(I wrote this back in December...around the 19th or 20th)
In case you hadn’t noticed from my e-mail signature, I have a mild obsession with the Flaming Lips. My favorite quote by them to date is from the song “Fight Test.” It says,
“I don’t know where the sunlight ends and the starlight begins,
It’s all a mystery.
And I don’t know how a man decides what’s right for his own life,
It’s all a mystery.”
It is all a mystery. This random, exciting and often unfair world. I don’t understand why I landed in particular circumstances that allow me to run around the world like a chicken with my head cut off...blindly, recklessly. To nowhere. From nowhere. Bound for I don’t know where.
I don’t understand why I woke up underneath a clean duvet, my head resting on a white, fluffy pillow (two things I severly underappreciated before travelling.) Why I got to take a hot shower...a long one...without remorse for the water and energy I wasted long after I was sparkling clean. I really don’t understand why, upon climbing a winding staircase, I was greeting Lake Atitlan, peacefully resting beneath three volcanoes. Why this lake seems to wrap me in its arms as it envelops my entire range of vision. And while this lake hugs me, I drink good, hot, black cofee and eat bacon, on top of runny egg yolks, on top of freshly baked bread. I sort of smile at the little warning lights my nutritional education sets off in my brain... If I were starved in prison for years and years, this is exactly the breakfast I would order upon my release. I don’t understand why I am lucky enough to not be in prison—it’s true, I’m innocent (for the most part), but then throusands upon thousands of innocent people—people whose Karma should be off the charts!—have spent their lives in prison. Well, I refuse to wait to be imprisoned or starving before I appreciate a good fucking breakfast.
I don’t understand why, when I finish eating, my friend Liz will join me in the lake’s embrace for breakfast, round 2. Why we are lucky enough to be able to afford this, in terms of time and money. Or why I, accompanied by Liz, have had seven versions of the best day of my life in just one week—eating at restaurants we can’t afford, taking walks, enjoying views, talking about nothing and everything, and then watching three members of the Buena Vista Social Club, sectioned off by votive candles, play at my favorite teeny-tiny bar! Can you imagine your dear friend (who also happens to be saving the world in the Peace Corps) from University joining flying from Costa Rica to watch a Cuban flautist (say it outloud—it’s fun) in a little bar in Guatemala?! I just don’t get any of it! The randomness of luxury and love and luck and life. It’s all a mystery. All I know is that I won’t wait to enjoy it. This Food. This Lake. These Volcanoes. This Earth! This Friendship. This Life.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
The Magic Hat
Magic hats. We’ve known about them forever. They exist in movies and books, legend and song. Magicians use them to stun their audiences. They bring snowmen to life and sort wizards. And yet, despite all of the evidence, people still doubt their existence.
I inadvertently bought one on the streets of Antigua a few weeks ago. It looked innocent enough—a red and white felt Santa Hat, with white cotton pigtail braids tied off with red ribbons. I probably should have caught on to its powers when I saw that the red stars on the white strip were actually little lights that chase one another at an astonishing speed; extremely high-tech, by any standards. There was something about that hat—I knew I had to have it. So I borrowed 10 quetzales from Kevin, another volunteer and avid non-believer in anything he can’t put his finger on (he even considers all fiction to be a waste of time in ‘fantasy worlds…but I can’t get into that here.)
People usually think I'm kidding or crazy when I tell them it’s a magic hat. I offer it to everyone. “Do you want to try on the magic hat?” Most sober people say no. Most drunk people say yes. I'm not sure why this is, as the powers are much more understandable and poignant to sober people...but I think it’s kind of like dancing—people are afraid they look silly; but dancing is not about how you look…simply about the freedom of letting music course through your body and letting it all go. Some people say it might give them epilepsy--watching the stars chase one another. It won't. But it is a powerful hat.
Saturday night was a Christmas party for some of the kids, who were to perform, among other things, a dramatized version of Where the Wild Things Are. The party was commence at 6 with tamales and pizza, continue with the play, a visit from Santa, and finish up with a disco...complete with fog machine and crazy flash-y-lights. As with all things in Guatemala, the party began about a half hour late. I look over at Kevin (my hat purchaser) and he is standing alone, looking miserable. "Kevin..what's up dude?" "I am extremely pissed off right now." Kevin snarls in his Australian accent. "I'm .... sorry..." "The teachers took the kids out for the procession...and show up late and our theater person has to leave and everything is completely screwed up. I'm going to have someone's head for this next week. I'm seriously going to kill someone." "Well then I'm glad I'm leaving next week." "Not you." "Do you want to try on the magic hat?" I pull it out of my bag and dangle the pigtails in front of his face. I smile huge and he shakes his head. “I promise it will make you feel better.”"That's alright." "Come on Kevin! Just try it on. It's magic!" He bats the pigtails away. And gives me a you-are-insane-and-annoying look. "Fine. I'll try on the 'magic' hat." He takes the hat. And puts it on. The power takes hold almost immediately. Kevin is doubled over laughing.
"Ha ha!! I told you it's magic! Now watch this." I push the button to turn on the lights and the stars begin to run around the hat. He starts swinging the pigtails around his face…and keeps laughing.
"Now, let me take a picture." He's trying so hard not to enjoy this. But bends under the hat's power. I pull out my crappy disposable camera and Kevin puts his hands on his hips and flashes me his best model face.
He stops laughing for a minute and reaches into his bag. "Alright...one more," and he drags out his digital cameral and hands it to me. Three little kids pounce into Kevin’s arms. And there, in the magic hat, Kevin and three children try to pose, but are instead caught in a moment…far beyond smiling…caught in the hat's enchantment.
I'm not how you define magic... and I don’t think I need proof…but the next skeptical look I get about the hat... will be met with a copy of that photo.
It is a magic hat.
I inadvertently bought one on the streets of Antigua a few weeks ago. It looked innocent enough—a red and white felt Santa Hat, with white cotton pigtail braids tied off with red ribbons. I probably should have caught on to its powers when I saw that the red stars on the white strip were actually little lights that chase one another at an astonishing speed; extremely high-tech, by any standards. There was something about that hat—I knew I had to have it. So I borrowed 10 quetzales from Kevin, another volunteer and avid non-believer in anything he can’t put his finger on (he even considers all fiction to be a waste of time in ‘fantasy worlds…but I can’t get into that here.)
People usually think I'm kidding or crazy when I tell them it’s a magic hat. I offer it to everyone. “Do you want to try on the magic hat?” Most sober people say no. Most drunk people say yes. I'm not sure why this is, as the powers are much more understandable and poignant to sober people...but I think it’s kind of like dancing—people are afraid they look silly; but dancing is not about how you look…simply about the freedom of letting music course through your body and letting it all go. Some people say it might give them epilepsy--watching the stars chase one another. It won't. But it is a powerful hat.
