Cultural Hiccups

Sensual Seduction

2011-03-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

I promise a long, lenthy, deliciously detailed blog post about my doings, wanderings, and findings to come soon...but for those of you who don't like to read anyway (ahem!), here are some tidbits to hold you over...

Cultural Manifestations

2011-02-19T12:26:00.000-08:00

I've somewhat neglected blogging as I've been finishing up the final project for my Mexican Cinema Class. However, I think I finally found something that can save me writer's block and speak for itself, check it out, share it, like it, love it, comment on it, but just watch it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txjdU8s6yL0

La Cocina de Frida

2011-02-03T13:57:00.000-08:00

The presence of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera can be found everywhere in Mexico from tributary murals to bottle cap earrings. With her signature look, which is more than just her very prominent uni-brow, thank you, but also her upswept hair adorned with flowers and a wide-set, piercing gaze, Frieda may be the most popular face of Mexico. I was lucky enough to get a chance to see her live re-incarnation in person in the village of Ocotolan, Oaxaca, which has a traditional market every Friday. There among the vegetables, flowers, animals, and cotton panties, was the kitchen of Frieda, herself, serving Tlayudas (a Oaxaca regional specialty= very large, delicious tortillas) heaped with market fresh ingredients from pollo to beans and quesillo.

In Oaxaca, and all of Mexico, the preparation, flavor, and combination of unique ingredients is an art from in itself. Among the backdrop of fresh produce and smells of a million delicious meals being prepared, served, and consumed in succession, amidst a country where magical realism does not to seem too off-base or far-fetched, I could easily imagine the visual art of Frida, the artist being re-born and continuing in Frida, the chef. Qué chido eh?!

Midnight...a la Mexicana!

2011-01-23T11:35:00.000-08:00

Guatemala welcomed me in the first night, and many nights following that, with fireworks right outside the window-- so loud I thought they were gunshots. Never one to be outdone by it's neighbor, Mexico welcomed me in with live Mariachi music going full blast at the stroke of midnight, Tuesday's crack of dawn. And while Christmas has long ago lost it's charm for me, there was something magically nostalgic in awakening in the middle of the night with amazement at the gift you're about to get. Not to mention,stumbling up the stairs blindly groping for the balcony,hair a la llorona, and in pajamas( pajamas precisely because they are clothes not fit to be seen in public) doesn't hurt to bring back those childhood fuzzies either. Maybe it's the classic Mexican cinema class I'm taking, but I was absolutely and completely tickled five different shades of pink to awake to real live mariachis in the middle of the night, serenading the entire neighborhood, intentionally or not! Having only seen Mariachis in restaurants and weddings, which in itself I consider quite a privilege, to go out and and peer into the stars through the darkened street to the best sounding fiesta you've ever heard complete with ayi-yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis from a 12 piece ensemble is surreal.

When I was traveling throughout South America I met several people on Round-the-World Tickets, or spending half a year or more just traveling throughout Latin America. I always had to ask them where their favorite destination had been after seeing so much. It's not so surprising the most common answer was Mexico, in a way promoting my own return to discover Mexico in all it's splendor.

Why Mexico? The answers circled around: the warmness and hospitality of the Mexican people, the food, stunning country landscapes, and the overwhelmingly rich and varied culture. In a country that has it all, they have moved forward without displacing traditions from the past. Mañanitas are still sung at midnight to serenade loved ones into the next day, Mariachi's still crowd the Zocalo, or central square late Friday and Saturday night serenading lovers and couples. The Zocalo, itself is still a place to gather, to laugh, to dance, and to seduce lovers or introduce singles.

It feels great to be back (yes, there are firecrackers frequently going off. And yes, I still jump every time trying resist the urge to duck and cover.) Only this time around I don't care what time the neighbors are celebrating or how loudly, as long as they continue provide the Mariachis.Que viva la tradiciones mexicanas! Long live the music, and the culture, and the fiesta!

Mister Creep

2010-07-22T01:42:00.000-07:00

“Hey Mister!”
As five little voices from the group of punky youngsters get louder, giggling and yelling out any English words they know, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder.
Yup, they’re definitely talking to me. I am the mister here. You see, most school children learn some English in Indonesia and have been taught the polite form of saying hi is “Mister”, regardless of age or sex. Then they have so little chance to practice their English that what little they learn usually falls to the wayside. Until of course they see me, BULE. Then they get really excited. Everyday I walk past greeted by “Halo, how are you? Where you from” at least once, more recently there have been a lot of “Obamas**!” And then of course, my favorite, after I pass by: “something I can’t understand, more I can’t understand BULE, babble babble gibberish” and gaping faces or amazed and sniggering children.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to looking up from a pair of shoes in the mall and see all eyes trained on me, salesgirls and other customers alike. Or being asked to take countless pictures with other peoples families and even their small children. But I have found being bule an advantage in certain areas as well. Like the time I was ‘camera creeping’ on this little girl in the Borbodur temple, Yogakarta. Everyone else was taking touristy photos of the temple, the temple and themselves, the temple, themselves and us Bules. But I just wanted this picture of the cutest asian girl pouting in her big sunhat. She was full of sass and knew it, and I wanted a picture. I was stealthy, but being bule is never being stealthy enough. As her family walked away I cut around a column to snap a picture of her, only to look up and see her parents staring at me. Oppsy, I was that creep with the camera taking a picture of a strange kid. I snuck around the other side and tried to disappear into the group I was with, therefore trying to appear less than creepy. Only I accidentally walked into pose with a bule fest, and after three pictures with random people squeezing me like we were BFF’s, I started recounting my mortification and creepiness to my friends, halfway through the incident I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the girl with the sunhat’s father!

Speechless, I gaped at him while he addressed in an incomprehensible slew of wild sounds(that Bahasa Indonesia is tricky!). I could only imagine what he was saying to me, I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. M grabbed my camera, “they want a picture with you” and he pushed me next to the little girl who obviously did not want another picture, and was not the least bit impressed whether I was in it or not. Only in Indonesia would me being caught in the most creepy and awkward situation end with me being treated like a celebrity just for being white, and foreign and a rare, rare sight indeed.

**Side Note: The Obama comment is actually quite funny in and of itself, it seems Indonesia is crawling with “Obama’s children”, a joke that never seems to get old here, and refers to really dark skinned Indonesians who look ‘black’ in a country where white, white skin is considered a beauty ideal. It’s also a bit of Indonesian Obama fever, which interestingly enough is due to Obama’s previously close ties with the nation. The president himself went to elementary school in Jakarta from 1st through 4th when his mom married an Indonesian man. However now that Mr. Obama has postponed his arranged visit to Indonesia three times, I wonder how long Obama fever will be seen as a positive and prideful thing for Indonesia.

Waking Up on the Right Side of the Bed, Wrong Side of the World

2010-07-09T03:18:00.000-07:00

Almost 3 whole days of planes and airports, naps in all the wrong time zones and countless breakfasts for dinner, lunches in the middle of the morning, and suddenly I’m standing in-line for immigration, officially in Indonesia. What am I doing here? That’s a question I’m still trying to get my head around. Especially when I find myself standing in the middle of the road with crazy traffic whizzing by in both directions. Which happens uncomfortably often, everyday, minimum 6x a day. In a country with no stoplights, stop signs, and although there is a double white line dividing the road, it’s more symbolic than mandatory. I find it more a suggestion really for where to stand when your trapped on both sides by bikes, cars, and open-sided vans that constitute the public transportation, jammed together. If it weren’t such a terrible idea I would need to close my eyes while crossing the road...

