk the masa back to the Salazar house and then things are really rolling. We start to make tortillas. We watched Maria Elena make hers. Hers were round, about the size of your entire hand, and thin. Mine were not quite round, fatter, and about the size of my palm. Eventually, I got a little better. But let’s remember I’m comparing myself to an unreachable standard. Maria Elena has been making tortillas since she was five. Since I don’t know how old she is—Filiberto is 56—I’m going to guess that means there’s 40-50 years of tortilla-making experience that I’m up against. The more upsetting thing was that I dropped three handfulls—those ended up a special treat for the ducks and chickens. Apparently the ducks and chickens know what’s going on when you start making tortillas—they were hovering like vultures over a dead carcass. We had to ask one of their grandchildren, he’s three, to shoo them away. He is very good at his job—even though he often tries to kick them.
While we ate, the older boys joked that they got one of my tortillas. I smiled graciously and mentioned that if they made tortillas they’d probably be worse than mine. The whole family thought that was hysterical.
All in all, the food was fantastic. We ended up serving as the cook’s assistant, than cooks. After folks had eaten, Maria Elena started to tell us about her childhood. This is particularly amazing because Guatemalans don’t really volunteer information. You generally have to ask about thirty questions before they start responding with multiple sentence answers.
Her parents separated and both remarried, she and her sister decided to live with their father, but he couldn’t afford to keep them. When she was 8 or 9, they went to live with a richer family. From what I can tell, they were like live-in maids. She recalled that the mother asked her when her birthday was—she responded with the appropriate date. Low and behold, on her thirteenth birthday, she came into the kitchen to see all types of preparations for a party. She thought to herself, great, they are having a party, I’ll have to clean up after them. Later in the day, the mother called her to the kitchen, Maria Elena thought she was in trouble, and there were children, a cake, and jacks—her favorite game. The group started to sing and she started to cry tears of joy. No one had ever celebrated her birthday before. As she retold this part of the story, tears started to well up in her eyes.
She continued to explain that her childhood was hard and that now she counsels her children before they decide who to marry (2 or 3 are already married) that this is someone you should be spending a lifetime with—and when you have children—you need to make sure you can take responsibility for them. Maria Elena repeats this part again—she never wants her grandchildren to have to grow up the way she did—virtually without parents.
Maria Elena’s childhood, rough even by Guatemalan standards, seems to have made her into a force of a mother, grandmother, and wife. Cut from the same cloth as my great grandmother, Maria Elena is a superwoman in her own right.
It was a real pleasure to spend the day with Maria Elena—and it seems she had fun too. She asked when we could do this again, because she has more to teach us.
We were buying things to make a dish called pepian. Pepian usually includes chicken, a very yummy spiced sauce, and rice with veggies. First of all, going to the market at 6:30 am makes it a lot easier to get around. All the other times we’d been to the market—it had been between 10 am and 3 pm—the busiest times. Maria Elena explained that it’s much easier to get around the market when the stands are just starting to set up, there are far fewer people, everything is fresh and hasn’t been sitting out all day. So, like two novices, we followed her around the market to pick up our ingredients. We picked up a local type of zucchini then tomatoes, cilantro, rice, potatoes, string beans, mil tomatoes (very tiny green tomatoes) and a few other things.
The best part about going to the market with Maria Elena was that we saw parts of the market that tourists would never find, and I think that the locals don’t want the tourists to ruin. There is an entire outdoor section where the owners/farmers set up shop and the produce is often better and cheaper than at the regular stands. Everywhere we turned, someone would ask “Que va a llevar, Chula?”—this basically means “What are you going to buy, honey?”
Maria Elena is a pro when it comes to shopping at the market. Folks know her and she knows that she has to pinch centavos (a centavo is worth less than a penny) to feed her family of 13, actually 15 if her daughter and kids eats with them.
When we left the market and Oriana and I realized we didn’t buy any chicken we were a little nervous. There are always chickens running around the Salazar household, but we feared we would be slaughtering one of them to make our meal. This was especially disturbing because when I was interviewing Maria Benita, Maria Elena’s thirteen year old daughter for the As Green As It Gets website, she listed as one of her skills that she can kill and pluck a chicken in less than ten minutes. So, I voiced this concern on the walk back to the bus—and Maria Elena laughed really hard. She said we’d be buying chicken in San Miguel Escobar (where we live) because it’s fresh and cheap there—and no, we wouldn’t be learning to kill chickens today. Thank goodness.