Saturday night was a Christmas party for some of the kids, who were to perform, among other things, a dramatized version of Where the Wild Things Are. The party was commence at 6 with tamales and pizza, continue with the play, a visit from Santa, and finish up with a disco...complete with fog machine and crazy flash-y-lights. As with all things in Guatemala, the party began about a half hour late. I look over at Kevin (my hat purchaser) and he is standing alone, looking miserable. "Kevin..what's up dude?" "I am extremely pissed off right now." Kevin snarls in his Australian accent. "I'm .... sorry..." "The teachers took the kids out for the procession...and show up late and our theater person has to leave and everything is completely screwed up. I'm going to have someone's head for this next week. I'm seriously going to kill someone." "Well then I'm glad I'm leaving next week." "Not you." "Do you want to try on the magic hat?" I pull it out of my bag and dangle the pigtails in front of his face. I smile huge and he shakes his head. “I promise it will make you feel better.”"That's alright." "Come on Kevin! Just try it on. It's magic!" He bats the pigtails away. And gives me a you-are-insane-and-annoying look. "Fine. I'll try on the 'magic' hat." He takes the hat. And puts it on. The power takes hold almost immediately. Kevin is doubled over laughing.
"Ha ha!! I told you it's magic! Now watch this." I push the button to turn on the lights and the stars begin to run around the hat. He starts swinging the pigtails around his face…and keeps laughing.
"Now, let me take a picture." He's trying so hard not to enjoy this. But bends under the hat's power. I pull out my crappy disposable camera and Kevin puts his hands on his hips and flashes me his best model face.
He stops laughing for a minute and reaches into his bag. "Alright...one more," and he drags out his digital cameral and hands it to me. Three little kids pounce into Kevin’s arms. And there, in the magic hat, Kevin and three children try to pose, but are instead caught in a moment…far beyond smiling…caught in the hat's enchantment.
I'm not how you define magic... and I don’t think I need proof…but the next skeptical look I get about the hat... will be met with a copy of that photo.
It is a magic hat.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
This is my final answer (for now)
Maybe it's because, with volcanoes as landmarks, this is the first town I've ever lived in where I actually know which direction I'm facing. Maybe it's because my team has won the weekly Sunday Night Pub Quiz at Reilly's three weeks in a row. Or, it could be the little flowers that grow out of each and every roof. But it's definitely not the firecrackers that go off at all hours when the sun is down, and many when the sun is up (that, for the record, serve no purpose, save to deafen and piss you off, to no end) ; or the neighbouroughly Gallos (roosters...also the name of the local Brew...), whose discordant crows are as painful as an adolescent's and even more untimely (the sun DOES NOT rise at 3:30 a.m., goddammit) It might be that, upon arrival, I was assured I would either be bedridden with a swift-weight loss solution-- diarrhea--, robbed at knife point, or be swept off my feet by an exotic man from an exotic place, and I'm still 0 for 3 (I have to come back with at least one interesting story.) But I think it's probably because I finally have an answer to the question that haunts me like a ghost... what-- in God's name--do you do with an English major?
This is what you do.
You find a bookstore you love and meet the owner. You pretend to have heard of all of his favorite authors and to love every book he recommends. He will also own a retaurant/bar next door. The Menu cover, a cheap, stained photo copy, states "Live Music-Great Food-Uncomfortable Seats-Confused Staff-Tattered Books-Cold Beer-Two Dogs". It's called Cafe No Sé--that means "I don't know" in Spanish, and since that's pretty much how you feel about life these days, it feels like a fit. They also serve a Musician´s Breakfast, which is two cigarettes, two advil and a cup of coffee...cheap beer optional...you think that is really neat. Spend a lot of time at his bar...drinking cheap beer and great margaritas (stay away from the Mezcal he smuggles in from Mexico...the clear stuff.. with the scorpian venom...) Once you have convinced him of your love for books and laid-back cool-ness, you convince him to actually pay you to sit in the bookstore you love. You will be making about $1/hour...but benefits include a free meal and discount on drinks.
So, now you have food, drinks and income taken care of (assuming you only eat three days a week and spend your other $10 on beer). Next, drenched in the illusion that you can convince all children to love books, you ask if you can head up the book club at a volunteer project in a country where reading for pleasure has absolutely NO place. Where bookstores exist solely to serve tourist purposes and people look at you like a complete freakshow when you whip out a book on the bus. It's a lost cause to begin with--this idea that you can get kids to think about and appreciate books--but (sigh), you're a hopeless idealist as well...so you actually get excited as you set yourself up for your inevitable crash and burn as the Book Club Director. (I got a lovely preview of this when I bought El Principito--The Little Prince--for all of the boys in my class and the books swiftly became a means through which to hit one another).
Once you have all this figured out, you buy a plane ticket you cannot afford back to Guatemala. And decide to stay through April.
But, really, what do you with an English major, is whatever ever you want...and whatever you love...because that is why you became an English major in the first place.
This is what you do.
You find a bookstore you love and meet the owner. You pretend to have heard of all of his favorite authors and to love every book he recommends. He will also own a retaurant/bar next door. The Menu cover, a cheap, stained photo copy, states "Live Music-Great Food-Uncomfortable Seats-Confused Staff-Tattered Books-Cold Beer-Two Dogs". It's called Cafe No Sé--that means "I don't know" in Spanish, and since that's pretty much how you feel about life these days, it feels like a fit. They also serve a Musician´s Breakfast, which is two cigarettes, two advil and a cup of coffee...cheap beer optional...you think that is really neat. Spend a lot of time at his bar...drinking cheap beer and great margaritas (stay away from the Mezcal he smuggles in from Mexico...the clear stuff.. with the scorpian venom...) Once you have convinced him of your love for books and laid-back cool-ness, you convince him to actually pay you to sit in the bookstore you love. You will be making about $1/hour...but benefits include a free meal and discount on drinks.
So, now you have food, drinks and income taken care of (assuming you only eat three days a week and spend your other $10 on beer). Next, drenched in the illusion that you can convince all children to love books, you ask if you can head up the book club at a volunteer project in a country where reading for pleasure has absolutely NO place. Where bookstores exist solely to serve tourist purposes and people look at you like a complete freakshow when you whip out a book on the bus. It's a lost cause to begin with--this idea that you can get kids to think about and appreciate books--but (sigh), you're a hopeless idealist as well...so you actually get excited as you set yourself up for your inevitable crash and burn as the Book Club Director. (I got a lovely preview of this when I bought El Principito--The Little Prince--for all of the boys in my class and the books swiftly became a means through which to hit one another).
Once you have all this figured out, you buy a plane ticket you cannot afford back to Guatemala. And decide to stay through April.
