Sunday, February 19, 2011
I am up early to pack and do some writing. Sarah was out partying last night so she is still asleep. Max. Marguarite, Joe, Marg, Joanie, Jackie and I had a lovely dinner (mine was Irish stew served by an Italian young man in Guatemala) on an outdoor terrace and then tea while we listened to some Latino music.
My plan is to spend the morning at the Mikaso. When they open at 7:30am I am there. Ans so are three tables full of travelling youth. They are there for coffee. It's WiFi that I am after, although I order the Americana breakfast and eat all my scrambled eggs and bacon. A couple hours later I have a bagel and peanut butter. Now that my innards are functioning properly I am hungry. I've resigned myself to eating wheat from time to time because it is nearly impossible not to when every meal has to be eaten in a restaurant and hygiene is a concern.
Eventually, Sarah and Marguarite trail in.Sarah looks under-the-weather, not from drinking but from thinking. I've felt bad for her, always hanging out with us older people, always being the youngest adult on the project. I know that, as for me, this trip is as much about inner reflection as an outer journey.
She is testy with us. I try to be understanding and give her some space.
Like Sarah, I am not really ready to leave San Pedro. I am enjoying the hippie vibe and the incredible weather. I love being close to the lake. One morning I even took an outdoor meditation class lying on a grass mat and looking up at a canopy of tree tops and an azure blue sky.
Our shuttle to Antigua leaves at 1pm. The tour operator has promised to send a Tuk Tuk to pick us up with all our luggage. But first I want to have one last go around San Pedro. I would love to come back here, but the list of places I want to visit is long, so I know it will likely never happen.
After a quick stop at the Villa del Sol to drop off the computer, I begin walking up a hill leading to all the hustle and bustle of the town. At the top I run into Margaurite who is doing the same thing. I am on a hunt for a cheap pair of flip flops. Mine broke in Xela and they are good to have when you are showering in unfamiliar territory. But really what I am thinking about is a painting I saw a few days earlier.
The painting is by a local artist and done in a style unique to the area. His work is bright and detailed and graphic and incredibly appealing to me. I really don't want to leave here without one, but I don't want to pay the gringo price either. Marg has the same idea.
We get our paintings. (Mine is not for me. It's a surprise!) But I am late. When I get back to the Villa Marg's Tuk Tuk has already left. Sarah has begrudgingly moved my bags down the stairs and we are in a holding pattern until our little Tuk Tuk scurries back to get us. We make it to the shuttle a few minutes late but we get a seat and that's all that matters.
The ride to Antigua is four pretty unpleasant hours. The company is good but the roads are not, and we are crammed into the van like sardines. We are an International menagerie. Up front are two Aussies. We are four Canadians, there are two British youth behind me, a Guatemalan guy next to Sarah, and stove builder's from Maine beside me and in front of Marg.
My stove builder tells me that they build a different stove but it does the same thing -- prevent smoke from killing people. He has been leaving is construction business and coming to Guatemala for a couple of weeks a year for the past nine years. After a while the conversation dies down and we all close our eyes. Mr. stove builder has a guitar on his lap. He strums it annoying. He doesn't actually know how to play, I quickly learn. He is only holding it for the guy in the front seat. Every time he nods off his left arm drops and the guitar slips, knocking me on the head. Yikes!
When we arrive in Antigua Marg talks the driver into dropping us at the Community House on Santa Inez after everyone else is off. Max decides to follow the two British kids to the Black Cat Hostel. He still has a few days to kill before his flight back to Merrickville on the 23rd. He had food poisoning in San Pedro and is only just feeling back to normal. I think is is really missing his young family.
The Community House is the brainchild of Pembroke natives Susan and Richard Schmaltz. They both greet us at the door when we arrive. Susan and Richard are the founders of Oneness, an early childhood education program that aims to give needy Guatemalan children from 2-5 years a love of learning. It is based on a holistic, child-centred philosophy designed by Susan called, "Planting Seeds". Richard is the new Executive Director of an impressive volunteer-driven program at the Guatemala City dunmp where Oneness runs a preschool. It is called Safe Passage. Sarah, Marg and I will volunteer here.
The Community House is unimpressive from the outside. But I have learned not to expect much. There is nothing luxurious about being a volunteer. The House is on a busy road. There is a Shell station next door and a Chinese food place across the street. When the door opens we are in a garage.
But things soon change. There is a wonderfully warm Gautemalan-style home here, complete with flowery inner courtyard, well equiped kitchen and beds with sheets!
I will be sleeping on a bed with sheets! (When I get home I am never ever going to sleep on the couch again!)
Recently Susan and Richard have accepted an apartment in Antigua as part of his new posting. Shirley and Guy, from Renfrew, are the house couple while we are here. They are hosting a "team" of people representing a church in Renfrew. Their group is here building a community centre that they have funded in the village of La Pineda. This is Shirley and Guy's project.
As the night goes on we learn more about this project and the religious connection. This challenges Sarah and I. And teaches us that while questioning is good, and voicing our opinions is acceptabl, it is important not to be judgemental.
The next week inspires some soul searching. It provokes lots of questioning for me around religion and volunteering.
This Mayan Woman has a Story
Building a masonry cookstove for this family was a joy. We heard her story and cried.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Around The Lake and On The Lake
Saturday, February 18, 2011
I wake up feeling settled inside.
Every day here, at one point, I look at my roomie Sarah and say, "I am soooo happy!" And Sarah replies back, "I am sooo happy!"
When I get home I am going to say that more often.
"I am sooooo happy!"
Today is for me!
We--Sarah, Margaurite, Joe, Marg and I take the ferry (which is really just an old boat with benches for seats) across Lake Atitlan to Panajachel. Sarah and Joe have plans to go paragliding. They have called a guide and he will meet them at the dock at noon. It is 9am when we climb into the boat. It is filled to capacity and beyond with a mixed motley crew of gringos (us), traditionally-attired women, a dog, and a relocated American restrauteur sporting army shorts and a pony tail.