As it is, I really feel like I’m living on the edge, just like the inspirational posters make look so easy and fun. I don’t know about easy, but they may have something about marketing all that fun. Really what could be more fun than pairing up 10 American Students and 10 Indonesian students, currently studying in the US, transporting them to Indonesia, partnering them with different NGO’s based on their interests: economics, public health, education, art, and my personal favorite, the environment. Those 20 students are then dispersed between 3 cities in West Java: Jakarta the capital, Bandung the 3rd largest city in Indonesia, also know as Paris Van Java, and Yogyakarta, considered the spiritual, cultural capital of Indonesia.

I, along with my partner M, are working with Wahana Lingkungan Hidup Indonesia (WALHI) in Bandung, along with 4 others from the program in economic and public health NGOs. M is awesome, he has constantly saved me from myself and my terrible Bahasa Indonesian, getting lost, crossing the street on my own, incomprehensible menus, basically everything except putting my foot in my mouth, which happens at least once during every conversation. Like the time I accidentally asked the housekeeper how much his shirt was instead of where he got it, yeah, that was a big whoops. Possibly the Topping that is the time when I mispronounced a word I thought I knew and miraculously managed to inquire if our new friend was a virgin instead of what he did for a living, that was really awkward.

As for the other four students, they’re pretty awesome too. Who else would help cover you up and pretend you’re sleeping to avoid being charged the bule/tourist price, haggle on your behalf for market food, or alternately pretend you’re all famous to try and get into the club for free? And if I’m going to be stuck in traffic for hours at a time, hike up a huge hill every morning to be in class by 8:00, and try every bizarre and oddly good Indonesian snack, I’m glad it’s with them.

As for WALHI, each day is an adventure. Not just your bathroom variety either. Between the language barrier, treading all the cultural footpaths, and just working in an environmental NGO the works always different, seldom boring. So far I’ve sat in on some pretty cool environmental films, some from Indonesia and others from around the world. Unfortunately the discussions are always in Bahasa Indonesian, no subtitles. Translated a few films to be screened, viewed a peaceful demonstration from a very far, very safe difference, sat in an official/stockholder from several organization meeting for cleaning up the Citarum river (prepare yourself and then click on this link to see some of the issues we’re dealing with:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-460077/Is-worlds-polluted-river.html

).

Too be honest when I first applied to this program, I knew next to nothing about Indonesia. What I’m supposed to be doing is learning about working with NGO’s and West Java’s environmental issues, solutions, attitudes; while participating in and fostering a cultural awareness between Indonesia and the United States. An unbelievably cool program and fantastic summer Internship provided by the Freeman Indonesia Non-Profit Internship Program (FINIP).
So what am I actually doing here? I’m living in the moment (Indo time, or always late/stuck in traffic), learning to pay closer attention to all pronunciation in class, learning countless ways about the West Java Sudanese culture, about the environmental, political, social problems Indonesia faces environmentally, about how satisfying coconut, ginger and chili are in everything I eat. And I am most definitely completely falling madly and chaotically in love with this land of volcanoes and islands that I will be calling rumah saya—my home for 2 months.

Testing Tastebuds 1 2 3

2010-06-30T01:05:00.000-07:00

I might just have to dedicate a whole new blog to the food here. It’s weird, and oh so delicious, irresistible really. Take this idea of the Avocado Float, sort of like an avocado milkshake, only with chocolate added in. Sounds, well, plain wrong and that’s putting it nicely. In fact, it’s delicious. The kicker is, the other day we had dinner at our house, the 6 of us interning in Bandung, and we had a stir-fry, rice, scrambled eggs, and one ripe and ready to eat avocado. When I proposed to just eat it with the eggs and sambal chili sauce three Indonesian heads whipped around and stared at me like I had just suggested making a cake with it. Avocado and eggs? Now that’s a crazy idea...

A Day Ahead, A World Behind

2010-06-28T22:10:00.000-07:00

Please forgive me for not keeping in touch better, I went to Indonesia. There is no more internet in my life. It has been replaced with squatting toilets, bucket sinks(literally a large bucket with a ladle for scooping water, which coincidentally somehow replaces the need for toilet paper, still not too sure about that one..) and a constant fear of crossing the road. I didn't know what to expect when I left for Indonesia, but I'm not really sure how one prepares themselves for an experience so different than anything they've ever dealt with before. Before leaving from the US I compiled a wardrobe of modest office/large Muslim country conservative and appropriate clothing. I was horrified to learn wearing sandals to class/work are considered a sign of laziness and utmost disrespect.

So when Monday rolls around I’m outfitted in my best nice clothes and then my obnoxiously ugly grey and red running shoes and in fact the only close toed shoes I brought. I feel uncomfortably dressy, but worse with the combination business clothes and hiking gear including backpack, I look stupidly ridiculous. Turns out it doesn’t matter, because in WALHI, the environmental NGO that I am working with here in Indonesia, as with most houses in Indonesia one takes their shoes off before stepping inside.

And as I sit here on the floor sweating through my office blouse and swatting at the mosquitoes I try to pretend air conditioning, modern toilets, stoplights, or fans were never invented. Conditions are rough, I don’t know how to use the toilet here, I am the only girl, understand less Bahasa Indonesian than a 2 yr. old, and icing the cake: I have entered a pseudo work environment that more resembles a basic jungle civilization.. I feel sort-of like an urban guerilla, fighting against the injustices of a non-responsive government, rampant capitalism, and environmental pollution/overall degradation, not to mention the compost bin that’s currently being kept in the kitchen.

Needless to say, there is only so long you can pretend you don’t need to use the bathroom. At first, convinced that if I drank no water I might be able to wait until we got home, however lucky I was not—first day on the job 8 am to 9 pm. So I borrowed some house slippers, reminded myself that I come from a family of strong women, and resolved myself to enter the battleground...(keep in mind, this is no regular bathroom belonging to four guys, then factor in developing country plumbing).
Being in Indonesia is a lot about taking the plunge, sometimes you just got to do it, hope to survive, and enjoy the heck out of whatever comes next (this part in no way refers to the bathroom, nothing holds true in that case, but I am a survivor). Because camping in the office can be ridiculously fun, and beats slaving away in a cubicle air-conditioned controlled environment any day, five days a week. Plus squatting’s good for your legs. Perhaps one more reason why Asians are so much more fit than us, because it certainly is not all the rice, trust your source...

Well Hello Hielo

2010-04-25T17:08:00.000-07:00

As a child I was always fascinated with icy things. Pop-out ice cube trays, frozen puddles, Flinstones push pops (I just threw that in because I really was obsessed with those), and icicles. Especially icicles. I was the kid who could spend hours outside stomping on frozen ice hoping to release the air bubbles (and be dumped into freezing water, little kids have no brains). Or running back and forth in a poor attempt at ice-skating, because constantly falling on your face is the epitome of graceful (remember, brains are not fully developed yet). When we got a snow-cone maker in middle school it was like winning the lottery and buying an ice cream parlor in place of our old freezer. The main point is seeing Perito Moreno, one of the largest glaciers in South America, brought back that sense of child-like wonder and awe. It was like I was seven again and fascinated that if I left juice in the freezer and returned an hour later I would find popsicles. Pure magic...

In the case of this unbelievably blue, unbelievably huge glacier, it was not magic that came to mind at all. Hellllllllo, maravillosa Mama Tierra, you’ve outdone yourself once again. As if looking at a huge snowflake, only the minutely etched crystallic patterns are huge cracks and contours of a giant glacier face, so blue that staring at it makes one even forget other colors even exist. Blue, blue, blue. Fresh pure blue, as high as a 15 story building, it’s a marvel that something so powerful is at the same time so delicate. This transient mountain of frozen water, is one of our most valuable resources and one of those we are least able to protect from disappearing. Standing before the massive glacier listening to all the pops and cracks of the ice expanding and moving, it seemed unimaginable that if I returned in 40 years later with my children it’s more probable they would find a completely different than the one I was so enchanted with right now. If I could live in a snow globe as perfect as the moment was right now, I could live every day feasting on the wonder surrounding me.