But, really, what do you with an English major, is whatever ever you want...and whatever you love...because that is why you became an English major in the first place.
The Winning Application
Dear John,
I write to inquire about potential employment at your bookstore, Dyslexia, beginning in January 2006.
I have always dreamt of opening a used bookstore that exclusively sells good books...and I realized that you are living my dream! (And I´m overlooking the Dan Brown section only because I heard you request its removal with my own ears). It would be an honor and a privilage to work for and among genuine book lovers.
My qualifications for this job stem back to the first grade, when I was placed in the highest reading group, a status I maintained throughout elementary school. I went on to finish my reading wheel first in the Fourth Grade, as well as earn a B.A. in English Literature at the University of Virginia, where I finished nowhere near the first in my class; but I attribute that mostly to cheap beer--which you know about, as a bar owner. It should be said that if I had the patience or the money, I would probably have a Graduate degree in English as well, as reading, thinking and writing about books are three of my favorite activities in the wide world. I have no doubt that I could be a valuable resource to your customers. In fact, most of the time, my brain just feels like a big fishbowl, swimming with books.
Please find my application attached. If you have any other questions about me, or my qualifications, please feel free to contact me the next time I am in your bookstore. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Skiles K Hornig
Aspiring Bookseller
P.S. I´m not sure how I´m going to afford any more of your books if you´re not paying me to sit there...so be advised that most of the money is coming right back to you.
Application
For Your Consideration:
Books I Love
Fiction: The Awakening, Kate Chopin
Cat´s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut
The Years, Virginia Woolf (and Mrs. Dalloway)
Non-Fiction: My Friend Leonard, James Frey
Helter Skelter (can´t remember)
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Tom Wolfe
Bestsellers I love: The Stand, Stephen King (and The Shining...and just about everything Stephen King)
The Time Traveller´s Wife, Audrey (drawing a blank)
A Million Little Pieces, James Frey
Bestsellers I hate: Tuesdays with Morrie (couldn´t finish)
The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown
The Lovely Bones
Books I am fascinated by but am sure I don´t understand:
The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner
Ulysses, James Joyce
To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
Books I should love but that, in reality, bore me to tears:
Anna Karinina (sp?) Tolstoy
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce
A Confederacy of Dunces (which I shouldn´t say because I think this author killed himself before it was published)
Books on Tape I Loved:
America, The Book, Jon Stewart and the cast of the Daily Show
Bag of Bones, Stephen King
Books on Tape that almost killed me by putting me to sleep at the wheel:
Memoirs of a Geisha
The Alchemist (I really wanted to like that one)
Books I loved Growing up:
Stewart Little, EB White (the first novel I ever read)
James and the Giant Peach, Roald Dahl
Jumungi, Chris Van Allsberg
On My List to Read:
The Executioner´s Song, Norman Mailer
Light In August, William Faulkner
Everything in your bookstore
I write to inquire about potential employment at your bookstore, Dyslexia, beginning in January 2006.
I have always dreamt of opening a used bookstore that exclusively sells good books...and I realized that you are living my dream! (And I´m overlooking the Dan Brown section only because I heard you request its removal with my own ears). It would be an honor and a privilage to work for and among genuine book lovers.
My qualifications for this job stem back to the first grade, when I was placed in the highest reading group, a status I maintained throughout elementary school. I went on to finish my reading wheel first in the Fourth Grade, as well as earn a B.A. in English Literature at the University of Virginia, where I finished nowhere near the first in my class; but I attribute that mostly to cheap beer--which you know about, as a bar owner. It should be said that if I had the patience or the money, I would probably have a Graduate degree in English as well, as reading, thinking and writing about books are three of my favorite activities in the wide world. I have no doubt that I could be a valuable resource to your customers. In fact, most of the time, my brain just feels like a big fishbowl, swimming with books.
Please find my application attached. If you have any other questions about me, or my qualifications, please feel free to contact me the next time I am in your bookstore. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Skiles K Hornig
Aspiring Bookseller
P.S. I´m not sure how I´m going to afford any more of your books if you´re not paying me to sit there...so be advised that most of the money is coming right back to you.
Application
For Your Consideration:
Books I Love
Fiction: The Awakening, Kate Chopin
Cat´s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut
The Years, Virginia Woolf (and Mrs. Dalloway)
Non-Fiction: My Friend Leonard, James Frey
Helter Skelter (can´t remember)
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Tom Wolfe
Bestsellers I love: The Stand, Stephen King (and The Shining...and just about everything Stephen King)
The Time Traveller´s Wife, Audrey (drawing a blank)
A Million Little Pieces, James Frey
Bestsellers I hate: Tuesdays with Morrie (couldn´t finish)
The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown
The Lovely Bones
Books I am fascinated by but am sure I don´t understand:
The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner
Ulysses, James Joyce
To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
Books I should love but that, in reality, bore me to tears:
Anna Karinina (sp?) Tolstoy
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce
A Confederacy of Dunces (which I shouldn´t say because I think this author killed himself before it was published)
Books on Tape I Loved:
America, The Book, Jon Stewart and the cast of the Daily Show
Bag of Bones, Stephen King
Books on Tape that almost killed me by putting me to sleep at the wheel:
Memoirs of a Geisha
The Alchemist (I really wanted to like that one)
Books I loved Growing up:
Stewart Little, EB White (the first novel I ever read)
James and the Giant Peach, Roald Dahl
Jumungi, Chris Van Allsberg
On My List to Read:
The Executioner´s Song, Norman Mailer
Light In August, William Faulkner
Everything in your bookstore
Monday, December 12, 2005
Shopping with the boss
I've recently found employment. That's right. I GOT A JOB! It's at a bookstore, aptly named Dyslexia and it's owned by an ex-pat named John, originally from New York.
So I'm walking down the street, soaking up the cool sunshine and listening to Modest Mouse when I see John walking towards me.
We meet and give hugs. "Well hi ya, boss!"
"Hello there!" He's wearing ripped blue jeans and a very dirty white shirt--small business owning down here is just a different thing. He puts his arm around me and we walk. "What are you up, today?"
"Not sure...just out walkin' on a beautiful day. You?"
"Errands. I got a list. Garbage pails, yeast, herbs."
"Sounds grand. You want a shopping buddy?"
"That'd be great, let's go shopping."
He entrusts his tape measurer to my bag and some important photos to my arms. He takes out his list and begins, "Chaulk. Paint. Glass. Tape. Dill. Rosemary. Yeast. A couple other things we can worry about later." We´re off. First stop is art store where we buy chalk..then to the pharmacy which has no surgical tape--strike one.
"What are the pictures of," I ask. "Take a look. My friend was in Ethiopia."