Panajachel is the busiest and most built up of the lakeside settlements with a population hovering around 20,000.
Let's start from the beginning.
Boarding the "ferry" is an unceremonious challenge. It is more a climb down that a step in or a hop up. I amaze myself. I am almost agile in the way I sneak my body,head down and numb leg first, over a bench and past the seated folks who stare forward and move to the side only ever so slightly. (In my brain I am repeating over and over, "You can do this! You can do this!")
Margaurite is sitting in front of me, next to Mr. Ponytail. In no particular order, here is the local gossip Mr. Ponytail shares with ourinquisitive but friendly Margaurite:
1.The water level in The Lake is a good 10 feet higher than last year, a precarious position to be in considering that this is the end of the dry season and the start of the rainy season is only weeks away.
2. Guatemala is overdo for an earthquake. This is the calm before the storm.
3. The white elephant spotted from the shore, on the left as we approach Panajachel, is the definition of stupidity. "The next earthquake will take care of that," he says while pointing to the most ludicous of sights --three towers on the edge of The Lake. (A more out of place picture I've rarely seen. Apparently, only one tower has ever been opened and its occupancy rate is about five percent. Guatemala doesn't have anywhere near the tourist draw that would be needed to make a place like that profitable. To attract average tourists this country would need to do some serious road upgrading, clean up the mounds of garbage, deal with the drinking water issue and fix the plumbing problems.)
I need a teensy weensy bit of help off the boat, up onto the dock. (It was high up for this old body! Margaurite did it without assistence and she's only a slight 15 years my senior, but who's counting)
We stroll towards the centre of the village. Narrow sidewalks, cobblestone roads and tienda's behind bars selling pop and junk food make it look like so many of the other villages we have been in. There are lots of Tuk Tuk's. Everyone uses them. But we walk to get a feel for the place. And because Sarah is looking for an ATM. The closer we get to the action the worst the air quality becomes. Guatemalan's like to stop their cars and leave them running. The exhaust from the chicken buses is black. Coming to Guatemala with any type of serious respitory issue-- even to lakeside villages like San Pedro, San Jaun, San Marcos or Panajchel -- might require a sobre second thought.
The ATM we find is a "Cajero 5B". I stand guard while Sarah has a look. ATM's in this country are in little rooms with doors. They might be next to a bank but are rarely in the bank. Banks have armed guards. The guards check you out as you enter. We have been warned to avoid 5B machines because they are often the target of thieves. This one has obviously been tampered with. So we do what all good Canadians do when faced with making a decision...we go across the street to a very civilized looking coffee shop.
The Coffee Shop is a big room with a bookstore called Bus Station Books. I haven't a clue why that name. It wasn't a bus station. And I suppose I will never know because it was closed. Sarah and Marg order coffee. It takes a while to get because the place is really busy with folks having breakfast it seems. Most of the pattrons appear to speak English of one form or another. The two women sitting on wicker chair arrangement next to me are likely American. Marg's guy at the bar is from Texas. The guy I speak to outside in front is from New Zealand. Across from us I hear snippets of the witty banter between a couple that are likely from the UK. Travel is like that. Lots of different people from all over the world having similar experiences at the same time.
Today our experience...this morning at least...is in the colourful village of Panjachel.
It doesn't take long before a pausy of shoe shine boys enters. They can sniff out gringos. And the word gringo in Guatemala is synonomus with money. They walk in peering at shoes. If you are wearing a pair that might hold a lick of polish they are on you like flies to raw meat. Thankfully, men are more often targets.
But we're not off the hook. The old lady and child hawkers are only minutes behind. I say "no gracies" to the old lady. Marg, on the other hand wants to take her pic so she asks the woman. No stranger to this game the old lady requests 5Q for the photo op. Marg pays and gets a pic. I try to sneak in on the deal (shameful, I know) but don't succeed.
I have to contend with a young man who has scarves and braided bracelets to sell. It's the same stuff we have been approaced to buy every day. I feel for this kid though. It is early Saturday morning and he is out on the street approaching tourists trying to make a buck. I figure he is about 11 years old. He tells me that he goes to school and is in grade six. Marg has a theory that they all say they are in grade six. Turns out this kid is 16 years old. I buy two bracelets and give him a few extra Q. He lets me take his pic.
There are way too many disco bars here. It's a flashback to Hull in the early 80's!
We see Mr. Ponytail working behind a big square open air bar. He's doing a BBQ. People are beginning to trickle in with hungry looks in their eyes. We don't have time or the inclination to eat his meat. Afterall, we know that his food came across The Lake in coolers...becuase we were sitting next to them.
We take lots of pics. In fact, we stumble upon a wedding about to start. We also find a grocery-type store run by a British woman that promises "all the things you miss from home". There must be a lot of relocated Americans etc here. We wander the isles. I buy four oatmeal/raisin/molassas cookies that the British lady tells me are baked fresh every day...oh, and a cinniman bun. This food seems "safe" and "safe" food is not always easy to come by.
The Tuk Tuk ride back to the dock is quick. Sarah and Joe meet the guy who is going to take them on a glide from ahigh over The Lake. I giggle to myself because he's not a Guatemalan man. He is from Quebec City. He doesn't speak good Spanish or English!
Marg and I make it to the boat just as it is readying to depart the dock.A handsome young backpacker from San Fransisco offers me his hand as I, even more confidently than before, hop over one bench to get to another further back. He is a Spanish major and a restaurant manager back home. This is more of a week getaway than an extended adventure. He is going to Santa Cruz to take in some sort of celebration scheduled for the evening.
We, on the other hand, are headed to Jaibalito. Well, not the Jaibalito dock. Our stop is the private dock owned by La Casa del Mundo Hotel.
And here is where I fall in love!
No, not with a man! (I've nearly given up on that.) I fall in love with a place; this place drizzling with old world charm and new world personality, with Latin flavour and an international vibe. I fall in love with the possibility of relaxation. Here is where I give myself permission to stop working and thinking. I enjoy.