El Chalten, it ain't no Chateau

2010-04-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

An early morning bus ride through the Patagonian badlands found us nestled for the night in El Chalten, a small climbing town tucked into the curves and corners of el nord de la Parque Nacional de Los Glacieres. The bus ride itself, was uneventful, each and every minute was filled with the most breathtaking landscape, husky purple and green hills dipping into turquoise lakes and stretches of cold plains stretching farther even than the early morning sun rays. It was a dream so arresting I couldn’t close my eyes for fear of missing it. A land where there’s one single solitary road cutting through the heart of landscape, the land of wild llamas and wilder beauty. A land of scarcity, mountains, ice, a wild land, hard but not without its share of promises.

Any other town in Patagonia wouldn’t quite fit like El Chalten. The town itself was small, one road that only branched off for beaten tracks, hiking trails, and mountain routes. The road was new, just put in the past year. The town was lacking much infrastructure, for this it was filled and over-running with beauty. A place in nature, it is the access point for climbers and trekkers to reach higher planes, the summits of glacier Mt. Fitz Roy. We made the 8 hour hike, just to get to a viewing point of the glacier, we all had to have siestas at the top...

Looking for Loot

2010-04-05T19:17:00.000-07:00

Every good historic tales starts out “Legend has it...” But in the case of barrio San Telmo “History has it ...”. Dating back to the late 18th and early 19th century San Telmo was once the preferred stomping grounds of the wealthy European immigrants arriving to Buenos Aires. Later on in the 19th century, yellow fever swept through the calles and casas of San Telmo, and those with the plata abandoned their mansiones for the more saludable campo ringing the outskirts of the city. Most abandoned their mansions intact, believing their possessions were inhabited by the fever, and started over afresh. Soon after, the less affluent immigrants with nowhere to go moved into the un-claimed mansions or simply started storing away the fine china to be sold.

Hoy en día San Telmo is one of my favorite barrios in Buenos Aires, every one of its streets is a different treasure hunt, a portal into the past. Filled with fanciful facades off the street of Paris, the bottoms stories have been ransacked, gutted, and turned into antique stores. If you adore old junk as I do, sifting through a different era is more satisfying than going to a museum to see by-gone relics housed in glass cages. I like to pretend I can actually afford the things I admire, and can spend hours touching tiny details on inventions I never knew existed, turning over shelves, and drooling over old books, postcards, and stamps from a time when the world seemed bottomless. At the end of the day I’m always walking away with a little piece of history in my pocket and rose tinted ideas of a once and more worldly romance now settled to dust.

Cafe Cortado, With a Side of Borges

2010-03-23T19:01:00.000-07:00

Grand. Splendid.

It’s easy to spend just a week in Buenos Aires and see a city in love. Easily escaping bustling streets into the dusty filled cafe culture. Where sunlight fades into the crumbling corners of architecture once reminiscent of another era rich in capital and European designs. A place where they always give you a small cookie nibble and a miniature glass of soda water with every coffee.

It’s easy to spend a week in Buenos Aires and fall in love with the city. There must be something in the air, or the atmosphere. Where they serenade you on a grand piano in a old restored theater, where you can sit with your cafecito in a private balcony, among rows and rows of books flipping through whims. That’s Buenos Aires for you, home to the most captivating bookstore in the world: welcome to El Ateneo Grand Splendid.

Attack of the Lobster Tourists

2010-03-17T18:10:00.000-07:00

Lately when it has rained in Buenos Aires, it has poured. Sky opens, cats, dogs, full-on goldfish, and every other domesticated pet that would serve as an adequate metaphor, will rain down. The streets flood in some zones, mainly the ones I live and go to school in, rather conveniently. So on Friday at 4:00 o’clock when the sky turned a violent purple as I was just about to start the long 45 minute trek home, I was not the only one preparing for the next water world. I did make it home, but the only thing that made it home dray was the water inside my water bottle (irony!).

The rain continued un-abated despite the fact that we had very set plans for enjoying that Friday night. Nor did the weather forecast look promising, it seems Friday was only the start of the mini monsoon. Well, there was nothing to do but flee the rain, wish it good riddance, and escape to the beach: Mar del Plata, a beachside resort with a sunny weather forecast. Only the brilliance of our plan idea didn’t dawn on us until 10:30 Friday night. Lucky for us, Argentina was a country made for accommodating last minute impulses, or just a country that never, ever sleeps. The 5 hour buses complete with semi-cama seats (comparable to business class avion seats) to Mar Del Plata leave all hours of the night. Which is precisely how we wound up on a reasonably crowded (with all types of normal, average people, thank you Mom) on a bus at 3:30 am bound for the beach...

Mar del Plata is the Buenos Aires of the beach, and a popular escape from the city. Arriving just before nine, and upon rolling out of our bus beds we were instantly charmed by the plentiful sunshine and sleepy streets with their lack of traffic and bustle. We would only find out later, after we were already enamored with our getaway spot, the streets were only empty because everyone, but everyone, was already at the beach. It was packed so full of people there was nowhere to place your towel, I’ve never seen anything like from Miami to California. I was never one for crowds, but I actually didn’t mind for once. There was a great vibe, the sun was out, everyone was strutting their stuff*-- there was a really community atmosphere, everyone was here to enjoy the beach, so what if we each only had our little portion of sand and sun? There were entire families from grandparents to young kids all crammed together in their plot, as content as could be. Friends or even strangers, like the guy in front of us who helped two girls install their parasol, were engaging in mate sharing circles as if drinking a steaming hot tea in a gourd was the only natural thing to do at the beach. Actually, there were beach stands everywhere advertising they provided hot water to fill aplenty mate thermoses.

However, there is a moral to this story. Jumping on the bus in the middle of the night and other crazy ideas can be very rewarding and spontaneous. However, jumping on the bus in the middle of the night, not sleeping well, and going to the beach can be dangerous. True story. Naturally within 20 minutes of sun after a long night of restless sleep, and with sand constantly being kicked around the best defense was to lay back and close your eyes. It was the perfect setting for a small nap. A small nap that turned into an hour of deep sleep, in the sun, in the same position, into the worst sunburn we three have every experienced in any of our young, and apparently careless, rather than carefree lives. There’s no other way to shout out tourist in a beach town than to limp and moan around like a bright red lobster. Reaching deep, REM cycle sleep (I know I was dead to the world) at the beach is probably never the brightest idea, less so in South America. Apparently that hole in the ozone we humans always like to pretend will never affect us, will. This hole is very realizable in South America, I’m still peeling three weeks later to prove it, hellooo skin cancer.

*Cultural note: The beaches and beachwear in Argentina march to their own latin infused beat, carrying a definite Brazilian tune. Brazilian bottoms or less seems to be the model; the suits were skimpy no matter who you were or what kind of shape you were in. And forget having modest swimwear for the over 40 crowd, that concept simply doesn’t exist here. Mostly the general view was funny, sometimes it was a bit more then one would wish to see, but all in all I had to admire the people who had the confidence to stick it out, whether they had something to flaunt or not, apparently “no shame, no gain” mentality really goes here.