A man covered in methodical scars. "Each mark is for a man he killed. A war lord. That guy is a bad ass." "Wow." Sooo many people in the world doing so many interesting things!
I´m not really sure what you would call the third stop...it´s kind of like a hardware store. But no keys. Strike two. PVC pipe? We´re in luck...but you have to go back into stop number 3, order from one desk, get the receipt. Pay at another desk, get another receipt, until finally returning to where they will actually cut the pipe. Do not ask why or how this process ever came about. "This country is fucking insane. I mean I love it. But it´s insane!" John says.
So we´re back in store number three, which is quickly turning from strike two into a huge home run. John´s checking his list off like Santa.
"What are you reading these days, Jonathon?" "I am reading...slower than anyone in the history of the world...The Corrections." "And?" "And. It is the most scathing critique of the American way of life...he has absolutely NO compassion for his characters...it´s very well-written. But!" He puts his hand in the air and spins around on his heel. "It´s hard to spend time with characters the author hates!" I exclaim. "Exactly! I find myself completely underwhelmed by all these hot new American authors." "Hmm...I am going to think about that while I look around."
My flip flops work like skates around the tile floor and I start scooting around. Shower heads. Colored glass squares (for decoration?) A tile rendition of Virgin and Child. Light Fixtures. Old School Lawn Mower--you know the red ones you push that don´t even have a motor??!! Sooo cool. Toilet seats on the opposite side of the room as the toilet bowls. I am really enjoying this place. But, alas, eventually it´s time to pick up our PVC pipe and we head to the market.
"You know what John?" "Tell me." "I went to this amazing shoe store in New York City where they played this awesome music that made me want to dance. Wouldn´t that be great if they had a party where everyone could try on their favorite shoes and have a dance party?"
"That is a great idea. Who needs to walk in front of dinky mirror when trying to decide on shoes??" "That´s what I´m saying! You have to try dancing." "Or kicking." "Or kicking."
The market is the great maze of shopping experiences. No Mall Directory. No Store Signs, not even store names. It is delightful and absolute chaos. You find Hello Kitty kitch next to hanging meat. I don´t get it. I don´t want to. I freaking love it. While John is looking at neon pink pitchers for his juice bars, I find a real live authentic Cheer Bear, just like the one I had when I was five. While John is looking for Dill, I find a woman who hand makes the coolest aprons I´ve ever seen (and for those of you who don´t know about my love affair with aprons...well...it´s a long story). They sell colored powders that allow you to grow rainbow gardens! It smells like rotting shrimp on my left and fresh flowers on my right.
"I´m trying to decide whether I should get kitchy crap or Mayan crafts for Christmas presents...what do you think?" I ask. "You should find one great thing and get it for everyone," John suggests, leaning over a table of machetes. He picks one out--perfect for juicer-bound coconuts. "Are you getting a shealth for that?" "Nope," he says, as the vendor wraps it in newspaper. "We´re going to have to go sheath-less." "I just don´t know John. How can the same gift be right for everyone?" "Like, look. Here at these cheap Puma shoes. If you bought these for everyone you know, that would be the right gift for everyone." "Ok. Right. Then I could have them all save them and wear them to my wedding! That is a good idea. Which reminds me that I think I´m going to ask all of my friends for ideas for my birthday...because I think my friends have great ideas." "Now that is a great idea. Are you getting married?" "Not today." "Me neither. I´ve been thinking I should have a non-wedding wedding."
"I think I have had that idea too."
"I think everyone has had that idea. But no one actually does it."
"We should."
"We should.
"But we´ll have to think of a better name than ´non-wedding´. It´s a different thing."
"But maybe that´s just what it is. Like some things are just "non"--like non-fat."
"I don´t know. Non-fat includes the word "fat" because it´s worse than something fatty. You must remind one of what they are missing. Whereas a non-wedding isn´t actually missing the wedding. I think it´s different."
"More interesting. Yes."
The wheels are turning.
My bag is full. John´s arms are full. It´s time to leave. Good luck finding you´re way out of the place when you need to. We´re trying so hard, but laughing harder; getting coaxed loudly by various vendors in Spanish and distracted by all the awesome fake Puma gear...a myriad of chilies...neon plastic baskets...used clothing by the gallon...pinatas...flashing, singing Christmas lights.
Finally we reach sunlight and walk directly back to the place we started. John: "Well, we followed our elbow to get to our ass."
John runs to get keys and leaves me with the stuff next to a woman selling bubbles, which I of course buy. He runs back, exclaiming, "I´ve found the perfect orphan table for the juice bar!" We haul all the stuff across the street and there it is....raw and simple and spectacular. The perfect orphan table. "If no one´s claimed it by the time I get back from the grocery store it´s ours!"
So I plop down with our stuff, on the side of the road with my music and my bubbles to guard the table. I´m hard at work on my non-wedding wedding plans when I notice a kid looking longingly at my bubbles. John comes bouncing back up the street, arms full of veggies. I hand the kid the bubbles. No one´s claimed the table. As far as the list goes, we´re successful, minus the garbage pails. And lists are great...but a three year old has bubbles, a child of the 80s has a Care Bear, and a new Juice Shop owner has an orphan table...what if we had forgotten to look off the list? It´s the great thing about running errands. We head in with one idea. And head out with a million more.
So I'm walking down the street, soaking up the cool sunshine and listening to Modest Mouse when I see John walking towards me.
We meet and give hugs. "Well hi ya, boss!"
"Hello there!" He's wearing ripped blue jeans and a very dirty white shirt--small business owning down here is just a different thing. He puts his arm around me and we walk. "What are you up, today?"
"Not sure...just out walkin' on a beautiful day. You?"
"Errands. I got a list. Garbage pails, yeast, herbs."
"Sounds grand. You want a shopping buddy?"
"That'd be great, let's go shopping."
He entrusts his tape measurer to my bag and some important photos to my arms. He takes out his list and begins, "Chaulk. Paint. Glass. Tape. Dill. Rosemary. Yeast. A couple other things we can worry about later." We´re off. First stop is art store where we buy chalk..then to the pharmacy which has no surgical tape--strike one.
"What are the pictures of," I ask. "Take a look. My friend was in Ethiopia."
A man covered in methodical scars. "Each mark is for a man he killed. A war lord. That guy is a bad ass." "Wow." Sooo many people in the world doing so many interesting things!
I´m not really sure what you would call the third stop...it´s kind of like a hardware store. But no keys. Strike two. PVC pipe? We´re in luck...but you have to go back into stop number 3, order from one desk, get the receipt. Pay at another desk, get another receipt, until finally returning to where they will actually cut the pipe. Do not ask why or how this process ever came about. "This country is fucking insane. I mean I love it. But it´s insane!" John says.