Margaurite knows this place because she stayed here a few years ago. She has been talking about it, trying to describe it. I figured I would tag along and see what all the fuss was about. She's travelled the world and has high standards so I knew that any place she raves about would have to be pretty special.
At Casa del Mundo I eat lavishly simple. I climb a man-made rock face, steps meandering sideways and upwards to a heavenly view. I occupy my first-ever hammock next to the water, near the sun but out of it. I sleep. I eat homemade Guatemalan chocolate. I sleep.
I am at peace on the boat ride home around 5pm. Even squishing my baby finger between the boat and the dock doesn't take the glow off the day.
Amen!
I wake up feeling settled inside.
Every day here, at one point, I look at my roomie Sarah and say, "I am soooo happy!" And Sarah replies back, "I am sooo happy!"
When I get home I am going to say that more often.
"I am sooooo happy!"
Today is for me!
We--Sarah, Margaurite, Joe, Marg and I take the ferry (which is really just an old boat with benches for seats) across Lake Atitlan to Panajachel. Sarah and Joe have plans to go paragliding. They have called a guide and he will meet them at the dock at noon. It is 9am when we climb into the boat. It is filled to capacity and beyond with a mixed motley crew of gringos (us), traditionally-attired women, a dog, and a relocated American restrauteur sporting army shorts and a pony tail.
Panajachel is the busiest and most built up of the lakeside settlements with a population hovering around 20,000.
Let's start from the beginning.
Boarding the "ferry" is an unceremonious challenge. It is more a climb down that a step in or a hop up. I amaze myself. I am almost agile in the way I sneak my body,head down and numb leg first, over a bench and past the seated folks who stare forward and move to the side only ever so slightly. (In my brain I am repeating over and over, "You can do this! You can do this!")
Margaurite is sitting in front of me, next to Mr. Ponytail. In no particular order, here is the local gossip Mr. Ponytail shares with ourinquisitive but friendly Margaurite:
1.The water level in The Lake is a good 10 feet higher than last year, a precarious position to be in considering that this is the end of the dry season and the start of the rainy season is only weeks away.
2. Guatemala is overdo for an earthquake. This is the calm before the storm.
3. The white elephant spotted from the shore, on the left as we approach Panajachel, is the definition of stupidity. "The next earthquake will take care of that," he says while pointing to the most ludicous of sights --three towers on the edge of The Lake. (A more out of place picture I've rarely seen. Apparently, only one tower has ever been opened and its occupancy rate is about five percent. Guatemala doesn't have anywhere near the tourist draw that would be needed to make a place like that profitable. To attract average tourists this country would need to do some serious road upgrading, clean up the mounds of garbage, deal with the drinking water issue and fix the plumbing problems.)
I need a teensy weensy bit of help off the boat, up onto the dock. (It was high up for this old body! Margaurite did it without assistence and she's only a slight 15 years my senior, but who's counting)
We stroll towards the centre of the village. Narrow sidewalks, cobblestone roads and tienda's behind bars selling pop and junk food make it look like so many of the other villages we have been in. There are lots of Tuk Tuk's. Everyone uses them. But we walk to get a feel for the place. And because Sarah is looking for an ATM. The closer we get to the action the worst the air quality becomes. Guatemalan's like to stop their cars and leave them running. The exhaust from the chicken buses is black. Coming to Guatemala with any type of serious respitory issue-- even to lakeside villages like San Pedro, San Jaun, San Marcos or Panajchel -- might require a sobre second thought.
The ATM we find is a "Cajero 5B". I stand guard while Sarah has a look. ATM's in this country are in little rooms with doors. They might be next to a bank but are rarely in the bank. Banks have armed guards. The guards check you out as you enter. We have been warned to avoid 5B machines because they are often the target of thieves. This one has obviously been tampered with. So we do what all good Canadians do when faced with making a decision...we go across the street to a very civilized looking coffee shop.
The Coffee Shop is a big room with a bookstore called Bus Station Books. I haven't a clue why that name. It wasn't a bus station. And I suppose I will never know because it was closed. Sarah and Marg order coffee. It takes a while to get because the place is really busy with folks having breakfast it seems. Most of the pattrons appear to speak English of one form or another. The two women sitting on wicker chair arrangement next to me are likely American. Marg's guy at the bar is from Texas. The guy I speak to outside in front is from New Zealand. Across from us I hear snippets of the witty banter between a couple that are likely from the UK. Travel is like that. Lots of different people from all over the world having similar experiences at the same time.
Today our experience...this morning at least...is in the colourful village of Panjachel.
It doesn't take long before a pausy of shoe shine boys enters. They can sniff out gringos. And the word gringo in Guatemala is synonomus with money. They walk in peering at shoes. If you are wearing a pair that might hold a lick of polish they are on you like flies to raw meat. Thankfully, men are more often targets.
But we're not off the hook. The old lady and child hawkers are only minutes behind. I say "no gracies" to the old lady. Marg, on the other hand wants to take her pic so she asks the woman. No stranger to this game the old lady requests 5Q for the photo op. Marg pays and gets a pic. I try to sneak in on the deal (shameful, I know) but don't succeed.
I have to contend with a young man who has scarves and braided bracelets to sell. It's the same stuff we have been approaced to buy every day. I feel for this kid though. It is early Saturday morning and he is out on the street approaching tourists trying to make a buck. I figure he is about 11 years old. He tells me that he goes to school and is in grade six. Marg has a theory that they all say they are in grade six. Turns out this kid is 16 years old. I buy two bracelets and give him a few extra Q. He lets me take his pic.
There are way too many disco bars here. It's a flashback to Hull in the early 80's!
We see Mr. Ponytail working behind a big square open air bar. He's doing a BBQ. People are beginning to trickle in with hungry looks in their eyes. We don't have time or the inclination to eat his meat. Afterall, we know that his food came across The Lake in coolers...becuase we were sitting next to them.
We take lots of pics. In fact, we stumble upon a wedding about to start. We also find a grocery-type store run by a British woman that promises "all the things you miss from home". There must be a lot of relocated Americans etc here. We wander the isles. I buy four oatmeal/raisin/molassas cookies that the British lady tells me are baked fresh every day...oh, and a cinniman bun. This food seems "safe" and "safe" food is not always easy to come by.
