Halloween in Guate

Today is Halloween, even in Guatemala, and I am missing the Midwest for the first time in over two months. I confess I had grown inordinately bored with all of its flat efficiency, strip malls and gray highways. But being pumpkin time and all, I have grown nostalgic. There was little evidence here save our own jack-o-lantern (carved meticulously under Mal’s supervision) to tell us it was October 31st. We kept no candy bowl, smelled no burning leaves. And there was little sign on these streets of trick-or-treaters today, save for one lone frog.







We did take the kids at Hannah’s Hope to each of the houses where their “special mother’s passed out tootsie rolls and lolli pops. It was a motley procession to be sure.



We were remembering our tradition of visiting pumpkin farms 30-some miles north of Cincinnati, riding their hay wagons, picking pumpkins from sprawling orange fields, and best of all, eating warm apple fritters with cider. I am missing all this and more of home today. The American Midwest is where, until now, I have spent my thirty-years. And for all of my boredom with its landscape, it was good to me. Indeed, “no matter under what circumstances you leave it, home does not cease to be home. No matter how you lived there—well or poorly.” (Joseph Brodsky)

I always return to Carl Sandburg in October.

THEME IN YELLOW

I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.

(Carl Sandburg)

Reportage

I spent three and a half hours the other night getting my ankle looked at by Dr. Raul Antonio Amenabar Perdomo at Esperanza, the closest hospital, who pretty much told me what I already knew. “Looks like a moderate sprain.”

Moderate? You should see this thing? I am no stranger to these “moderate” sprains, having done this before at least half a dozen times, following in my brother Mike’s (enormous) footsteps, and my Dad’s before him. I know the drill. Thanks, Doc. At least medical expenses are dirt cheap here: $25 for the doctor visit, $30 for x-rays. Who needs insurance?

In any case, I’ve been told by the Mrs. that I will be playing no more Papi Futbol. Thanks, Kris. My first game in my brand new $70 Adidas turf shoes, two minutes left to go, two assists to my credit, about six reasonably good shots on goal, and I wrench my tobillo. So goes my latent soccer career.




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The Volvo has been in the shop almost two weeks and counting, and as far as I can make out from those I’ve coaxed into calling the place for me, they haven’t even touched it. Haven’t laid one greasy finger on it. Not one. So we’ve been renting cars, bumming rides, and walking. Kristin has suffered more than me from this because of the ankle, etc.


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Heather, the new temporary Director of Hannah’s Hope who is in from Portland thru Christmas (she’s actually the Executive President of All God’s Children), is moving in next door, just beyond Tony’s place. Her family is coming down this week along with 7 of her pets. I was delighted to see yesterday that she had a new pong table brought in. Will be nice having gringos within a shout of here, and nice to play a little pong too.


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A pack of laborers have been putting up an elegant sheet metal gate next to our place. The owner’s must be nervous someone’s going to steel the six or seven mounds of dirt on the other side.




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We hired a day maid to help with Cristian and some of the cleaning. Her name is Rosa. It’s been a little awkward for us functioning in a society so defined by class. More on this later…


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Took the kids to El Museo de los Ninos (The Children’s Museum) last week, which was a great success. We’re looking into planning a field trip for the kids at Hannah’s Hope.


(Disgusted that we can't find any good sausage in Guatemala)


(Since Central America is notoriously weak on child labor laws, we decided to put the boy to work)


(Mallory making a castle)


(Mallory is this crazy jumping mechanism. She tore it up in that thing)


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We’ve found a home in the Union Church of Guatemala City. As far as I know, it’s the only English-speaking Protestant church in the city. The other Spanish-speaking churches we’ve attended have been overly charismatic, which has only made us miss our Presbyterian church back in Cincinnati all the more. The pastor, Karl Smith, has given three great homilies each of the weeks we’ve attended, and the congregation is genuinely warm and friendly. The youth pastor and his wife even invited us over for lunch next Sunday. Most attendees are either missionaries or U.S. Embassy employees and their families, about 150 in attendance at the 8:15 service. Whatever or whoever they are, it’s good to be among our kind.


(Taken from the parking lot of The Union Church of Guatemala City)

Digging Stumps

In one sense, Guatemala is a hermit’s paradise. Much personal and official business can be taken care of right at your gate. You barely have to leave the house. The water truck delivers water jugs. The cable guy shows up with the bill on his outdated Honda dirt bike (you pay cash on the spot). Four kids in bright yellow shirts came by last week to wash my car in the garage. Every restaurant, from McDonalds to Fratelli (the upscale Italian place we like) to Pollo Campero (Guatemala’s national chicken joint), delivers by motorcycle, rain or shine. It’s brilliant really. And cheap! I paid the four kids in yellow about $3.00 to wash my car.