So we´re back in store number three, which is quickly turning from strike two into a huge home run. John´s checking his list off like Santa.
"What are you reading these days, Jonathon?" "I am reading...slower than anyone in the history of the world...The Corrections." "And?" "And. It is the most scathing critique of the American way of life...he has absolutely NO compassion for his characters...it´s very well-written. But!" He puts his hand in the air and spins around on his heel. "It´s hard to spend time with characters the author hates!" I exclaim. "Exactly! I find myself completely underwhelmed by all these hot new American authors." "Hmm...I am going to think about that while I look around."
My flip flops work like skates around the tile floor and I start scooting around. Shower heads. Colored glass squares (for decoration?) A tile rendition of Virgin and Child. Light Fixtures. Old School Lawn Mower--you know the red ones you push that don´t even have a motor??!! Sooo cool. Toilet seats on the opposite side of the room as the toilet bowls. I am really enjoying this place. But, alas, eventually it´s time to pick up our PVC pipe and we head to the market.
"You know what John?" "Tell me." "I went to this amazing shoe store in New York City where they played this awesome music that made me want to dance. Wouldn´t that be great if they had a party where everyone could try on their favorite shoes and have a dance party?"
"That is a great idea. Who needs to walk in front of dinky mirror when trying to decide on shoes??" "That´s what I´m saying! You have to try dancing." "Or kicking." "Or kicking."
The market is the great maze of shopping experiences. No Mall Directory. No Store Signs, not even store names. It is delightful and absolute chaos. You find Hello Kitty kitch next to hanging meat. I don´t get it. I don´t want to. I freaking love it. While John is looking at neon pink pitchers for his juice bars, I find a real live authentic Cheer Bear, just like the one I had when I was five. While John is looking for Dill, I find a woman who hand makes the coolest aprons I´ve ever seen (and for those of you who don´t know about my love affair with aprons...well...it´s a long story). They sell colored powders that allow you to grow rainbow gardens! It smells like rotting shrimp on my left and fresh flowers on my right.
"I´m trying to decide whether I should get kitchy crap or Mayan crafts for Christmas presents...what do you think?" I ask. "You should find one great thing and get it for everyone," John suggests, leaning over a table of machetes. He picks one out--perfect for juicer-bound coconuts. "Are you getting a shealth for that?" "Nope," he says, as the vendor wraps it in newspaper. "We´re going to have to go sheath-less." "I just don´t know John. How can the same gift be right for everyone?" "Like, look. Here at these cheap Puma shoes. If you bought these for everyone you know, that would be the right gift for everyone." "Ok. Right. Then I could have them all save them and wear them to my wedding! That is a good idea. Which reminds me that I think I´m going to ask all of my friends for ideas for my birthday...because I think my friends have great ideas." "Now that is a great idea. Are you getting married?" "Not today." "Me neither. I´ve been thinking I should have a non-wedding wedding."
"I think I have had that idea too."
"I think everyone has had that idea. But no one actually does it."
"We should."
"We should.
"But we´ll have to think of a better name than ´non-wedding´. It´s a different thing."
"But maybe that´s just what it is. Like some things are just "non"--like non-fat."
"I don´t know. Non-fat includes the word "fat" because it´s worse than something fatty. You must remind one of what they are missing. Whereas a non-wedding isn´t actually missing the wedding. I think it´s different."
"More interesting. Yes."
The wheels are turning.
My bag is full. John´s arms are full. It´s time to leave. Good luck finding you´re way out of the place when you need to. We´re trying so hard, but laughing harder; getting coaxed loudly by various vendors in Spanish and distracted by all the awesome fake Puma gear...a myriad of chilies...neon plastic baskets...used clothing by the gallon...pinatas...flashing, singing Christmas lights.
Finally we reach sunlight and walk directly back to the place we started. John: "Well, we followed our elbow to get to our ass."
John runs to get keys and leaves me with the stuff next to a woman selling bubbles, which I of course buy. He runs back, exclaiming, "I´ve found the perfect orphan table for the juice bar!" We haul all the stuff across the street and there it is....raw and simple and spectacular. The perfect orphan table. "If no one´s claimed it by the time I get back from the grocery store it´s ours!"
So I plop down with our stuff, on the side of the road with my music and my bubbles to guard the table. I´m hard at work on my non-wedding wedding plans when I notice a kid looking longingly at my bubbles. John comes bouncing back up the street, arms full of veggies. I hand the kid the bubbles. No one´s claimed the table. As far as the list goes, we´re successful, minus the garbage pails. And lists are great...but a three year old has bubbles, a child of the 80s has a Care Bear, and a new Juice Shop owner has an orphan table...what if we had forgotten to look off the list? It´s the great thing about running errands. We head in with one idea. And head out with a million more.
Stayin' Alive
You walk through the graveyard to get there. They bury their dead above ground and they rest in ornate homes. Some are fancier than others, but all in all, it doesn't look like such a bad place to rest for eternity. There are benches and flowers everywhere..and the eeirie presence of black vultures circling the air.
We're getting close. You can smell it. We veer off, down a small hill and the vultures are getting thicker as I step over a few more graves. And then, for the first time, I see where the vultures land.
It looks and smells like a mountain of shit has melted here. And, in essence, it has--Guatemala City's mountain of shit. The dump encompasses my entire range of vision...a hill dripping with god-knows-what refuse. People with bags line up like ushers around the yellow dump trucks. I don't know what they look for. I don't know what they find. I'm not sure if I want to.
Claudio, our guide, begins to tell us about this place that has been the only source of livlihood for so many people of the city. His grandparents and parents worked there; he always wanted to work there as a child.
I think back to when I was little--my parents both had previous marriages with no children. Consequently, I believed that everyone had to get married once before they found their real life partner and had kids. I thought that all people belonged to country clubs and believed in Santa Claus. And spoke English. Kids are funny that way-- the only world we can get our mind around is our own--it's frighteningly true for adults, as well.
Claudio tells us that until recently, there were no regulations on the dump. Drug dealers milled about. Children worked there alongside their parents. Children bought drugs for their parents. Children sold drugs for their parents. Children gave their parents the money they earned, and their parents bought alcohol and/or drugs...which left the kids to find food in the garbage dump. Food...from a place where all the waste--human, toxic, and otherwise--is put to rest. Imagine that being your entire world.
You see and hear all this, watching the vultures and shifting your weight against a gravestone and there is simply nothing to say or feel. It suddenly feels like my wardrobe of expressions is empty and I have nothing to wear on my face. We begin to walk back and Claudio talks about how, if not for Camino Seguro, where he is now a Social Worker, he would be in the dump at this very moment. I want to listen...as we walk pass a woman selling flowers on the side of the street. They're beautiful. I want to ask Claudio everything. But my vocabulary (especially my Spanish one) is as empty as my face... as we walk past a dead dog in the street. My legs sort of feel like spaghetti tossed into boiling water.