Marg and I make it to the boat just as it is readying to depart the dock.A handsome young backpacker from San Fransisco offers me his hand as I, even more confidently than before, hop over one bench to get to another further back. He is a Spanish major and a restaurant manager back home. This is more of a week getaway than an extended adventure. He is going to Santa Cruz to take in some sort of celebration scheduled for the evening.
We, on the other hand, are headed to Jaibalito. Well, not the Jaibalito dock. Our stop is the private dock owned by La Casa del Mundo Hotel.
And here is where I fall in love!
No, not with a man! (I've nearly given up on that.) I fall in love with a place; this place drizzling with old world charm and new world personality, with Latin flavour and an international vibe. I fall in love with the possibility of relaxation. Here is where I give myself permission to stop working and thinking. I enjoy.
Margaurite knows this place because she stayed here a few years ago. She has been talking about it, trying to describe it. I figured I would tag along and see what all the fuss was about. She's travelled the world and has high standards so I knew that any place she raves about would have to be pretty special.
At Casa del Mundo I eat lavishly simple. I climb a man-made rock face, steps meandering sideways and upwards to a heavenly view. I occupy my first-ever hammock next to the water, near the sun but out of it. I sleep. I eat homemade Guatemalan chocolate. I sleep.
I am at peace on the boat ride home around 5pm. Even squishing my baby finger between the boat and the dock doesn't take the glow off the day.
Amen!
The boys call it "Squat-a-mala". I start the Sipro.
Thursday and Friday, February 17 & 18, 2011
A couple of weeks ago the 23 people I am travelling with were all strangers. Not even passing acquaintances. Strangers.
Since then we have had conversations about toilet paper( lack of) and bowel movements (abundance of). We have all had cold showers and shivered while scurrying down an outside hall in nothing but a skimpy towel. We have shared clothing when luggage was delayed, shared food when some had and others didn't, and picked up/dropped off each other's clean/dirty clothes to the neighbourhood laundret.
Finally, I admit defeat. I struggle through Thursday by not eating. My theory? Nothing in, nothing out. It works but instead of shitting all day, I simply feel like shit.
After a horrible night on Thursday I get up early Friday and begin taking the Sipro antibiotic. My Ottawa doc gave it to me to bring in the unlikely case that I were to develop an intestinal infection. I was tied to a toilet. Immodium didn't work. My poor body was pleading, "Take the damn medicine already!"
Jackie, Meg, Paul and I take the Sipro. (It was either that or have my family ship me down a container of Cottonelle. Highly unlikely!
Thursday we go to the sprawling Chi Chi Market in Chichicastenango. The road out of San Pedro is brutal. Ok ok, it is the same road we took in, but it feels far worse. I feel quesey but oddly cheerful. Shopping always makes me smile. I attempt to think about something else because imagining that I might "explode" with little warning is giving me a headache.
But my inner whining becomes insignificant when we come upon an serious highway fatality. It looks like a truck trying to navigate the winding downward slope collided with an SUV going up on his side of the road. It must have just happened. The driver's side of the SUV is gone. I've never seen a single person wear a seatbelt here so we assume the driver, at least, has died. Somehow our van driver, Jose, inches by. He stops to get out, as do everyone in the van, except Jim and I. I know my limitations. They are not gone long when they all reappear and we continue our journey, in silence for a while as we process what we have seen. We only discuss with our inner selves.
The mid-day sun is hot when we pull into the guarded market parking lot. Hell, they guard everything here. Coca Cola trucks, like banks, have armed guards. In a place like this, with streets upon streets crammed with "stuff", shopping is a game best enjoyed alone. I accept that it is a solo activity. For the next three hours or so I wonder. Every few feet a seller approaches me -- children with big doe eyes pleasing for money to buy books, old women with woven cloth I haven't got a clue what I would do with, wrinkled old men sell knives and metal gadgets and carved wooden intruments.
"Hey lady," they say "I give you a good deal. How much you give me for this?"
If I play along they will follow me. The name of the game is "Wear the Gringo Down". Some doubting-Thomas place within me wonders if they live in mansions somewhere, with big screen TV's and iPad's at their disposal (I want an iPad!) .
The ChiChi Market is famous amoung tourists for its spending possibilities, and among locals for its money-making opportunities. ChiChi assualts the senses. Its effect is brutal and constant. Today is not a busy market day, yet it is everything I imaged it would be. Down uneven cobblestone streets the smokey smell of fried food, noisey heckles of desperate sellers and unrelenting touch of child hawkers adds to the ambiance of the garbage strewn streets.
From time to time I bump into a fellow GSP volunteer and we joke about, or show off, something we have just purchased. But I am enjoying my solitary wandering. I don't buy much. Alot of what is here is the same as what we see elsewhere. It all confuses me. I feel uncomfortably pressured. In the end, I get a few gifts for Carol's kids and a few woven clothes for me.
At 2pm or so I take the scrunched up paper given to me by the shuttle service and begin looking for Ingleise Santo Tomas. I have this nasty little voice in my head that tries to sabbatoge my resolve. "You are in the wrong place," it nudges me. "You won't find them and they will leave without you. You'll be alone and robbed and have to live on the streets of ChiChi eating poisonous street vendor food, with no access to toilet paper for the rest of your life!"
I find the church. There are two churches here, one at either end of the market square. The big one is Santo Tomas. The church steps face the square, which seems odd... What a strange place to meet a tourist van.
Santo Tomas is a huge Evangelical Church. Its white precense is towering. There is nothing magestic about it though. It is not of the ornate Catholic variety. This church is dusty, but not from a lack of upkeep, from over use, from over devotion, from the pain born of uncertainty and dreams crushed by the burning force of life gone crazy.
We have said adios to the majority of the group. They are going back to Antigua before flying home. Marg, Joe, Sarah, Margaurita an I are going back to San Pedro. In some ways our Guatemalan adventures have only just begun.