On the other hand, if you do have to leave the house—to get your car fixed, for instance, or to wire money, or to find a birthday party across town, or to buy a calling card—it’s like digging up a stump (“pulling teeth” is too cliché, and doesn’t really fit). I remember digging up stumps in my Dad’s backyard. It always took longer than you thought, and you always ran into hidden roots that were more difficult to chop through than you could have imagined. By the time you finished (which in our case usually involved attaching a chain to the Ford and slinging it around the stump trusting the bumper to hold) all you wanted to do was fall in the lake to cool off, then take a long nap (the equivalent here is to pop a Gallo, curse the third world, then take that nap).

It’s the same with service. If you can pay cash for something, things are pretty efficient, but if you have to call “customer service” for anything, forget it. Take the street light out in front of our house for instance, which has been out for over three weeks now. A service call to the electrical company is a waste of time. Knowing this, Tony, my neighbor, calls and tells them the street light is flickering and shooting sparks, that it’s nearly enflamed, and he’s afraid his house is going to catch fire. This story got them out four days later. There were three of them that showed up around 8:00 at night in an old rusted-out pick-up truck. There were no tools, no ladders in the truck. They milled around under the light for a few minutes, took a long hard look at it, discussed the matter. There were no sparks, of course. They asked me how long the light had been out. “Parra cinco semanas,” I lied. They said something in Spanish I couldn’t understand, then said “Nos vemos” and left. That was a week ago. The light’s still out.

Anyway, it’s a miracle things actually work here—the water, the electric, the phones, my Internet connection. It’s amazing this place didn’t fold long ago, throw in the towel, quit the game. As my neighbor Tony likes to say, “This place is a piece of shit.” I’m not sure I agree with him, but we find oursleves, Kris and I, shaking our heads at one another far too often. But life is more than efficiency, right? We’re learning this. There is a charm to Guatemala that is hard to explain, and despite the traffic, a calm that manages to trump whatever challenges the place throws at us. I’m even beginning to like it here.

A Fool's Business

Waiting in traffic with a Mercedes on my left, a Lexus SUV on my right, and a barefoot little kid rapping on my window with a styrofoam cup in his hands. Common knowledge tells me that’s his father sitting on a dirty bucket near the corner. Instead of finding work, he’s got his kids working the corner. If they don’t bring home enough dinero, they get a beating. The more deft ones juggle balls or limes, others just stick their filthy hands out for money. The kid jugglers with their faces painted like rejected clowns I usual give a coin to if I have it. The others I just pass by, eyes forward.

What do you do?

In the U.S., you have to walk certain streets of larger cities to be confronted with this. Here, it’s everywhere, and not just “bag ladies” or crumpled up grown men, but kids, some of them younger than Mallory. Do you give them something because you can, because it wouldn’t make a spit of difference to the way you live your life since you already have everything you need; or do you take the high road (or is it the low?) and refuse to perpetuate the problem, let the kid take his licks?

It’s an old and tired debate, I know, but when you’re confronted daily with it no matter where you go, it’s a heavy business. Of course I have no clear answer. I’ve heard both sides, and agree with both. After all, I am the consummate fence-rider, as Kristin likes to say. What makes it difficult for me though is that, no matter the argument, I can’t avoid concluding that I did not choose to be born into a good, middle-class, parents-stay-together, work-their-asses-off, send-you-to-college, love-you-to-death family. It simply happened to me. By grace or whatever you want to call it, it happened that way, and not because of anything I did or could have done. Our lives, ultimately, are given to us. And the minute I begin to hear myself thinking, “Why should I give them anything? Why don’t they get an honest job,” I know I ought to be slugged for it. Better to ask, with King David, “Who am I, O Lord God, and what is my house, that you have brought me thus far?”

The old Christian proverb goes like this: The only things you take to heaven are the things you gave away. The point, of course, is that Christians are called, ultimately, to give themselves away. In a world increasingly governed by the Self, however you look at it, being a Christian is a fool’s business.

In my secret heart, I would chose mercy. From the sidelines (where it is always more comfortable, and where I have made a home for myself) I would stand to the point of gross error, even redicule, on the side of generosity. But Christ help me, because I am good at neither, and hold on far too tightly to myself, especially in a strange land, where it feels as if, were you to begin to give just a little of yourself to the overwhelming pain that is everywhere present, that pain would soon pull all the rest of your life out of you. There would be no turning back. Of course, the pain of Guatemala is the same pain in every other corner of the world. It demands nothing less than the only thing a fool can give it, which is himself.