We get back to the project. And I lie down on one of the lunch benches. It's sort of like the balance beam of nap taking--on the bench. The neatness of this particular rest seems extremely important. If I lie down on the grass, and don't use my muscles, it's possible that I will turn to liquid, seep into the ground and simply disappear. On the bench there is something to focus on...a reason not to let go.
The afternoon kids begin to file in for lunch. I serve lunch a bit mechanically, until my boys show up and ask for more tortillas than they're allotted, which I give them--we wink and smile at one another. It's against the rules, and for good reason, not give out extra tortillas. But I'm empty and feeling selfish so I give for entirely selfish purposes...I'm trying to inhabit my body again.
Upstairs, in the classroom, Blanca (the teacher) tells me I am going to lead a dance for the Welcome Stretch. The boys dutifully line up, facing me, in rows on the rooftop deck and the opening lines of "Stayin' Alive" launch from the boombox. Let the games begin--if it's disco they want, it's disco they'll get. We spin and jump and sprinkler and skip...mostly we laugh in discord and unison...it begins with me leading and ends as a great mesh of madness.
I look over at the cloud of vultures...still circling...and back at the kids. It's so close. But-- still--it's another world here...a world with a lot more than garbage...and that's a lot for all of us to get our minds around.
We're getting close. You can smell it. We veer off, down a small hill and the vultures are getting thicker as I step over a few more graves. And then, for the first time, I see where the vultures land.
It looks and smells like a mountain of shit has melted here. And, in essence, it has--Guatemala City's mountain of shit. The dump encompasses my entire range of vision...a hill dripping with god-knows-what refuse. People with bags line up like ushers around the yellow dump trucks. I don't know what they look for. I don't know what they find. I'm not sure if I want to.
Claudio, our guide, begins to tell us about this place that has been the only source of livlihood for so many people of the city. His grandparents and parents worked there; he always wanted to work there as a child.
I think back to when I was little--my parents both had previous marriages with no children. Consequently, I believed that everyone had to get married once before they found their real life partner and had kids. I thought that all people belonged to country clubs and believed in Santa Claus. And spoke English. Kids are funny that way-- the only world we can get our mind around is our own--it's frighteningly true for adults, as well.
Claudio tells us that until recently, there were no regulations on the dump. Drug dealers milled about. Children worked there alongside their parents. Children bought drugs for their parents. Children sold drugs for their parents. Children gave their parents the money they earned, and their parents bought alcohol and/or drugs...which left the kids to find food in the garbage dump. Food...from a place where all the waste--human, toxic, and otherwise--is put to rest. Imagine that being your entire world.
You see and hear all this, watching the vultures and shifting your weight against a gravestone and there is simply nothing to say or feel. It suddenly feels like my wardrobe of expressions is empty and I have nothing to wear on my face. We begin to walk back and Claudio talks about how, if not for Camino Seguro, where he is now a Social Worker, he would be in the dump at this very moment. I want to listen...as we walk pass a woman selling flowers on the side of the street. They're beautiful. I want to ask Claudio everything. But my vocabulary (especially my Spanish one) is as empty as my face... as we walk past a dead dog in the street. My legs sort of feel like spaghetti tossed into boiling water.
We get back to the project. And I lie down on one of the lunch benches. It's sort of like the balance beam of nap taking--on the bench. The neatness of this particular rest seems extremely important. If I lie down on the grass, and don't use my muscles, it's possible that I will turn to liquid, seep into the ground and simply disappear. On the bench there is something to focus on...a reason not to let go.
The afternoon kids begin to file in for lunch. I serve lunch a bit mechanically, until my boys show up and ask for more tortillas than they're allotted, which I give them--we wink and smile at one another. It's against the rules, and for good reason, not give out extra tortillas. But I'm empty and feeling selfish so I give for entirely selfish purposes...I'm trying to inhabit my body again.
Upstairs, in the classroom, Blanca (the teacher) tells me I am going to lead a dance for the Welcome Stretch. The boys dutifully line up, facing me, in rows on the rooftop deck and the opening lines of "Stayin' Alive" launch from the boombox. Let the games begin--if it's disco they want, it's disco they'll get. We spin and jump and sprinkler and skip...mostly we laugh in discord and unison...it begins with me leading and ends as a great mesh of madness.
I look over at the cloud of vultures...still circling...and back at the kids. It's so close. But-- still--it's another world here...a world with a lot more than garbage...and that's a lot for all of us to get our minds around.
The Darker Side of Things
It was just last week.
We were on our way home, I'm squashed against the window like a fly as usual, but the traffic is unusually bad. Someone notices that a bus is stopped in the middle of the road ahead and so--logically--everyone heads to our side of the bus to see what's going on...I feel the bus lean heavily on its right two wheels and I brace the seat in front of me--it's going to tip over, I know it, and I'm going to be crushed on this road beneath all of these people. I look away, out the window as we inch by the stopped bus. The bus looks just like ours, but it's empty...empty from the back...until the driver's seat where a body has clearly been covered by a white sheet. The bus looks just like ours. I release the seat in front of my to cover my mouth. "Holy Shit," I whisper. We continue to inch up the road. The road is full of the evacuated passengers, staring in disbelief at the bus. There are police. We continue to inch by the bus that looks just like ours. I gasp, I look away, I stuff my head into my fleece because, like snatching my hand of a hot pan before feeling the heat. I look back. On the road, a hand reaches out from underneath a white sheet....blood is spilling everywhere. If the window was open, I would have vomited. But I replace my head in my fleece as my hands and legs get shaky and weary, just like after you almost get into a car accident. I've never seen anything like this.
My friend Jacob is sitting next to me. And I turn my head toward him, still resting on the fleece and ask, "What happened?"
"Gangs. They were shot."
"But, why?"
"The bus drivers have to pay off the gangs in order to drive through their territories. If you don't pay, they'll hunt'ya down."
"That's terrifying."
"Yep." But Jacob I want to scream--we drive through gang territory every day! Our bus looks like that...and I'm sure that bus driver had just as much religious iconography in his bus, so I'm sure that won't help us...how can we be sure that....????
But Jacob knows all this. He's worked here for a year. I'm baffled. I'm terrified. I'm confused. What am I doing here????