I walk around the church several times looking for a place the van might meet us. Up a steep hill past vendors selling stuff they have obviously picked out of the garbage...much-warn shoes and Nintendo games from the 80's. I don't see any vehicle displaying the "Big Foot" sign, I was assured would be there. So, I head back to the steps and wait for 3pm and the others to arrive.
I take pics while I wait; pics of a drunk asleep in a corner; pics of a man swinging a burning candle and praying; pics of the people of the market, bustling with activity. My GSP team shows up (thank you god!)
Our van driver doesn't show up. The next hour we scramble to make other arrangements. I talk a guy in a Guatemala tour vest in to calling our tour company for us. He does. At the same time Joe uses a pay phone to call. An hour later our designated meeting time the driver shows up and we begin the harrowing journey back to San Pedro.
Friday I pass on all group activity. They are taking a boat somewhere to see something. I don't even care. I am feeling better and all I want to do is relax and write. I am excited to get my blog back on track and to download my photos. I need to allow my insides to heal. I go to the terrace at the Mikaso with my netbook and journal entries. I eat slowly and deliberately.
At night I sleep soundly without the aid of my buddy gravol!
A couple of weeks ago the 23 people I am travelling with were all strangers. Not even passing acquaintances. Strangers.
Since then we have had conversations about toilet paper( lack of) and bowel movements (abundance of). We have all had cold showers and shivered while scurrying down an outside hall in nothing but a skimpy towel. We have shared clothing when luggage was delayed, shared food when some had and others didn't, and picked up/dropped off each other's clean/dirty clothes to the neighbourhood laundret.
Finally, I admit defeat. I struggle through Thursday by not eating. My theory? Nothing in, nothing out. It works but instead of shitting all day, I simply feel like shit.
After a horrible night on Thursday I get up early Friday and begin taking the Sipro antibiotic. My Ottawa doc gave it to me to bring in the unlikely case that I were to develop an intestinal infection. I was tied to a toilet. Immodium didn't work. My poor body was pleading, "Take the damn medicine already!"
Jackie, Meg, Paul and I take the Sipro. (It was either that or have my family ship me down a container of Cottonelle. Highly unlikely!
Thursday we go to the sprawling Chi Chi Market in Chichicastenango. The road out of San Pedro is brutal. Ok ok, it is the same road we took in, but it feels far worse. I feel quesey but oddly cheerful. Shopping always makes me smile. I attempt to think about something else because imagining that I might "explode" with little warning is giving me a headache.
But my inner whining becomes insignificant when we come upon an serious highway fatality. It looks like a truck trying to navigate the winding downward slope collided with an SUV going up on his side of the road. It must have just happened. The driver's side of the SUV is gone. I've never seen a single person wear a seatbelt here so we assume the driver, at least, has died. Somehow our van driver, Jose, inches by. He stops to get out, as do everyone in the van, except Jim and I. I know my limitations. They are not gone long when they all reappear and we continue our journey, in silence for a while as we process what we have seen. We only discuss with our inner selves.
The mid-day sun is hot when we pull into the guarded market parking lot. Hell, they guard everything here. Coca Cola trucks, like banks, have armed guards. In a place like this, with streets upon streets crammed with "stuff", shopping is a game best enjoyed alone. I accept that it is a solo activity. For the next three hours or so I wonder. Every few feet a seller approaches me -- children with big doe eyes pleasing for money to buy books, old women with woven cloth I haven't got a clue what I would do with, wrinkled old men sell knives and metal gadgets and carved wooden intruments.
"Hey lady," they say "I give you a good deal. How much you give me for this?"
If I play along they will follow me. The name of the game is "Wear the Gringo Down". Some doubting-Thomas place within me wonders if they live in mansions somewhere, with big screen TV's and iPad's at their disposal (I want an iPad!) .
The ChiChi Market is famous amoung tourists for its spending possibilities, and among locals for its money-making opportunities. ChiChi assualts the senses. Its effect is brutal and constant. Today is not a busy market day, yet it is everything I imaged it would be. Down uneven cobblestone streets the smokey smell of fried food, noisey heckles of desperate sellers and unrelenting touch of child hawkers adds to the ambiance of the garbage strewn streets.
From time to time I bump into a fellow GSP volunteer and we joke about, or show off, something we have just purchased. But I am enjoying my solitary wandering. I don't buy much. Alot of what is here is the same as what we see elsewhere. It all confuses me. I feel uncomfortably pressured. In the end, I get a few gifts for Carol's kids and a few woven clothes for me.
At 2pm or so I take the scrunched up paper given to me by the shuttle service and begin looking for Ingleise Santo Tomas. I have this nasty little voice in my head that tries to sabbatoge my resolve. "You are in the wrong place," it nudges me. "You won't find them and they will leave without you. You'll be alone and robbed and have to live on the streets of ChiChi eating poisonous street vendor food, with no access to toilet paper for the rest of your life!"
I find the church. There are two churches here, one at either end of the market square. The big one is Santo Tomas. The church steps face the square, which seems odd... What a strange place to meet a tourist van.
Santo Tomas is a huge Evangelical Church. Its white precense is towering. There is nothing magestic about it though. It is not of the ornate Catholic variety. This church is dusty, but not from a lack of upkeep, from over use, from over devotion, from the pain born of uncertainty and dreams crushed by the burning force of life gone crazy.
We have said adios to the majority of the group. They are going back to Antigua before flying home. Marg, Joe, Sarah, Margaurita an I are going back to San Pedro. In some ways our Guatemalan adventures have only just begun.
I walk around the church several times looking for a place the van might meet us. Up a steep hill past vendors selling stuff they have obviously picked out of the garbage...much-warn shoes and Nintendo games from the 80's. I don't see any vehicle displaying the "Big Foot" sign, I was assured would be there. So, I head back to the steps and wait for 3pm and the others to arrive.
I take pics while I wait; pics of a drunk asleep in a corner; pics of a man swinging a burning candle and praying; pics of the people of the market, bustling with activity. My GSP team shows up (thank you god!)