The Garden Doors

I’ve gotten in the habit of opening the garden doors in the mornings. Despite the enormous outer walls, the air they let in resuscitates everything (including my mind), and gives a little light too. The mornings are cool and damp, and you need a sweater sometimes, but there is something about letting the outside in. Since it’s not so common where I come from, I’m still getting used to this play between indoors and out. It’s strange the way the outside can transform interiors. In fact, though it’s such a simple thing, and so common here, still I sit marveling at the open threshold, the tress, the grass, all of it right there so close to the where I sit I could spit in the grass. Sure, the bugs get in, but they get in anyway. At least this way you can see them coming! With their white ironwork, and swung clear back to the walls, the doors could almost be a huge bird’s wings, or an angel’s, in flight.

The garden itself lies in a state of desuetude, though still has a humble appeal to the senses. A single rose bush grows there which Cristian is given to smelling frequently, and the only tree in the garden (I still can’t get its proper name out of anyone) is always in bloom with little pointy pink flowers like the tassles on a kid’s knit cap from my U.P. days. The hummingbirds, which are countless, adore them. The black rock strewn around its edge is hideous to look at, and could use replacing. The grass is everywhere overgrown. I fired the gardener too soon, it seems. I’ve been thinking I should buy a machete, which is both tool and weapon of choice in Central American as my friend Dan Miller recently quipped. I believe it would serve me well in this garden, if not elsewhere.

Futbol in Guatemala

To Kristin’s consternation, at any given time, day or night, you can find at least four soccer matches on cable. We get two ESPN stations, but aside from an occassional Yankee game, all they broadcast is soccer. While I am still partial to English league play, it’s fun watching the Guatemalan and South American leagues, along with every Real Madrid match—past and present—ever played!

From my office window I can see one of the medical universities. The live music from their parties enters our rooms unhindered. In fact, I could chuck a stone from here into its parking lot on a good day, we’re that close, even though the baranco separating us drops at least a hundred feet, and nearly straight down. I believe there is a small creek at the bottom, but I’m not sure. Anyway, when Guatemala was playing Costa Rica in one of the World Cup qualifying matches last month, after scoring their first goal, I heard simultaneously the commentator belt out the world infamous “GOOOOAAAAALLLL!” while an explosion of cries rushed over the baranco into my bedroom, then fireworks shaking the sky for the next five minutes. It was a culminating event for me: a new country, a new house, the excitement of the match all of Guatemala was fixated on errupting on television and outside my window. I only wished I had had someone (Todd Warren for instance, who understands) to share it with. Instead, I drank alone to Guatemalan futbol, celebrating, no, tasting, with one first-half goal, the game an entire country eats, sleeps, and breathes.

A Word on the Kids

Mallory is in her fourth week at Colegio de Interamericano, a private bi-lingual school located in Zona 15, about 6 miles from our place as the crow flies. I drive her to the bus stop each morning at 6:30, and I let her ride in the front seat where she pulls the glove box door down like a computer, checks her emails, loads the homing device, and scans the satellite readings for the day’s weather. She still has the same look of wonder and excitement on her face as she did the first day she climbed on the bus, the same proud look when she climbs off at 3:10 every afternoon.


(Mal with her oversized backpack on her first day of school)

Mal’s teacher, Christine, is from Cleveland. She’s a young water-bottle toting hippy-type with a soft but authoritative air, a pretty face, and a great rapport with the kids. Mal likes her very much. Three of her classes are taught in Spanish—gym class, art class, and of course Spanish class. Just when I think she’s not making much progress with the language, she’ll chime in on a conversation in Spanish with an answer I don’t even understand myself. Her favorite activity, of course, is recess.

Cristian spends his days here with me along with a tag-team of “special mother’s” from Hanna’s Hope: Deanna on lunes, mercoles, y viernes, and Judith on martes y jueves. He loves them both, and they have been a great contribution to the effort here. In addition to playing with Cristian all day, they clean the house and do dishes, and organize the little things we have laying around into neat piles. We pay them 80 quetzales a day (roughly $11), which is more than they make at the orphanage. I have made a promise to myself never to take their help for granted. They will continue working for us on their off-days (they work 12 hour shifts, every other day at Hanna’s Hope) until we can find a more permanent “live-in” nanny/maid.


(Cristian laughing off his lunch)

I just bought Cristian a bike, but he can barely reach the pedals. Mallory, as you can imagine, has already claimed ownership of it. Fortunately, he likes riding on the back while she zooms around the few pieces of furniture we keep. She tears it up on that bike.


(The house entertainment)

When I ask Cristian if he likes Guatemala, he gives his frank “Yep” response. When I ask Mal, she says, “I miss Wrigley” (Mark and Angie’s labradoodle puppy).