So, we got back to the house—and we ate breakfast—beans, tortillas, and coffee. The beans were so yummy, and of course, so was the coffee, it’s Filiberto’s.
Maria Elena told us about when she used to sell in the market—and how that was a tough way to try and make your money. They used to sell sweet potatoes, carrots, beans, corn, amongst other things. Now that all of their fields are filled with coffee she said, they don’t have to sell other food items in the market.
Then once breakfast was over—it’s not even 8 am yet, the fun begins. We roast tomatoes, onions, and a couple different types of chile on the comal (cast iron skillet) on an open fire. The fire is made at first with wood. Eventually, we’ve got so many pots, etc. going, that one of the kids brings out a huge basket of dried corn cobs—no corn left—that end up being pretty good tinder.
Then we cut up the veggies. Then Maria Elena hacks apart the chicken, purchased next door, with tremendous force. Chickens here are sold, by weight, and typically with all the internal organs. The last time I purchased chicken, from a different coffee farmer’s wife, Amalia, I politely told her that I would pay what everything weighed, but would she please cut off all the gross stuff for me. Amalia is Miguel’s wife. They used to be in the chicken business—and did well for a long time. Since Tyson chicken has been in town, they have slowly but surely had to switch gears and pay more attention to growing their coffee business.
Maria Elena gives us an internal tour of the chicken carcass—the liver, entrails, heart, amongst other things I didn’t look at very long. The meat and bones got thrown into a giant pot with seasoned water.
Then we took roasted veggies and blended them together. Added that mixture to the seasoned broth, added potatoes. Meanwhile veggies and rice were combined in a separate pot. Then one of the cooler tricks I’ve seen before—Maria Elena didn’t have a lid for the rice pot. She took a piece of plastic trash bag and laid it overtop. The thing melted itself into an almost perfect seal. Now, I know that there are all kinds of fumes, etc. that can come from doing this trick—however, it was pretty cool.
Then the last part was taking corn that had been plucked off the cob upto the grinder. On this trip Maria Benita (13 year old) came with us. She carried her corn on top of her head—she held it there, but most women here can balance it on their head without holding on. So, we arrive at the grinding place and wait in line. There is a younger single woman with jeans on, a mom with multiple kids, a traditionally-dressed grandmom with one baby strapped to her back and two other kids, and one other young looking woman but in traditional dress. So, here’s how this works. There’s a guy that operates the grinder, he pours your corn in and then the machine adds water and out comes masa (ground corn plus water). Masa is a sticky type of dough that is what folks actually use to make their corn tortillas.
I am standing and watching, as the mixture starts to spit out of the dispenser at the bottom, each women has to bend over to collect her masa into a ball. Then once your corn is through, then there’s a moment where you collect up all the little bits, put the giant pile of masa in your tub, and pay the guy manning the grinder. It’s only about 2 Quetzales (about 25 cents US) but I think the price depends on how much you grind.
Anyhow. We walk the masa back to the Salazar house and then things are really rolling. We start to make tortillas. We watched Maria Elena make hers. Hers were round, about the size of your entire hand, and thin. Mine were not quite round, fatter, and about the size of my palm. Eventually, I got a little better. But let’s remember I’m comparing myself to an unreachable standard. Maria Elena has been making tortillas since she was five. Since I don’t know how old she is—Filiberto is 56—I’m going to guess that means there’s 40-50 years of tortilla-making experience that I’m up against. The more upsetting thing was that I dropped three handfulls—those ended up a special treat for the ducks and chickens. Apparently the ducks and chickens know what’s going on when you start making tortillas—they were hovering like vultures over a dead carcass. We had to ask one of their grandchildren, he’s three, to shoo them away. He is very good at his job—even though he often tries to kick them.
While we ate, the older boys joked that they got one of my tortillas. I smiled graciously and mentioned that if they made tortillas they’d probably be worse than mine. The whole family thought that was hysterical.