Our van driver doesn't show up. The next hour we scramble to make other arrangements. I talk a guy in a Guatemala tour vest in to calling our tour company for us. He does. At the same time Joe uses a pay phone to call. An hour later our designated meeting time the driver shows up and we begin the harrowing journey back to San Pedro.
Friday I pass on all group activity. They are taking a boat somewhere to see something. I don't even care. I am feeling better and all I want to do is relax and write. I am excited to get my blog back on track and to download my photos. I need to allow my insides to heal. I go to the terrace at the Mikaso with my netbook and journal entries. I eat slowly and deliberately.
At night I sleep soundly without the aid of my buddy gravol!
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Takin' in some rays at the lake!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
At night the streets of Xela are owned by the dogs. Their sounds are haunting. Often animal noises in the city are a topic of discussion over breakfast. For the first time in my life I am afraid of dogs.
In the morning the dogs roam the streets scrambling to find garbage, something to eat, to nourish their scrawny bodies.The treatment of animals here--their overall lack of care-- upsets me.
Sarah refuses to go on horseback riding excursions or any touristy thing that involves animals. Indeed, she has announced that she won't eat beef or drink milk here after seeing how badly malnourished cows are...tied to short slices of rope on bushes at the edge of roadways.
Today, when we get into the red van most of the group are leaving Xela for good. Only Tom and Rita will come back. They still have stoves to document, family names to record, family photos to take that will be sent to donors.
This isn't a really productive day. We aren't building anything or helping anyone. Today, and the few days to follow, are for our weary, somewhat bacteria infested souls.
We are on our way to San Pedro on Lake Atitlan, romanitcally referred to by travellers worldwide as "The Lake".
San Pedro sits at the base of a volcano by the same name, at an elevation of 1,610m, with a population of 10,000. It is an amusing mix of indiginous Guatemalan's and wayward/new generation American hippies.
To get to San Pedro we defy death more than once. The roads are narrow, laden with hairpin turns and "loco" switch-backs. I close my eyes. If I were a praying kinda girl I would pray. There are no seatbelts. I'm fairly confident that Jose has maintained the brakes on the van, but I'm much less confident that the rusty pick-ups crammed with greasey looking men and homemade bits and peices have any brakes at all. And this drive is up and down mountain sides!
Guatemalan love their car horns. They are unabashed honkers. Canadians think before they honk. We don't want to offend. At the very least, we believe in controling noise pollution. I've probably mentioned this. So, it is that they honk at every corner to announce themselves. Really what they are doing is announcing that they are on the wrong side of the road, driving blindly into oncoming traffic. To be a driver in Guatemala takes balls. Let's just leave it at that...
We make two stops on our way to the serenity of "The Lake".
The first is a health clinic in San Jaun. One of the smuggled GSP medical supply packs came here. (If there are any border guard types reading this please ignore the aforementioned reference to smuggling. We are just a bunch of boring work-day taxpayer's and no laws were harmed in the squishing of vitamin bottles between our underwear and work socks.)
This clinic is a first time recipient of the medical supplies. Rita and Tom have brought us here so that we can check it out before offering more support.
The clinic is down a dirty back alley. Of course -- I don't want to give the wrong impression -- the orange and avacado trees that line the path are magnificent examples of nature at its best. Unfortunately, the ground surrounding them is a horrendous example of human negligence and ignorance at its worst. Disease carrying garbage is everywhere. This familiar sight has become more than a passing pet peeve for me.
However, the clinic is ample and clean. Mary is the 20-something girl who greets us and shows us around. She explains that renovating this old building was a project she undertook with her brother and sister. It opened to the public in 2009. They employ a Guatemalan nurse. They are funded entirely by donations and the small stipend patients pay when they can. Volunteer doctors and dentists come regularly. In fact, on the second floor the clinic sports a well-equiped dental office. Dentist's are desperately needed for the same reason doctor's are: Guatemalan's have an insatiable sweet tooth!. Or, perhaps the argument could be made that it isn't sugar that motivates them as much as American "good life" propoganda. Yes, that's it. Ban TV and concentrate on their own unique heritage, and life would likely progress as it is meant to...hmmm...
Upstairs a garden of herbs overlooks a brand spanking new "football" field. This is the government's work. Mary says our trek down back alleyways to get to her door is the result of this field. The government closed off the road to the clinic to build the sports stadium. Priorities gone arwy?
We also make a stop at a relocated town.A decade ago these folks lived in a village that was destroyed in an earthquake. Survivors were brought here and a town was built to house them. It is a flat town, an unusual site in these parts. It lacks the spit and polich of any young town I have ever seen. We mosey down the street looking for a Bano. We find one. An old wrinkled man sits guard with his hand out. It costs 2Q to pee here. (When I was a kid I vaguely remember my mother getting us to crawl under the door stalls in public bathrooms because there was a coin collector on the door and she didn't have handy the 25cents required to open the damn thing.)
I'm not sure this guy could stop me if I didn't pay. I can tell you in all certainty that I would NEVER consider crawling under the stall. No need anyway because none of the doors actually close and hitch. the other women from the van enter and stay. I make a hasty retreat without even attempting to squat. Rita says she managed to do her business without touching a thing. Unfotunately my rocky digestion protests and before I can make it to the van I am running back, paying another 2Q and braving the worst Bano in Guatemala.
The town is called Alaska.
While I struggle with the Bano Paul is visiting his sponsored child. This is really why we are here; in this town that remotely reminds me of an old western movie set. For several years Paul and his wife have sponsored a girl from this town. Their support has helped her finish high school. Soon she will be a K'ishe teacher. The girl lives with an older sister. There are no parents. Paul's financial contribution has kept the girls going. Today he is here not only for a visit but to bring her a few necessities, and of course, to let her know how important she is to him, that she matters.
Really, this is what we are all doing here in Guatemala...letting other human beings know that they are not forgotten.