We were on our way home, I'm squashed against the window like a fly as usual, but the traffic is unusually bad. Someone notices that a bus is stopped in the middle of the road ahead and so--logically--everyone heads to our side of the bus to see what's going on...I feel the bus lean heavily on its right two wheels and I brace the seat in front of me--it's going to tip over, I know it, and I'm going to be crushed on this road beneath all of these people. I look away, out the window as we inch by the stopped bus. The bus looks just like ours, but it's empty...empty from the back...until the driver's seat where a body has clearly been covered by a white sheet. The bus looks just like ours. I release the seat in front of my to cover my mouth. "Holy Shit," I whisper. We continue to inch up the road. The road is full of the evacuated passengers, staring in disbelief at the bus. There are police. We continue to inch by the bus that looks just like ours. I gasp, I look away, I stuff my head into my fleece because, like snatching my hand of a hot pan before feeling the heat. I look back. On the road, a hand reaches out from underneath a white sheet....blood is spilling everywhere. If the window was open, I would have vomited. But I replace my head in my fleece as my hands and legs get shaky and weary, just like after you almost get into a car accident. I've never seen anything like this.
My friend Jacob is sitting next to me. And I turn my head toward him, still resting on the fleece and ask, "What happened?"
"Gangs. They were shot."
"But, why?"
"The bus drivers have to pay off the gangs in order to drive through their territories. If you don't pay, they'll hunt'ya down."
"That's terrifying."
"Yep." But Jacob I want to scream--we drive through gang territory every day! Our bus looks like that...and I'm sure that bus driver had just as much religious iconography in his bus, so I'm sure that won't help us...how can we be sure that....????
But Jacob knows all this. He's worked here for a year. I'm baffled. I'm terrified. I'm confused. What am I doing here????
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Chicken Buses and Chicken Feet
Some people ask me what I do here. It’s a good question. What do I do here? I guess the answer is nothing and just about everything.
I wake up with the sun at 6 a.m and make coffee, pick out my CDs for the day and throw on my head phones. I try leave about 15 minutes earlier than I need to so I can walk around the empty cobblestone streets, sip my coffee, marvel at the volcano in the early morning light and listen to music...15 minutes just for me, just to simply live. At seven we all board the Chicken Bus.
Chicken Buses are the colorful, party-version re-incarnation of our elementary school buses. They are all Blue Bird brand...which, incidentally, come from Buena Vista, Virginia; “Buena Vista” means “good view” in Spanish—not really sure if that’s significant, but I thought it was interesting. The Blue Bird is no longer black on yellow but bright Royal Blue, diving through a dizzying red and white sky, blue streak streaming behind. I know yellow and black buses will always have a place in my heart, but –HONESTLY!—THIS is what a bus was meant to look like. All shocks and emission controls have been ripped out, which means that when we drive over the uneven cobblestones in Antigua, our heads bounce like those dashboard Hawaiian hula dancers and the bus leaves a trail of black smoke wherever we go...kind of like an airplane streak in the sky. The small seats on the passenger side of the bus have been all been replaced by big ones, so that no matter how skinny you are, you have turn side ways and sort of shimmy down the aisle. And remember how when we hit high school we decided that only two people could fit in the big seats? Well, we were wrong. It is possible to fit exactly five adult butt cheeks on one big seat. Which means that one person is plastered to the window, one person has one cheek on the seat and one cheek in the aisle and the very lucky third person is squished in between. If you have issues with personal space, chicken bus rides are not for you.
We drive up and down a windy mountain road to get from Antigua to the city. Don’t make the mistake of thinking a windy mountain road means the bus driver will take his time. Rather he drives the bus like a kid on one of those race car video games you sit in—hunching over the steering wheel and turning it with his entire body, putting all of his weight into every single turn. It’s great fun—like an enormous game of jello between fifty strangers. It sort of feels like we’re on two wheels around the bends, but, so far, no bus I’ve been on has tipped over.
We arrive to school around 8:45 and mill around before the kids come at 9. Every day is different. Our activities are different. Our moods are different. Sometimes we read. Sometimes we play games. Sometimes we sing and others we dance. Sometimes I am tired and sometimes I am awake; the kids are always awake. Sometimes they need a partner to play their weird version of Clue that makes no sense but is fun any way. There are a few kids who need someone to let them win at Chess, which I’m good at since I can’t really play. Other kids need someone to let them win at Connect Four, which is hard for me because I hate losing at that game. Sometimes they need a hug, sometimes they need a hand and sometimes they need someone to notice that they’re crying-- which, for 4th-6th grade boys, can be a big thing to ask for.
I like to help serve lunch. I like the kitchen because a little kid with a few missing teeth named Kevin always works in there with me and we break some of the rules and make each other laugh. Lunch is generally rice and beans or chicken feet soup. That’s right--chicken feet. Someone kindly donates them to the program. And the kids suck on the toes and spit out the bones. I don’t eat much on those days. And I seriously want to pummel myself for every time I rummaged past boxes of pasta and cans of beans in the cupboard...and then through cartons of milk and bags of apples and god knows what other food in the refridgerator, only to groan, “There’s NOTHING to eat!!”
An afternoon group comes at 1:15 and we go through all the motions again. The kids never cease to amaze me. There are a few mornings where six seems impossibly early and I wonder what I am doing...and then I get to the project and without fail, there is at least one moment where I share a smile with a kid and feel like the luckiest lady alive. I am entirely overwhelmed by how much I care about these kids each and every day...by how badly I want them to succeed...how thankful I am that someone gave them a chance for an education...and my heart breaks that they may have had to spend their childhood in a garbage dump, and that many children just like them did.
At 4:20 we get back on the chicken bus. I get out my book and giggle to myself as I load my “Mellow Mood” mix for the ride home...there’s simply nothing Mellow about any of it.
I wake up with the sun at 6 a.m and make coffee, pick out my CDs for the day and throw on my head phones. I try leave about 15 minutes earlier than I need to so I can walk around the empty cobblestone streets, sip my coffee, marvel at the volcano in the early morning light and listen to music...15 minutes just for me, just to simply live. At seven we all board the Chicken Bus.
Chicken Buses are the colorful, party-version re-incarnation of our elementary school buses. They are all Blue Bird brand...which, incidentally, come from Buena Vista, Virginia; “Buena Vista” means “good view” in Spanish—not really sure if that’s significant, but I thought it was interesting. The Blue Bird is no longer black on yellow but bright Royal Blue, diving through a dizzying red and white sky, blue streak streaming behind. I know yellow and black buses will always have a place in my heart, but –HONESTLY!—THIS is what a bus was meant to look like. All shocks and emission controls have been ripped out, which means that when we drive over the uneven cobblestones in Antigua, our heads bounce like those dashboard Hawaiian hula dancers and the bus leaves a trail of black smoke wherever we go...kind of like an airplane streak in the sky. The small seats on the passenger side of the bus have been all been replaced by big ones, so that no matter how skinny you are, you have turn side ways and sort of shimmy down the aisle. And remember how when we hit high school we decided that only two people could fit in the big seats? Well, we were wrong. It is possible to fit exactly five adult butt cheeks on one big seat. Which means that one person is plastered to the window, one person has one cheek on the seat and one cheek in the aisle and the very lucky third person is squished in between. If you have issues with personal space, chicken bus rides are not for you.