A Note on the Beer

The beer of choice in Guatemala, hands down, is Gallo. Until recently, Gallo was the only beer you could get in Guatemala. Upstarts like Dorado or Brahva are making progress here, but with a near monopoly on the beer market, Gallo remains strong, steadfast, and most importantly, everywhere.

Seven-time winner of the prestigious Monde Selection Medal (awarded by the Institute of International Quality Oversight in Brussels, Belgium—how do you get on that crew, I wonder?), Gallo is also a pride symbol in Guatemala due to this worldwide recognition. Hard not to like a beer the locals laud with such fervency.

For my part, I put Gallo somewhere between Beck’s Light and Dos Equis Amber, only more bitter. Distinct and full-bodied, Gallo goes down well with food or without (what Import doesn’t?), and leaves a memorable aftertaste—a party in your mouth for sure.

The only downside I can see is the name. Gallo is the Spanish word for rooster, also translated cock. One must be careful how one invites the boys over for a Gallo no doubt!

If you’re interested in tracking down a six’er of Guatemala’s finest, it goes under the name Famosa Lager in the States. Otherwise, you’ll have to share one with me here, where I guarantee it will taste the better!


NOTE: "A Note on the Beer" is solely for those that actually care about the beer situation in this faraway place: first and foremost, my Dad, whose dialogues on the virtues of beer enjoyment, not to mention his tutelage in the art and craft of beer-making, I value immensely; next, mi hermanos Mike and John, then Toddy, Schmitt, Mossy, the rest of the Chubbs for that matter, D.R. Miller, Dr. Bill Moulder, and of course Cookie Miklautsch, John Paul, Greg G., Robert, and lets not forget Kristin’s fine (though lightweight) uncles Mike and Al. Saludos!

The Neighbor

Our neighbor Tony is one of these people that reveals too much information about themsevles too quickly. I tend to get put off by this sort. So does Kristin. But I’m having a change of heart, at least in this case, with this man.

Oddly enough, Tony has the face of an older, more weathered Tony Danza, for one. He wears his life’s baggage in his eyes, and there is a heaviness and a great distance there. He drives an expensive car, has nice Italian leather furniture, nice clothes, but never has any money.

Unemployed due to cancer and a subsequent operation on his leg (in other words, he had some time on his hands), he was instrumental in getting my Internet connection established, for which I am hugely grateful. His efforts with the “Convergence” cable company were relentless and beautiful. He gave us drinking water when we ran out, shared his washer and dryer, helped us order an enormous and overpriced Dominos pizza for delivery, and has poured out his miseries over meals we paid for. He is divorced, and his wife would see him behind bars. Attorney’s come by weekly, rapping on his door.
But he has a warm and generous heart. He invited us to church our first weekend here. The congregation was warm too and jocund and the service went over two hours, but it made me a little sad because its wasn’t much different from the charismatic-evangelical fare you get in so many American churches—same songs, same parlance, same homiletical cadences—only in Spanish. There was nothing there I didn’t recognize, didn’t already know by heart. I guess I was hoping for something different, some bit of ural influence altogether new to me, something fresh or genuine or, well, Guatemalan. Tony stood next to me on his bad leg clapping but not singing. He didn’t seem to fit in, but had been going there for twenty-years he told me.

Tony has constant leg pain from this operation I mentioned. He says they put a long piece of metal in his leg that he needs desperately to get out. He gets shots for the pain. I’ve already bought him a shot for twenty-five quetzales, and have delivered numerous Advil to his door. He’s told me the story more than once of how you’d be lucky to get three meals a day of cold rice and beans in the military hospital where he had the operation. There were no nurses at night, he told me, and one of the kinder soldiers would carry him to the bathroom. He says he’s a miracle. That his heart stopped for two minutes in that hospital.

Tony is the sort that fixes you in your tracks with a stare, the kind of stare that makes times stand upright if not still. For example, “I am still ually active, Daniel.” [staring, staring, still staring…] Or, “I can’t live with anymore, Daniel.” [staring, staring, still staring…] Or best of all, referring to Zona 10: “This is fantasy land, Daniel. This is not Guatemala. The real Guatemala is out there. It’s a hole.” [staring…]

I like Tony, but I tend to like eccentric people. That he keeps a shotgun I confess worries me a little. I have loaned him close to fifty-dollars, which I don’t expect I will see again. His quirky self-revelations I attribute not to his being emotionally needy, as Kristin suggests, but to his need for the bare honesty of life which he finds so essential. “If I can’t be honest, Daniel, I’m no better than that woman that wants to put me in jail.”