Into the 8th Wonder Wonderland

2010-03-11T17:41:00.000-08:00

The cateratas of Iguazu falls may well be the 8th wonder of the world. Apart from that, they are completely unremarkable. Unremarkable only in the sense that words can do them no justice (neither really do pictures, though I did try). There is no way to describe the power and force behind the sheer amount of water rushing past at a dizzying speed in all directions as far as the eye can see. Let’s just say this is one falls you would not want to go over in a barrel. Indescribable, it’s the total experience of seeing and hearing the brute force of nature, and then getting completely soaked in agua dulce (ironically it is possible to feel both deaf and blind after staring/hearing the bright white water for lengthy periods of time).

Since the falls is something to be experienced and then left speechless about, here’s just a few random musings and un-factual based facts I can share to tickle your socks with:

• The National Park is located in the heart of la selva, and stretched across three countries Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil. The Argentine falls, however, are the best, where you can get up close and traverse over the whole park

• This land is birthplace of the Guarani, one of Argentina’s indigenous tribes that still exist today where I was able to buy an authentically awesome blow dart contraption for my brother, who I’m sure will find a productive use for it in everyday life in Berkeley

• There are plenty cute and friendly coatimundis, resembling an oddly adorable mix of squirrel and raccoon, yet are far more social, throwing guavas on the ground to/at big groups below and chattering away. Apparently they’re only cute unless fed, when they become aggressive tourist attackers

• Even better than the cuddly coatimundis were the abundant and varied species of butterflies. In fact, Iguazu weirdly resembled a variation of a slightly more savage wonderland. Savage apart from it’s apparent mecca for butterflies fluttering about by the dozens combined with it’s proclivity for double or even triple rainbows just over every fall.

• The highlight of the trip (apart from watching the once dry people in the only 12 minute boat ride in front of the falls getting absolutely and completely drenched within seconds) was the hike through the jungle toward the swimming spot. A 3km hike through the jungle each way would bring you to the perfect swimming spot: a pool surrounded by slabs of unearthed rocks and a small (certainly in comparison to the rest of the park!) caterata of perfectly refreshing, sweet water. The hike had the added bonus of providing a more into nature experience with the surrounding tropical selva, less impacted than the rest of the park, as well as serving to keep away the crowds of tourists who don’t like trekking, which must have been everyone as we were the only people at the secret spot aside from one other girl, que buena suerte!

Where’s Wanda?

2010-03-03T18:38:00.000-08:00

Wanda?

Yeah, the town with the mines. Only none of the other backpackers had heard of her, the town that is. Which is funny in a major tourist destination such as Puerto Iguazu, attracting millions of visitors each year for the rightfully impressive Iguazu Falls, but the town has little else to keep them. So on our ramblings around town, kicking up dirt to stir up some form of excitement, we tried to find out what other activities we could pass the time on. With a drought of things to do, we must have hit up every single souvenir shop on the street and side-street just for something to look at. The local kids caught on to this pretty fast, chasing us around with local crafts. More like local bling, they were chasing us down with hands full of jewels (okay, okay stunning quartz crystals) with these absurdly popular crystal trees fastened out of rocks and wire in the shape of well, trees. As I was admiring a particularly nicely fashioned rock tree, it suddenly caught my attention, where were they getting all this treasure?

Wanda. The elusive town with the small, yet richly supplied local mine, about an hour away by local bus. Unmentioned by the guidebooks, the backpacker network, and virtually unadvertised, we were chasing gold and bringing the our little dust storm to Wanda. Literally dropped off with a cloud of red dust swirling about us, we stared down the small town as the sun beat down on us. We we’re the only people, let alone foreigners in sight. However, we had nothing to be discouraged about as the taxi drivers, all two of them, swarmed our out of their shady posts to offer/accost us with a ride to the mines. We declined, perhaps stupidly considering the heat, and set off on the estimated 1.5 km towards the string of souvenir stores, stands, and shacks. It was hot, the dirt packed road so dry you could feel the mud cracks with the soles of your shoes. Everything was covered with the red dust, that seemed to be a mark of the heat itself. Yet still the kids managed to come from nowhere, hurtling down on us with arms full of rock trees.

The mines themselves, were small. Small, but the better for it. Owned by an argentine landowner in a country swarming with foreign investors and owners, especially in the business of mining. Run on a small scale, without machinery, making the mine safer for the workers and less damaging to the environment, it was a quaint and engaging experience. There was a lazy charm to the place, and a love and enthusiasm for geology. This was after all the same area that produced the Falls just an hour away, it was thick with geologic treasures and triumphs. The legend goes the owner had bought the land to farm Yerba Mate, well known is Missiones, as the region of the best Yerba Mate. But when he stumbled on some rare rocks, well, he just stumbled into a jeweler’s paradise. And Wanda, was, after all these years, a gem to visit, untouched by the tour bus circuit, it remains charmingly bright and many faceted. And yes, in the end, I bought a rock tree and got a free crystal in the bargain!

Bueno.

2010-02-22T19:44:00.001-08:00

Well Buenos Aires, you’ve got me tongue tied.

“¿Che que onda?”

My thoughts exactly, what is going on? A month navigating Spanish in Guatemala was helpful...for the classroom. For the street, everyone might as well be speaking Portuguese. Porteños, or la gente de Buenos Aires, located on the mouth of the Río Plata, love their version of slang—lunfardo, customizing new vocabulary could almost be a national pastime. Well ¡Che Boludo!, how to even translate that ever-so-popular greeting? Once insult now turned affectionate is used for everything and everyone from your neighbor to your 5 yr. old cousin—“Eh Ché, quieres un café?!” Then, with a flip of tone it can become very much an insult once again if you’re not careful. Argentinos, especially Porteños, call it like it is, commonly referring to people by their physical attributes: “¿Gordita, vamos a la playa?” Of course, as a term of gordita/gordito is also a common term of endearment for very skinny people and young children. While flaco could very well be used to address a very large man.
Mix the strong penchant for lunfardo with a strong slur on ‘ll’ or ‘y’ sounds to sound like ‘sh’ or ‘j’, misho instead of mio. Add in lots of Italian and Spanish blood, and there’s still no way to describe a typical porteño. They’re a mix of people that can have an entire conversation just through hand gestures. It’s honestly enthralling just to watch them have conversations sometimes, even when you have no idea what’s going on.
Yet there is a part of Porteño culture that needs no translation, it may also be my favorite part: the kissing here is contagious. One must siempre kiss on the cheek as a greeting, announcing, “!hola estoy aqui, prestame attenciónnnnnn!” At once very intimate and friendly, it is done upon first meeting someone, while the concept of personal space and formal handshakes is non-existently humorous here. Well then Beso. Besito, Besame Buenos Aires, ‘cause here I am