We drive up and down a windy mountain road to get from Antigua to the city. Don’t make the mistake of thinking a windy mountain road means the bus driver will take his time. Rather he drives the bus like a kid on one of those race car video games you sit in—hunching over the steering wheel and turning it with his entire body, putting all of his weight into every single turn. It’s great fun—like an enormous game of jello between fifty strangers. It sort of feels like we’re on two wheels around the bends, but, so far, no bus I’ve been on has tipped over.
We arrive to school around 8:45 and mill around before the kids come at 9. Every day is different. Our activities are different. Our moods are different. Sometimes we read. Sometimes we play games. Sometimes we sing and others we dance. Sometimes I am tired and sometimes I am awake; the kids are always awake. Sometimes they need a partner to play their weird version of Clue that makes no sense but is fun any way. There are a few kids who need someone to let them win at Chess, which I’m good at since I can’t really play. Other kids need someone to let them win at Connect Four, which is hard for me because I hate losing at that game. Sometimes they need a hug, sometimes they need a hand and sometimes they need someone to notice that they’re crying-- which, for 4th-6th grade boys, can be a big thing to ask for.
I like to help serve lunch. I like the kitchen because a little kid with a few missing teeth named Kevin always works in there with me and we break some of the rules and make each other laugh. Lunch is generally rice and beans or chicken feet soup. That’s right--chicken feet. Someone kindly donates them to the program. And the kids suck on the toes and spit out the bones. I don’t eat much on those days. And I seriously want to pummel myself for every time I rummaged past boxes of pasta and cans of beans in the cupboard...and then through cartons of milk and bags of apples and god knows what other food in the refridgerator, only to groan, “There’s NOTHING to eat!!”
An afternoon group comes at 1:15 and we go through all the motions again. The kids never cease to amaze me. There are a few mornings where six seems impossibly early and I wonder what I am doing...and then I get to the project and without fail, there is at least one moment where I share a smile with a kid and feel like the luckiest lady alive. I am entirely overwhelmed by how much I care about these kids each and every day...by how badly I want them to succeed...how thankful I am that someone gave them a chance for an education...and my heart breaks that they may have had to spend their childhood in a garbage dump, and that many children just like them did.
At 4:20 we get back on the chicken bus. I get out my book and giggle to myself as I load my “Mellow Mood” mix for the ride home...there’s simply nothing Mellow about any of it.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
The First Week
well, hello there! so here I am... a bit further from home...and a lot closer to the equator...
I woke up this morning to some combination of cooing doves, crowing roosters and firecrackers. Rolled out of bed and heated up some water over the little gas stove in my new shared kitchen. As I poured the water into my brand new, stainless steel coffee mug/french press I couldn´t help but smile, knowing I would never, ever have to drink the instant excuse for coffee that is Nescafe--it´s coffee-drinkers miracle, really. Coffee in hand, I ascended to the rooftop deck... and was greeted by a massive green volcano...one of three that looms over my new colonial town, Antigua ... and-- well-- I knew it was going to be a good day. And that´s how the last five mornings have been-- Doves/rooster/firecrackers--coffee--volcano. This Guatemalan breakfast recipe is a good one, I think.
So, over the past four days, I´ve been gearing up to volunteer for Camino Seguro, or Safe Passage, where I will work with children whose parents work at the city garbage dump in after school programs, among other things. It´s hard to grasp how much I have seen in these past few days.
Thursday, we toured the project... walking through streets so dangerous, we needed a security guard. We were overcome by the stench...the grime and shit on the street... the utter, utter destitution. Vultures circled over the a vast, toxic garbage dump, where the people scavenge for food and things they can either use or sell...where they brought their small children to work before Camino Seguro stepped in, as it is their only source of livelihood.
Friday, I spent combing lice out of childrens´ hair, while they giggled and looked and story books... and watched them measure their feet so the program could buy them shoes for school next year. I watched them screech with delight as they jumped into parents and volunteers arms, and dance and play and smile.
And Saturday morning, I woke up at 5 to climb an active volcano. And as I walked over the dried, black lava, through the clouds (literally) and looked way over at blue mountains in the distance, I was taken aback... how beautiful this place is in this moment, and how terrifying and deadly it could become in an instant! At just how close...the frightening or disheartening and the infinitely beautiful exist.
These next few weeks will be sobering and exciting, fun and sad, and, I think, ultimately hopeful. I feel so very lucky to be working on this incredible project. If you´re interested in learning more, check out the website! http://www.safepassage.org/.
I woke up this morning to some combination of cooing doves, crowing roosters and firecrackers. Rolled out of bed and heated up some water over the little gas stove in my new shared kitchen. As I poured the water into my brand new, stainless steel coffee mug/french press I couldn´t help but smile, knowing I would never, ever have to drink the instant excuse for coffee that is Nescafe--it´s coffee-drinkers miracle, really. Coffee in hand, I ascended to the rooftop deck... and was greeted by a massive green volcano...one of three that looms over my new colonial town, Antigua ... and-- well-- I knew it was going to be a good day. And that´s how the last five mornings have been-- Doves/rooster/firecrackers--coffee--volcano. This Guatemalan breakfast recipe is a good one, I think.
So, over the past four days, I´ve been gearing up to volunteer for Camino Seguro, or Safe Passage, where I will work with children whose parents work at the city garbage dump in after school programs, among other things. It´s hard to grasp how much I have seen in these past few days.
Thursday, we toured the project... walking through streets so dangerous, we needed a security guard. We were overcome by the stench...the grime and shit on the street... the utter, utter destitution. Vultures circled over the a vast, toxic garbage dump, where the people scavenge for food and things they can either use or sell...where they brought their small children to work before Camino Seguro stepped in, as it is their only source of livelihood.
Friday, I spent combing lice out of childrens´ hair, while they giggled and looked and story books... and watched them measure their feet so the program could buy them shoes for school next year. I watched them screech with delight as they jumped into parents and volunteers arms, and dance and play and smile.
And Saturday morning, I woke up at 5 to climb an active volcano. And as I walked over the dried, black lava, through the clouds (literally) and looked way over at blue mountains in the distance, I was taken aback... how beautiful this place is in this moment, and how terrifying and deadly it could become in an instant! At just how close...the frightening or disheartening and the infinitely beautiful exist.
These next few weeks will be sobering and exciting, fun and sad, and, I think, ultimately hopeful. I feel so very lucky to be working on this incredible project. If you´re interested in learning more, check out the website! http://www.safepassage.org/.
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