By the time we get to San Pedro is is 2ish. We check into Casa de Sol, which seems to us now (after Casa Argentina) an upscale motel. It is basic but clean and it has a porch outside with deck chairs overlooking a garden.There is toilet paper!Oh the luxury! I am in heaven!
Stove building is officially over for 2011...for the volunteers at least, the masons will continue to finish the 150 stove GSP has brought the funds for... so we head over to the Mikaso for lunch and a defief with Tom.
The Mikaso is a large hotel with a small, homey B&B feel. The restaurant is on the thrid floor. We eat on the balcony overlooking The Lake. I scam a drink of beer from someone and swig it back with my nacho's.
There is a sense around the table that we have earned this relaxation.
At night the streets of Xela are owned by the dogs. Their sounds are haunting. Often animal noises in the city are a topic of discussion over breakfast. For the first time in my life I am afraid of dogs.
In the morning the dogs roam the streets scrambling to find garbage, something to eat, to nourish their scrawny bodies.The treatment of animals here--their overall lack of care-- upsets me.
Sarah refuses to go on horseback riding excursions or any touristy thing that involves animals. Indeed, she has announced that she won't eat beef or drink milk here after seeing how badly malnourished cows are...tied to short slices of rope on bushes at the edge of roadways.
Today, when we get into the red van most of the group are leaving Xela for good. Only Tom and Rita will come back. They still have stoves to document, family names to record, family photos to take that will be sent to donors.
This isn't a really productive day. We aren't building anything or helping anyone. Today, and the few days to follow, are for our weary, somewhat bacteria infested souls.
We are on our way to San Pedro on Lake Atitlan, romanitcally referred to by travellers worldwide as "The Lake".
San Pedro sits at the base of a volcano by the same name, at an elevation of 1,610m, with a population of 10,000. It is an amusing mix of indiginous Guatemalan's and wayward/new generation American hippies.
To get to San Pedro we defy death more than once. The roads are narrow, laden with hairpin turns and "loco" switch-backs. I close my eyes. If I were a praying kinda girl I would pray. There are no seatbelts. I'm fairly confident that Jose has maintained the brakes on the van, but I'm much less confident that the rusty pick-ups crammed with greasey looking men and homemade bits and peices have any brakes at all. And this drive is up and down mountain sides!
Guatemalan love their car horns. They are unabashed honkers. Canadians think before they honk. We don't want to offend. At the very least, we believe in controling noise pollution. I've probably mentioned this. So, it is that they honk at every corner to announce themselves. Really what they are doing is announcing that they are on the wrong side of the road, driving blindly into oncoming traffic. To be a driver in Guatemala takes balls. Let's just leave it at that...
We make two stops on our way to the serenity of "The Lake".
The first is a health clinic in San Jaun. One of the smuggled GSP medical supply packs came here. (If there are any border guard types reading this please ignore the aforementioned reference to smuggling. We are just a bunch of boring work-day taxpayer's and no laws were harmed in the squishing of vitamin bottles between our underwear and work socks.)
This clinic is a first time recipient of the medical supplies. Rita and Tom have brought us here so that we can check it out before offering more support.
The clinic is down a dirty back alley. Of course -- I don't want to give the wrong impression -- the orange and avacado trees that line the path are magnificent examples of nature at its best. Unfortunately, the ground surrounding them is a horrendous example of human negligence and ignorance at its worst. Disease carrying garbage is everywhere. This familiar sight has become more than a passing pet peeve for me.
However, the clinic is ample and clean. Mary is the 20-something girl who greets us and shows us around. She explains that renovating this old building was a project she undertook with her brother and sister. It opened to the public in 2009. They employ a Guatemalan nurse. They are funded entirely by donations and the small stipend patients pay when they can. Volunteer doctors and dentists come regularly. In fact, on the second floor the clinic sports a well-equiped dental office. Dentist's are desperately needed for the same reason doctor's are: Guatemalan's have an insatiable sweet tooth!. Or, perhaps the argument could be made that it isn't sugar that motivates them as much as American "good life" propoganda. Yes, that's it. Ban TV and concentrate on their own unique heritage, and life would likely progress as it is meant to...hmmm...
Upstairs a garden of herbs overlooks a brand spanking new "football" field. This is the government's work. Mary says our trek down back alleyways to get to her door is the result of this field. The government closed off the road to the clinic to build the sports stadium. Priorities gone arwy?
We also make a stop at a relocated town.A decade ago these folks lived in a village that was destroyed in an earthquake. Survivors were brought here and a town was built to house them. It is a flat town, an unusual site in these parts. It lacks the spit and polich of any young town I have ever seen. We mosey down the street looking for a Bano. We find one. An old wrinkled man sits guard with his hand out. It costs 2Q to pee here. (When I was a kid I vaguely remember my mother getting us to crawl under the door stalls in public bathrooms because there was a coin collector on the door and she didn't have handy the 25cents required to open the damn thing.)
I'm not sure this guy could stop me if I didn't pay. I can tell you in all certainty that I would NEVER consider crawling under the stall. No need anyway because none of the doors actually close and hitch. the other women from the van enter and stay. I make a hasty retreat without even attempting to squat. Rita says she managed to do her business without touching a thing. Unfotunately my rocky digestion protests and before I can make it to the van I am running back, paying another 2Q and braving the worst Bano in Guatemala.
The town is called Alaska.
While I struggle with the Bano Paul is visiting his sponsored child. This is really why we are here; in this town that remotely reminds me of an old western movie set. For several years Paul and his wife have sponsored a girl from this town. Their support has helped her finish high school. Soon she will be a K'ishe teacher. The girl lives with an older sister. There are no parents. Paul's financial contribution has kept the girls going. Today he is here not only for a visit but to bring her a few necessities, and of course, to let her know how important she is to him, that she matters.
Really, this is what we are all doing here in Guatemala...letting other human beings know that they are not forgotten.
By the time we get to San Pedro is is 2ish. We check into Casa de Sol, which seems to us now (after Casa Argentina) an upscale motel. It is basic but clean and it has a porch outside with deck chairs overlooking a garden.There is toilet paper!Oh the luxury! I am in heaven!