All in all, the food was fantastic. We ended up serving as the cook’s assistant, than cooks. After folks had eaten, Maria Elena started to tell us about her childhood. This is particularly amazing because Guatemalans don’t really volunteer information. You generally have to ask about thirty questions before they start responding with multiple sentence answers.
Her parents separated and both remarried, she and her sister decided to live with their father, but he couldn’t afford to keep them. When she was 8 or 9, they went to live with a richer family. From what I can tell, they were like live-in maids. She recalled that the mother asked her when her birthday was—she responded with the appropriate date. Low and behold, on her thirteenth birthday, she came into the kitchen to see all types of preparations for a party. She thought to herself, great, they are having a party, I’ll have to clean up after them. Later in the day, the mother called her to the kitchen, Maria Elena thought she was in trouble, and there were children, a cake, and jacks—her favorite game. The group started to sing and she started to cry tears of joy. No one had ever celebrated her birthday before. As she retold this part of the story, tears started to well up in her eyes.
She continued to explain that her childhood was hard and that now she counsels her children before they decide who to marry (2 or 3 are already married) that this is someone you should be spending a lifetime with—and when you have children—you need to make sure you can take responsibility for them. Maria Elena repeats this part again—she never wants her grandchildren to have to grow up the way she did—virtually without parents.
Maria Elena’s childhood, rough even by Guatemalan standards, seems to have made her into a force of a mother, grandmother, and wife. Cut from the same cloth as my great grandmother, Maria Elena is a superwoman in her own right.
It was a real pleasure to spend the day with Maria Elena—and it seems she had fun too. She asked when we could do this again, because she has more to teach us.
What a Week! Part Two
On Tuesday evening, last week, Franklin got a call asking for a translator for Wednesday morning. So, Franklin asked me to go and translate for a contact of ours while she visited another organization. Wednesday morning, I got up very early (6:45 AM) and got myself together and took the bus to Antigua. I got there so early, I had time to get coffee and a bagel. The bagel was not exactly what my stomach had hoped for—and the coffee was not as good as ours (I mean, As Green As It Gets’ coffee) but it did the trick. For a moment, I was able to simulate life in New York. I walked over to the meeting place—only looking at the map once!
Then I met up with a woman, from Global Good Partners, and we were on our way to Santiago Sacatepequez to meet with an organization there.
The point of this story—I have mad Spanish translation skills. When I didn’t understand a word that was used, I asked them to explain what they meant. When I couldn’t come up with the correct verb or noun to use, I explained my way around it.
I was very proud of myself—and I heard through the grapevine, that the woman I was translating for—was happy with my services as well.
More to come...stay tuned.
Then I met up with a woman, from Global Good Partners, and we were on our way to Santiago Sacatepequez to meet with an organization there.
The point of this story—I have mad Spanish translation skills. When I didn’t understand a word that was used, I asked them to explain what they meant. When I couldn’t come up with the correct verb or noun to use, I explained my way around it.
I was very proud of myself—and I heard through the grapevine, that the woman I was translating for—was happy with my services as well.
More to come...stay tuned.
Friday, July 4, 2008
What a Week! Part One
I know, I haven't written all week.
I'm not sure that anyone is actually reading this--so I wasn't feeling particularly loyal to my readers. And, if you are actually reading, then write a comment or something!
Here's the roundup:
Saturday: Lazy Day in Antigua--woke up late, went into Antigua, drank coffee, visited some Cathedral ruins, met up with Francisco and drank some more coffee. Went to the grocery store and came home.
Sunday: Woke up very early--got picked up in a death trap of a pickup truck--and planted trees in San Juan del Obispo. There was such a huge response from the community approximately 40 men were there with their machetes and hoes--that we were finished in about an hour.
Walked back to San Miguel Escobar. Made lunch. Took a nap. At 3 pm it started raining. At 3:20 it stopped raining--and the girls started banging on our door. So, we grabbed the soccer ball and headed up to the cancha (playing field). They played like champions. Only champions that don't exactly know all the rules. We're introducing the rules in a few at a time. One of the kids Guillermo (Daniel's son) was standing on the sidelines with me (Oriana and I are trying to only play if the teams are uneven) and started yelling that the girls needed to throw it in, not kick it. So, I explained our philosophy of slowly, but surely, introducing rules. I told him he could stop coaching now.