Uncovering the Real Antigua

2010-02-03T16:15:00.000-08:00

Antigua, hermosa Antigua. Literally translated as the ancient city, it was a city of past splendors filled with ruínas and scars of past earthquakes, filled with history and stories. With its arches, churches, and a certain stated charm to its cafes and streets to revel any of Latin America but also reminiscent of old school European rough glamour. It is truly a beautiful city, encompassing some of the best of Guatemala, siempre with its resplendent colors and nestled between three volcanoes. It might even be the only place where you can watch as sunset colors filter through regular cloudlike puffs from one of the three surrounding volcanoes, still very much active.
And as inviting and charming (and expensive!)* as all the cafés, bake shops, and restaurants with roof-top terraces and tinkling courtyard fountains were, they felt and resembled those any other nice city. Their sole uniqueness lies in the fact that we were still in Guatemala, and after so many chicken bus rides a return to civilization was civilized culture shock indeed. I loved exploring the ancient ruínas of the city—walking through columns no longer supporting the grand roofs now just bricks and dust under my feet. The plazas, arches, and doorways of a city whose allure was always peeking through some doorway or glimpsed just around the cornert. But here it was too easy; I soon forgot the taste of Guatemala, the rugged beauty and the challenges endured to uncover that beauty (ahem, 8 hours in a pull-man bus with no air conditioning to get to Semuc Champey). Despite all Antigua’s antiquated beauty, I was missing some connection to it. And then it hit me.
More like passed me on the street, looking darn good. I wanted that popsicle! I couldn’t help but narrow in one two girls and a small boy with undoubtanly the best popsicle I had ever seen, was that strawberry with banana chunks? There were definitely whole banana chunks. Without thinking, I scrammbled after the woman I had just seen licking my popsicle. “Compermiso, donde puedo encontrar esto paleta?” The girl did a double take. Her sister and her son, stopped and gaped at me open mouthed, forgetting their popsicles for a split second. They could tell I was foreign. The girl gave me a sheepish smile while her sister laughed and gave me directions. I thought I misunderstood, knock at the yellow carpenter’s house? I would have knocked at every yellow house and building on that street. Luckily for those inside, the girl came with me and directed me towards the, I was right, carpenter store. She knocked decisively on the wooden door, eyeing me curiosuly. “Si?”, answered the woman peering around the unmarked, heavy wooden door. They want paletas the girl explained and took off, glancing back once more grinning. The lady eyed us, and gave us her best smile when I asked what flavors she was offering. to be honest I couldn’t understand most of them, (leche (milk) was a flavor?).
“Which one’s the best?”
“ Fresa con crema, porque tiene pedasos de anana y fresas.”
“Quiero dos de esos porfavor.”

And they were the best. At 2 pesos apiece (25 cents cada uno), they were freshly made full of sabor and fresh, juicy chunk of bananas and strawberry. We sat on the stoop to concentrate at the task on hand, and as I waited for mine to melt I noticed several people walking around with the standard Sarita chain ice cream, glancing at our prizes enviously. I think it’s safe to say we were the only extranjeras who had discovered Antigua’s secret: good, homemade food is hiding behind closed doors and carpenters stores. Here was the treat, and the connection with the city I was craving. It just proves the old age advice ask the locals, do as the locals do to get the cremé de la cremé without the added foreigner disadvantage tax.

*Cultural Note: Nothing in Guatemala is really expensive, some of the nicest meals at the nicest restaurant in smaller towns, not Antigua, cost $10-12 US dollars, a normal, not even great meal in the States. Cost is all relative, but what goads my goat is when things are expensive because of tourism. The quality goes down, prices go up, and you’re left wondering exactly what you paid for and where you are because it’s just like home. Some travelers like that, but I go out of my way to find my own dirt track off the beaten path. I’ve rarely been disappointed, hey even diarrhea is an adventure when you’re far from home.

Semuc Champey: The Adventure Diaries

2010-02-01T18:56:00.000-08:00

Well we did it, we topped the Volcano experience, no easy feat to be sure, but exploring caves filled with water past your shoulder and swimming with a candle in hand was far more wildly stupid and completely thrilling. But leave it to two tiny, little girls to seek out the craziest adventures in all of Guatemala and you would have a pretty fitting description of us. For most, staying at our huespedaje would have been adventure enough. Out in the middle of nowhere we were left the first night with no lights, no idea what to expect and no mosquito net when the generator cut off, unbeknowingly to us (but all too apparent within a few minutes) at 9:30. We’re lucky we had a sheet for a blanket, apparently others were not so lucky in that respect.
However, we were staying at the hands-down BEST place anywhere near Semuc Champey. Guatemala’s premier water park, Semuc Champey is resplendent with natural limestone waterfalls and a tier of perfect aquamarine pools that go from shallow for laying out and sunning to deep enough to dunk in and still not touch the mossy bottom. Add some friendly fish and you have the perfect mixture of natural wonder and comfortable enjoyment. Semuc Champey may just be the most beautiful area in a country as full as hidden gems and rico as any royal treasure trove. Our huespedaje was only an 8 km walk from the falls, right on the bank of the Río Cabahon. Posadas Marias, completly run and managed by a friendly staff of native K’echi Indians was established for vistors to stay in the area while ensuring their tourist dollars were going towards conservation of the sensitive ecological surroundings and into the hands of the people from the altaverapace area. Not far removed foreign investors, which is a problem with many touristy places in Guatemala, a sad fact that does nothing to help improve the lives and surroundings of the true inhabitants. For this reason, accommodations were basic yet perfectly sufficient. The focus was interacting with the area and community, not just hitting another must-see tourist spot.
This is where the caves come in. The Kan-ba caves were dark inside. Dark, and filled with water, and cold, up to your shoulders cold water, and bats. Awesome. And it was, our small group of five including guide, had the caves all to ourselves. Hugging the sides of the cave with water up to my knees and candle clenched tightly, I felt like a pioneer. Scaling over stalagmites or crude ladders held together with what looked like duct tape only to jump down into dark pools below I felt only very grateful I did not go first. Hey it was dark in there, but I didn’t ask too many questions once I realized how fast my candle was burning.
But the exhilaration...if the cold didn’t steal your breath away, the excitement would! It was unbelievable... very, very unbelievable, all things considered this was an attraction that would never be opened for tourist trade in the States. No part of it was for those faint at heart. And when our guide all too innocently joked about jumping off the 30 ft. high bridge into the río where we were currently relaxing in our oddly lumpy tubes... I shot him back a wide full-teeth grin of a smile, “We,” I replied wickedly, “would love to.” Love, might not have been the word I would use as I was flailing through the air minutes later; but it is the perfect sentiment for me to describe Semuc Champey. Loved it, you got to go... And go before they realize taking tourists through water filled caves with candles may actually be a really, really stupid (and dangerously fun) idea.

Living La Vida Lívingston

2010-01-30T17:37:00.000-08:00

I didn’t know what language to speak, the landscape changed completely, I started out in Guatemala and ended up in the Carribean. “Sí, hubo un otro mundo completamente diferente.” Another world, our argentine friend remarked later laughing about Lívingston, sitting on a floating dock on the Río Dulce River in the late afternoon rays.

We were staying in what I like to think of as “the tree house”, or the crazy cabin on wooden stilts on the side of the Río Dulce River. Complete with wooden boardwalks connected to the main cabana and other cabins, canoes, a water taxi to get to the mainland, and mosquito nets, it was not your typical huespedaje (aka cheap hotels that function along the same line as a hostel but are more common in Central America.) It was so much better, isolated and serene after the hustle and bustle of cities and tourist traps. Dulce, or sweet in Spanish was a perfect way to describe this unspoiled river with banks of lush vegetation and shear walls of limestone bordering this rather large river. Much less commercial and visited than Lago de Atilan, boats were necessary to get from point to point but the pace of everything was much more reminiscent of island style living.

This way of life might also have been instigated by its proximity to the Carribean, Río Dulce flows right out into the Carribean Sea. Lívingston right on the upper lip of Guatemala and the carribean coast, is a fusion of Guatemalan heritage and culture mixed with Caribbean lifestyle and flavor. Lívingston is also unique to Guatemala in that it is home to the Garífuna, an independent population of black Guatemalans that trace their ancestory back to the Carribean island of St. Vincent and later displaced by the British and shipped to the islands off of Honduras. It is here where I wasn’t sure if I should be speaking Spanish or English. The Garífuna are affectionately known as the only black community in Guatemala, who carry their Caribbean roots alongside their Spanish speaking Guatemalan adaptations.