Stove building is officially over for 2011...for the volunteers at least, the masons will continue to finish the 150 stove GSP has brought the funds for... so we head over to the Mikaso for lunch and a defief with Tom.
There is a sense around the table that we have earned this relaxation.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Of Bano's and Barfing and Beauty and Birthdays
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Last day of stove building for the GSP volunteers of 2011.
My stomach continues to be queezy but I get up determined to fight back. We're working in a new community today. As hard as it is to believe, it is poorer place than all the others. How can that be possible I ask myself?
Our family has lots of adults, although it is difficult to tell who belongs to whom and where they all come from. Our arrival brings with it a palpable excitement. Poor does not equal despondant I have learned. These women are keen participants in this project despite their circumstances. It is likely, I now feel, that they don't realize that their circumstances are lacking.
Janice tells me that there are sewing machines in one of the three buildings in this compound of houses. We ask one of te men what they use them for. He says pants. We assume that they, like so many of the other families we have built for, sell jeans in the maket.
I soak the cement blocls in ice cold water and stack them close to Don Jaun. One of the men helps for a short time. He proudly tells me that he has worked in the US. He quickly grows tired of helping. Jim and I get the 30 clay bricks from another building with the help of two women, and place them softly on a plastic bag we have spread out. We now know that there are no replacements if we break one, so we treat them gingerly. We also so that the women are the workers. Children on backs. Laundry on heads. Cement blocks in arms.
Janice and Don Juan mix mortar. Jim and I apply it, making a mess and then cleaning it up. Don Juan is fast and doesn't really care about mess. He gets the job done just as effectively. Like all the mason's he has his own style and it works. I know we are holding him back. He gets paid by the stove and our lack of finesse could be an irritant. But he keeps smiling. Later I learn that his plan is to stay in the village overnight and to keep building. GSP has build 27 stoves in the past week. We have funded 150 this time around. The masons will build the rest. Marvin says he can build three stoves a day on his own. Yikes! I can't imagine how tired he must be at the end of that!
By 10am I am desperately in need of a Bano. I ask and get a nervous look. At about the same time Marg is asking the same thing of her family. They point to the ditch. Apparently there is only one toilet in this community. The elder woman at my house takes me up a hill, grabbing a stick along the way to scare off a dog. She calls out to her neighbour, a few words are exchanged and iIam shown a room with a metal door. These folks on the top of the hill are obviously of another class. They have an almost modern looking toilet, no crude hole here! It flushes like the one we use to have at the cottage when we were kids, with a bucket of water. A bucket and huge tub of water awaits. The sink is used to hold TP. I have my pockets full but I'm happy to save it for my next call of nature.
I am cold. It is cold under the grey morning sky and no matter how much trowling I attempt to do I cannot generate enough warmth to feel even slightly well. Tom comes by and makes me follow him to the lunch spot. Marg and Joe have things organized. Lunch today is in a new building. We all feel the contradictions in this village and don't know what to make of them.
Marg has made pasta salad and there are bakery goods and a yummy looking pastel for Margaurite's birthday. I eat nothing. Instead I borrow Rita's coat and wrap it around my shoulders. I hunker down in a chair in a sunny spot. After lunch Tom props me up in the van where it is warm,.
I sleep.
I wake and observe.
I take photos.
I eat dinner cautiously.
I take immodium and gravol liberally.
I don't want to miss a single moment of my last night in Xela. Sarah and I head out to take pics that will remind of its uniqueness.
Last day of stove building for the GSP volunteers of 2011.
My stomach continues to be queezy but I get up determined to fight back. We're working in a new community today. As hard as it is to believe, it is poorer place than all the others. How can that be possible I ask myself?
Our family has lots of adults, although it is difficult to tell who belongs to whom and where they all come from. Our arrival brings with it a palpable excitement. Poor does not equal despondant I have learned. These women are keen participants in this project despite their circumstances. It is likely, I now feel, that they don't realize that their circumstances are lacking.
Janice tells me that there are sewing machines in one of the three buildings in this compound of houses. We ask one of te men what they use them for. He says pants. We assume that they, like so many of the other families we have built for, sell jeans in the maket.
I soak the cement blocls in ice cold water and stack them close to Don Jaun. One of the men helps for a short time. He proudly tells me that he has worked in the US. He quickly grows tired of helping. Jim and I get the 30 clay bricks from another building with the help of two women, and place them softly on a plastic bag we have spread out. We now know that there are no replacements if we break one, so we treat them gingerly. We also so that the women are the workers. Children on backs. Laundry on heads. Cement blocks in arms.
By 10am I am desperately in need of a Bano. I ask and get a nervous look. At about the same time Marg is asking the same thing of her family. They point to the ditch. Apparently there is only one toilet in this community. The elder woman at my house takes me up a hill, grabbing a stick along the way to scare off a dog. She calls out to her neighbour, a few words are exchanged and iIam shown a room with a metal door. These folks on the top of the hill are obviously of another class. They have an almost modern looking toilet, no crude hole here! It flushes like the one we use to have at the cottage when we were kids, with a bucket of water. A bucket and huge tub of water awaits. The sink is used to hold TP. I have my pockets full but I'm happy to save it for my next call of nature.
I am cold. It is cold under the grey morning sky and no matter how much trowling I attempt to do I cannot generate enough warmth to feel even slightly well. Tom comes by and makes me follow him to the lunch spot. Marg and Joe have things organized. Lunch today is in a new building. We all feel the contradictions in this village and don't know what to make of them.
Marg has made pasta salad and there are bakery goods and a yummy looking pastel for Margaurite's birthday. I eat nothing. Instead I borrow Rita's coat and wrap it around my shoulders. I hunker down in a chair in a sunny spot. After lunch Tom props me up in the van where it is warm,.
I sleep.
I wake and observe.
I take photos.
I eat dinner cautiously.
I take immodium and gravol liberally.
I don't want to miss a single moment of my last night in Xela. Sarah and I head out to take pics that will remind of its uniqueness.
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