It started to pour. The girls wanted to keep playing--and they did for about 15 minutes. Then they decided it was time to let the boys play. I was really impressed that they wanted to keep playing in the rain. Hopefully, it will be as much fun this coming Sunday. This might be the one thing that continues going on even after we leave. With any luck, this will become so much a part of what these girls do that they'll go take over the field by themselves.
Then we made dinner for Franklin and Jessica. Or rather Oriana cooked, I chopped things, and washed dishes. We played a couple of rounds of spades--we will finish next time.
Monday wasn't all that interesting. On Tuesday, we worked, had another English class for kids. Class went relatively well. We are apparently pretty conspicuous in town and we had some new kids knock on the door--they couldn't count in English. And one of them couldn't read. That made it slightly difficult to teach him. But, things worked out relatively well. We're working on a dialogue--I'm not sure they are remembering anything.
Then a couple days earlier, two of the farmers, Filiberto and Timoteo, asked us if we could teach them to use the computer. We did that for about an hour or so after English--and started with an automated typing program to teach them how to navigate the keyboard. Eventually, we'll get them to the point where they can do a Google search, etc. But, the farmers are used to work that includes quite a bit of force. There isn't much in their day that requires fine motor skills. And so, teaching them to move their fingers, somewhat delicately, has been difficult. In one class we were able to get their error percentage down. Oriana made them paper keyboards to take home and practice moving their fingers.
I think that's it for now. Stay tuned for Part Two.
I'm not sure that anyone is actually reading this--so I wasn't feeling particularly loyal to my readers. And, if you are actually reading, then write a comment or something!
Here's the roundup:
Saturday: Lazy Day in Antigua--woke up late, went into Antigua, drank coffee, visited some Cathedral ruins, met up with Francisco and drank some more coffee. Went to the grocery store and came home.
Sunday: Woke up very early--got picked up in a death trap of a pickup truck--and planted trees in San Juan del Obispo. There was such a huge response from the community approximately 40 men were there with their machetes and hoes--that we were finished in about an hour.
Walked back to San Miguel Escobar. Made lunch. Took a nap. At 3 pm it started raining. At 3:20 it stopped raining--and the girls started banging on our door. So, we grabbed the soccer ball and headed up to the cancha (playing field). They played like champions. Only champions that don't exactly know all the rules. We're introducing the rules in a few at a time. One of the kids Guillermo (Daniel's son) was standing on the sidelines with me (Oriana and I are trying to only play if the teams are uneven) and started yelling that the girls needed to throw it in, not kick it. So, I explained our philosophy of slowly, but surely, introducing rules. I told him he could stop coaching now.
It started to pour. The girls wanted to keep playing--and they did for about 15 minutes. Then they decided it was time to let the boys play. I was really impressed that they wanted to keep playing in the rain. Hopefully, it will be as much fun this coming Sunday. This might be the one thing that continues going on even after we leave. With any luck, this will become so much a part of what these girls do that they'll go take over the field by themselves.
Then we made dinner for Franklin and Jessica. Or rather Oriana cooked, I chopped things, and washed dishes. We played a couple of rounds of spades--we will finish next time.
Monday wasn't all that interesting. On Tuesday, we worked, had another English class for kids. Class went relatively well. We are apparently pretty conspicuous in town and we had some new kids knock on the door--they couldn't count in English. And one of them couldn't read. That made it slightly difficult to teach him. But, things worked out relatively well. We're working on a dialogue--I'm not sure they are remembering anything.
Then a couple days earlier, two of the farmers, Filiberto and Timoteo, asked us if we could teach them to use the computer. We did that for about an hour or so after English--and started with an automated typing program to teach them how to navigate the keyboard. Eventually, we'll get them to the point where they can do a Google search, etc. But, the farmers are used to work that includes quite a bit of force. There isn't much in their day that requires fine motor skills. And so, teaching them to move their fingers, somewhat delicately, has been difficult. In one class we were able to get their error percentage down. Oriana made them paper keyboards to take home and practice moving their fingers.
I think that's it for now. Stay tuned for Part Two.
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