Lívingston is really a small community, not much more than a stopover for people traveling by boat from Belize, Honduras, or the Río Dulce, one could see most of it in two hours. Pero, para conocer Lívingston, se necesita mas tiempo. In Spanish there are two verbs for to know: saber and concocer. Saber is to know facts, such as Lívingston is the only place to get unique pan de coco or coconut bread and Tapado a fresh seafood soup rico with coconut milk. Conocer on the hand is to know a person or place intimately. My trip to Lívingston is a perfect example I have been there, passed a couple of hours, researched it; por mí sabé Lívingston, pero para concocer Lívingston necesito mas tiempo. I need more time to explore its streets, exotic cuisine and Caribbean charm. More time to head out to the beach or uncover more of its Caribbean roots in dancing styles and idiomatic expressions.

Part 2: Surviving the Cone

2010-01-25T19:08:00.000-08:00

My shoes were burning, I could feel the heat underneath as the smell got stronger. There was a thick mass of people making their way up behind me, there was nowhere to go but up and fast. Ouch! I yanked my hand back from the rock, full of searing heat whenI had tried to boost myself up by grabbing a hold. Getting up was much harder now, still as steep as ever, but now burning hot as well. I scrambled 10 meters up, and stopped dead in my tracks not caring if my shoes melted off my feet—molten hot lava less than 7 meters from me. So close a tall European boy was standing with his face turned against the heat, his hand outstretched in the opposite direction roasting a marshmallow. Roasting a marshmallow from the heat of molten hot lava, cooool. Plane to Guatemala $330, expensive hiking gear $200+, hiking 2 hours up steep, precipitous volcano slopes $9.99, a bag of Guatemalan marshmallows $3.00, stick that will later be given back to the children who sold it to you $0.61 cents, seeing molten hot lava a few feet away: priceless.

Molten hot lava is awesome, words nor pictures can do it justice, and I think that’s because it’s not something you just see, it’s something you feel. Literally it’s hot! The lava slowly creeping down the side of Volcán Pacaya was a rich nutrient black volcanic rock shiny from the extreme heat and pressure of melting criss-crossed and terraced with the burning ember and orange glow that is not a color so much as a property of heat. Another reason, I think it’s so awesome to see lava, is because let’s face, when do you ever see lava unless you stupidly hike-up an active volcano looking for it (best case scenario) or a volcanic eruption occurs (worst case scenario). And it was stupid, there we were dozens of people, gawking at real, live molten lava, roasting marshmallows and posing for pictures while suffering intense heat and the consequential strong smell of burning rubber.

If the way going up was hard, the way coming down was just plain dangerous. There were too many people and the footing was loose volcanic rock on a steep slope, never a good combination. At points I could have been surfing down the mountain, I had so little control of the rocks underneath. Going down by yourself was dangerous, but I was more scared of the people behind me. A boulder was knocked down, and we all scrambled to get out of its way. The guy in front of me clamped it between his legs to stop it from hitting a frightened and paralyzed women in front of him. He suffered a serious gash, but it could have been much worse. And it was starting to get dark. Carlos was a great guide though, he hustled us together and got us moving through the worst parts before there was no natural light left. The worst was over, we still had to hike an hour and a half in the dark but it was mostly declining trails. Behind me the lava, brighter in the dark was picking up speed and giving a magnificent display. Dozens of people were attempting to capture it and you would see the constant pop of camera flashes going off. How they were getting down in the dark beats me, but I didn’t envy their trip one bit.

Finally at the bottom ourselves after a mainly uneventful hike down, we reached the kids begging for the sticks and flashlights back so they could re-sell them to a swarm of tourists the next day. There was a festive air, but it could just be because we were all thrilled and happy we survived. It was probably one of the more touristy, crowded things we had done thus far. There were certainly no Guatemaltecos besides the guides and taxis. Yet to me it resounded as one of the most authentic experiences I’ve had. Nowhere else are volcanoes such a prominent feature of the landscape and integrated into the dynamics of the land from soil properties to abundant hot springs. Nowhere else would offer such an adventure either, not for nine bucks, and definitely not without a slew of waivers and requirements to sign off. But here was a country that settled a village at the base of a volcano. Carlos, the other guides, and townspeople including children grew up traversing the volcano and exploring their land with or without tourists. As Carlos explained to me, “ I love my job, I get to go out and climb a mountain everyday, breathe fresh air, stay close to my home, meet people from all over. The people that leave to go out to the big cities are unhappy, the do work they do not enjoy, and travel far from their homes and families for what? I am happy to stay here, and I am glad people want to see all parts of Guatemala as Guatemala is.”

Climbing the cone. Part 1

2010-01-22T18:57:00.001-08:00

In a land filled with no less than 35 volcanoes, climbing up one, is far from unusual. In fact it might be one of the more touristy things we’ve done. For starters it was cheap, the whole thing guide, shuttle, entrance fee was just around 9 dollars a head, if you have a good. cheap Spanish speaking bargainer that is, which actually almost describes me perfectly (the Spanish gets a little rural at times). After receiving the very cheap (I’m assured begrudgingly) special amiga + estudiante price of $35 quetzales (the exchange rate is 8.2 Q to $1 US dollar) plus the park fee of 40 quetzales we’re all set. No waivers, no warning, nada. Oh, and a warning to buy two flashlights and some marshmallows if we want. Okay...

The next thing I now we’re off. Crammed into another shuttle van with our backpacks stuffed into our laps with 11 other tourists. The 13 of us had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into, but then again, neither did the multiple other vans of tourists from other companies (who I assume did not get the special amiga + estudiante price). Even the 2 girls who had hiked the San Juan Volcano in the Lago de Atilan area, remarked how different the 2 experiences were. And what an experience we had...

After a 2 hour drive from Antigua, skirting the outskirts of Guatemala City, we arrived at the town of San Francisco Sales. Here surrounding the Volcan Pacaya, we were met by a tienda with last minute supplies and a swarm of town children hawking marshmallows, twice the price of course, and more necessary, walking sticks. “Es necesario, “ they assured us with somber faces, in both Spanish and English fighting each other for the sales. Even the littlest one had a stick to sell, launching at anyone who had two empty hands. I politely declined. Necessary, I decided was a word used too lightly by vendors in Guatemala. More importantly, it was here where we met our guide, Carlos, and became Los Dragones. Dragons, he explained, was our group name and it was very important to stay together as a pack using our name, lest we becomes hostages in another group to another guide. Aye, Aye Capitán.

I’m not going to be modest, I’m out of shape, I spent my winter break ignoring the whole concept of exercise. Hiking straight up a volcano sans stick in long pants with a heavy backpack (how do they always get so heavy?!) was going to be what I will politely term “interesting”. I felt reassured by Carlos though, he was a small guy, skinny in a sweatshirt and jeans, I have no idea how old he was but he looked 17. He was a great guide; patient, nice, good at his job and no doubt much older, but he looked 17. But if I was anxious about the 4 hour hike both ways, at least I was willing to do it on foot. For everyone else, there were “taxis” exhausted guide horses and their owner who offered to shuttle people up for 100 Q most of the way, one way, a small fortune in Guatemala if used both ways. After 10 minutes of walking, 7 member of our group were being taxied up, I for all my inactivity was fine, so far.

Cut to 40 minutes later, almost half way there, and the going is rough, it’s loose sand good for making your calf muscles quiver and it’s not straight up, but with steep winding cuts making the way longer, and an hour left to go I’m not sure which way I prefer. Our group is young, all college age kids and we’re moving fast with breaks every once and awhile. But the terrain is changing drastically, the trees are disappearing, there is no brush in sight and the dusty dirt path has turned into shards of porous black volcanic rock. At certain intervals Carlos will point out specific lava formations from a year ago, then 3 months ago, then 3 days ago, we’re getting close. We come to a ridge at the end of the winding path, and there it is, the mouth of the volcano. Okay, it’s still a way’s up but it’s the closet I’ve ever been to the mouth of a smoking volcano.

There was smoke coming out in copious amounts, thick plumes of it. The rest of the way ia straight up. Straight up on loose gravel, and freshly fallen lava chunks. The footing is not very secure, at regular intervals a small rock-slide would start, or some good size dried lava chunks would crash down. Carlos, assured us this was the toughest part and we were almost there. We didn’t need him to tell us we were close, I could feel heat radiating out of the rocks... The going was slow, each step had to be carefully tested to not create a mini avalanche, picking our way up like mountain goats through terrain so steep you could really only see the person and rocks in front of you. Luckily I was just behind Carlos who had the best footing and was not knocking stuff down my way. The next blast of heat was intense, uncomfortably hot—we had made it. Not to the mouth of the volcano of course, but to a point about 8 yards away from slowly flowing lava. The smell was worse than burning rubber, it took me only a second longer to realize it was the bottom of my shoes burning...

To be continued.

A Taste for Tortillas

2010-01-22T18:25:00.000-08:00

“We only trust people who eat what we eat,’ she told me one day as she tried to explain the relationship between the guerillas and the Indian Communities.”—Riogoberta Menchu

The Mayans have always attached a particular importance and significance to maize. Believing themselves to be born and descended of maize. They treat the plant that gives them life with the utmost respect using every bit they can from the leaves or hojas, to the kernels in tortillas, tamales, or tamalitos. There is even a sweet drink, distinct to Guatemala—Atole, made from ground up corn, it is sugary and unusual. It has a decidely corn taste, sweet and thick with a few yellow corn kennels hidden at the bottom for texture. Chile or cinnamon is commonly added to the Atole based on the customer’s preference. Still and yet, the most famous signature maize staple is the torilla.

You will first hear the clap, clap, clap of tortillas being made on baked clay comals before you see them anywhere—correction everywhere: street side vendors, small shops, restaurants. This is very important as people here are used to having fresh tortillas right off the comal, or if worst comes to worst, prepared that day. There are no store bought tortillas here, that is absurd. Tortilla making appears to be a social activity as three or four women come together over the flashing hot comal, forming balls of dough that they clap between their palms to flatten out while they gossip, laugh, and smile. For festivals and celebrations, there are more tortillas vendors, and little comedors with table and chairs will walk to the vendors for fresh tortillas to accompany the ordered meal. But the vendors themselves will sell you their specialty. For a festival there are larger, sweeter tortillas sold with sugar added into their mix. Hearty and sweet, people will line up for these tortillas and the vendors need no advertising or hustling calls.

There are three types of tortillas blue, white and yellow reflecting the three types of maize that grows wherever the people can cultivate it. The blue tortillas, so dark blue as to appear almost black with brown spots from the heat of the comal; these ones are the best and are much rarer. Always a treat they are exotic, both slightly sweet and smoky with a rich thick bite.

Maize is undoubtedly the most important crop for Guatemala. Not because it’s a huge economic export like coffee. It’s a crop of the people, with a rich cultural and culinary history. So significant is maize that in a country filled with economic poverty, low sanitation standards, and social unrest still today, everyone from farmers to the people far removed from the field in the city, was aware of the plight of maize in 2009. Global warming, which is still not fully recognized in the United States, a first world country with the most access to technology, education, and free-flow of ideas, is being watched here. Here in Guatemala, it may not be given the same name as “Global Warming”, but it is given the same interest and concern. Last year for the first time ever, there was a serious lack of rain in Guatemala, rain that is counted on for the corn to grow. But the rain did not come and the corn could not grow. Crops failed prematurely, farmers lost everything, whole pueblas could not eat. The president of Guatemala, declared an emergency and ordered corn from the surrounding countries is Central America, El Salvador and Honduras, and onwards. Food was collected for pueblas without maize.

This year the weather is watched carefully, Guatemala is waiting for it’s customs to continue, it’s crops to grow.

Our Black Jesus Party

2010-01-19T12:17:00.000-08:00

“We’re going to the Festival of the Jesus Negro.”

“ What?”

“La celebración de Jesus Negro,” Carla explained patiently. ¿Quieres ir?

She didn’t even have to tell me there was dancing, food, special vendors, all the works for a party. She got me with The Black Jesus. So we all went, about 10 white students trying to learn Spanish and our teachers into the back of an open pick-up truck with rails. It was dangerously fun, and I made sure to get a handle right near the back of the truck where all the action is (in your case Mom, I’m just elaborating to make the story better). There we were, all of us crammed in the back of a pick-up truck practically bottoming out over speed-bumps while all the Guatemaltecos had a good laugh at the Gringo’s sake. Tables had turned, now it was a bunch of white tourists who must have looked like a batch of inadequate migrant workers shipped off to the fields in droves (was this the power of Black Jesus?). Up the hills, down the hills, there were so many of us that people pushing the little refrigerated ice creams carts were passing us at times. I enjoyed myself thoroughly and was almost sorry we arrived at our destination 20 minutes later. A small town nestled up in the hills outside of Xela, small but certainly not quiet; it was fiesta time, at 10:00 in the morning. It was not a tourist venture, not even mentioned in the guidebooks. So when we showed up hanging out the truck the local announcer broadcasting out of his van shouting through his megaphone quite gleefully: ... “Los turismos están aqui, empezamos!” The tourists are here, let’s start!

By initial impression alone, I never would’ve guessed it was a religious celebration, by looks alone, that Black Jesus must have been one great guy because they townspeople threw him a party that would put Mardi Gras to shame. For three days there would be a carnival, costumes, tents full of arcade games or food, a multitude of vendors selling everything from parrots to ceramic chicken banks and earthenware pots, horse rides, dancing, a band, and so much more, and of course fireworks. *Note: this were not just common everyday fireworks we’ve experienced up to now, these were awe-worthy, special occasion fireworks along the likes of Fourth of July. Thankfully the puebla was situated up on a hill, walking back to nuestra casa later Friday night, we were treated to a perfect view.

It was not until we neared the church that a more somber atmosphere began to set in. The mood was still festive as the church was filled with music, streamers and colors from both decorations and the people so beautifully dressed in their finest hupiles (indigenous blouses) and cortas (indigenous skirts) or trousers, streaming on and out of the church. Inside something was going on, but there was no semblance of order. People were knelling to pray, or resting pensively on the pews while others were lighting candles spread around the church or walked in carrying their own candle already lit.

The legend of Jesus Negro is not site specific to this small town, or even just Guatemala, but it is the result of the mezcla between Mayan worship and Christianity’s dominance and far-flung reaches. Indigenous Mayan worship commonly invokes the use and presence of special herbs and plants burned as incense, carried throughout the street when parading special idols or burned at the altar during worship. As the legend goes, one of the earliest crucifixes to be commissioned in Guatemala and distributed to a small puebla, Esquipulas near the border of Honduras, was placed in a small abode, while incense was lit asking for blessing or showing devotion to the image. The smoke from the incense constantly being burned eventually covered the crucifix with resin, altering the perceived skin tone, thus the creation of Jesus Negro. The notoriety however, of this new idol, grew from its curative ability. Popularity spread and there now exists Black Jesus’ and their respective celebrations and pilgrimages everywhere form Panama to Chimayo, New Mexico...I have to say though, it was the best party I’ve ever crashed on a cultural note. It was the perfect peek at pure Guatemalan fun and a heady does of culture.

¡ Viva Jesus Negro!

Buried Treasure

2010-01-18T20:00:00.000-08:00

“You just got to go, it’s unbelievable, like nothing you’ve ever seen...I can’t even explain it.”

I’m not big on cemeteries, they never held any real fascination or even notice for me besides realizing it’s just as expensive to die and it seems a big waste of good space, after all it’s FORever. I’ve also been to a total of four cemeteries in my entire life. The first and third one looked like suburbia with neatly maintained rows, white white marble against perfectly trimmed green grass, and planned gardens—five flowers per tree. The second time was for a field trip in high school with Mrs. Brown, senior year to study increasing life spans and epidemic diseases. The last one was the notorious old cemetery in Savannah, Georgia and was by far the most interesting, but that time I was more fascinated by a huge agave plant riddled with carvings of people’s names and greatest loves to see much of the other, much older wonders. But after meeting Nicole, another traveler in her 40’s, in a cafe, swapping stories about our time in Guatemala and other places, she was adamant we go see this one cemetery. “You just got to go, it’s unbelievable, like nothing you’ve ever seen...I can’t even explain it.” She also warned us not to go alone as the cemetery had a reputation for attracting drugs, drunks, and dead people.

The next day I begged my maestra to take me on an outing to the cemetery. “Elisa, tú quires ir al cemetario? Porqué?” Helen was bemused, but she agreed with a wicked smile, giving me the feeling I wasn’t the only one who would enjoy the little field trip.

Quetzaltenago has a long, fascinating (complicated by Spanish) history. A history that can be read in one of the cities oldest and most unique cemeteries, with its mix of spacious corridors dominated by commandeering and alternately bizarre private tombs to its tangle of overgrown brush pushing out disjointed, scattered headstones. Here time periods and styles clash, there exists a patch of the cemetery laid with very old traditional stone graves from the late 18^th century cholera epidemic that swept through the city. A small wrought iron fence separates the antique tombstones from the bright splashes of color from the more modern monuments behind it. These luxurious private tombs are designed to the owner’s taste and sometimes personality. Such as one ex-president of Xela obsessed with Greek architecture and responsible for many of the cities Greek buildings, he will forever be remembered in a small Greek mausoleum complete with Greek columns and Greek flare.

Despite the wide range of themes and colors of these private shrines, they all held one, and probably most important thing in common, each had the money in life to rest however they pleased in the afterlife. Built right behind the church, the most expensive and extravagant tombs monopolized the property right behind the entrance. Huge concrete affairs either housing one very important person, or sometimes joining one or two families in one palatial plot. Families being buried together is something of a universal intent, but here there were literally miniature palaces encasing a family, it was a so unique, anyone could see why ancestors or strangers would want to venture here to visit. And venture here they must have, most of the tombs were crumbling charmingly in antiquitarian fashion or else were brightly painted and surrounded by flowers (most tombs had vase like holders incorporated into the overall structure). Judging by the abundance of both wealth in flowers and freshly painted hues, it’s not hard to believe ancestors and families visit the cemetery often, and keep up with it every year as they would their house. It’s both a source of pride for the family as well as a way to pay respect for the dead. Day of the dead, a yearly festival honoring those who have passed with food and offerings is also popular as a festival here, though it does not seem to be as culturally built in as Mexico with her Katrina’s.

Less extravagantly planned and situated, but nonetheless cared for or attended with love, were the smaller plots, tiled monuments, and headstones. Heaped almost randomly were they could fit, it resembled fighting one’s way through a forest to view the various tombs here. This, Helen explained, was for ordinary people, the sprawl, the distance, all signified a more humble budget. But this section of the cemetery was far from lacking in detail or design, it was just on a much smaller scale. I found this part to be refreshing and more individualized, some were tiled, one was painted in the colors of Mexico with an elaborate Virgin of Guadalupe, some even had the deceased’s picture covered with class built into the structure. Hardly any were just a name and a date, poetry or prayer was one more means of elaboration or dedication.

As we walked back to the entrance I listened to Helen wistfully mourn how hard Guatemala can be for young children and infants. Even in a big city where there is more accesses to information, healthcare, and opportunities, Guatemala is still very much a country in need. This time I paid closer attention as we passed what appeared as walls of tombs, stacked with a slot for each small child, built up like a fortress. Right near the entrance a place of most importance, was the stronghold of the cemetery; Guatemala never forgets its children. And let any visitor know, the mourning in not dark and dreary, life is a celebration—the bright colors selected with love to highlight the life that had been, not the time that had been lost.

The Chicken Bus Post

2010-01-16T19:00:00.001-08:00

Guatemala is famous for many things: textiles, indigenous dress, maize, and camionetas, also known as Chicken Buses. To me it’s a term of endearment, a long-standing joke about the baggage that is transported in these second-class, everyday buses. The best part of the joke? It’s completely true. I’ve ridden with a woman carrying a live turkey in her sack, I didn’t even know it was on there until she passed me in the aisle on her way out, not even batting an eye. Some locals call the buses Parejas, for the two ladders that connect to the luggage rack on top where everything from duffel bags to baskets of vegetable are thrown on top. The assistant to the driver, runs up and down the racks, through the front door, through the back door, all while the bus is in motion getting luggage, collecting fares, and packing in more passengers.

Much different than the Pullman buses (the converted vans), the camionetas are old converted US school buses, although you’d hardly recognize them. Each bus, driver, and the essential assistant, have a personality of their own. Most buses are painted bright colors along with names, themes and sometimes motifs. So far we’ve ridden in Guadalupe, Christo, and I’ve forgotten the rest, but one had a Miley Cirus sticker on it’s review mirror, she seems to be pretty popular here despite her utter lack of talent or relevance. Guadalupe had a huge colorful picture of the Virgin de Guadalupe on the ceiling, and I might have imagined, it but I could swear the driver was a bit more careful and a bit more cautious than the others...

From the outside the buses appear bright and cheery and up-kept. I’ve often seen two or more men washing their bus with great pride. Inside they’ve been altered slightly, or maybe it’s because they’re so old I just think they been converted, but they all very much have the school bus feel. On one trip the boys sitting behind us made intermittent kissing noises, the ride was so similar to middle school I had to laugh.

The ride is well, the ride is indescribable, each so different than the last it’s dizzying. Some buses are spaciously empty with only a few heads in the first few front seats. Then there’s mercado buses, a whole different story. If you try going to a puebla when it’s market day, you’ll be packed with about 2 dozen other people and their baggage (whatever it might be) for the ride. The Saturday we went to Totonipican for the market, there were 3 people in every seat, 7 people in every aisle and the back of the bus was so crowded with us stragglers, we were left crushed together not too unlike sardines in a can. Nobody could move, but every once in awhile the back door would pop open and another passenger would literally be shoved in and the door would shut, the assistant hanging onto the back ladder, fully outside, no doubt scouting the next victim.

The assistants are usually young boys, teenagers or a bit older, who take their jobs very seriously. The assistant for Totonipican managed to reach us in the back of the bus by hanging on to the luggage racks and stepping on the back of the seats through the crowd, avoiding the packed aisles to collect our fare. “Pero señor no puedo ahora,” I smiled bemused to packed in to even try to reach into my pocket and hand him the fare. He nodded knowingly, unworried. Navigators of the buses, each new face that comes on, from the side of the road or a designated stop is noted and visited by the assistant, and if change is needed he will disappear again and re-appear five minutes later with the exact change needed. They are sultans of their domain, and do whatever they please, but have, in my experience, been very humorous and very helpful with as much personality as the bus they are running.