The Day of the Devil

The Guatemalan calendar is chock full of holidays. Being American, December 7th has always had, of course, graver implications for me. But on this day in Guatemala, Old Scratch gets his due. Today is the ‘Day of the Devil,’ where locals burn pinata-like devils in the streets, along with common house trash. The act signifies the purification of one’s house in preparation for the Navidad season.

The scene in our neighborhood was raffish, to be sure, but not uninteresting. The fireworks broke out around 6 p.m. all over the city, so we stepped outside for a look. Our neighbor’s devil was already a heap of smoldering gray flakes mingling with their burnt trash—mostly cardboard cerveza containers. There was a haze over the whole neighborhood, and the city, usually crystal clear this time of night, was fogged over with smoke. The neighbor kids were lighting cheap fireworks which did not go straight up, but skipped over the pavement and sparked off house fronts.

Not wanting to miss out on the fun, not to mention the need for a little purification of our own, I grabbed a white sack of trash from the house and torched it.



We watched the bag smolder a while. There were at least four other trash fires within view, and a handful of smoke columns rising up behind houses. I let Mallory poke and prod ours with a stick, assuring Kristin that all kids are pyromaniacs, and some of us never grow out of it. I took at least 20 pictures, which was the only thing even more ridiculous than the fact that we were burning our trash in the street. It was yet another display I had nothing but a lopsided grin to offer in response to. Still, it beats Christmas shopping!

Waking Up in San Cristobal

Having completed the move successfully over the weekend, we have had three nights to take in all that San Cristobal has to offer in the wee hours, namely cocks crowing at 3:30 a.m., dogs barking throughout the night, fireworks at all hours, and security guards, like in Antigua, blowing their monkey whistles every 30 seconds. It’s all coming clear now why it cost so much to live in Zona 10, in Fantasyland, where we were before. Still, waking up closer to the “real” Guatemala has its benefits…


(the view from our terrace, 6:45 a.m.)

The National Theater

Two nights ago we heard Handel’s Messiah at Teatro Nacional. We knew the conductor from Church and because she sends me the U.S. Embassy employee newsletter every couple weeks, which advertises various events, moving sales, and the like. A good, smart, energetic lady, and an accomplished conductor besides. I was thrilled at the chance to see the National Theater since I had heard the architecture was impressive. And simply being able to hear something “cultural” if not spiritual in the heart of Guatemala City, Zona 1, made me ripe with anticipation.

As we should have known, just getting to the theater itself proved adventurous. Zona 1 is known for its over population, gang violence, and theft. I had been there once to sign the lease for our new house with an attorney’s whose office was in various states of desuetude. I had brought my neighbor Tony with me because foreigners need a “sponsor” to sign any kind of binding paperwork down here, and as we’re coming out, two blokes are sitting on a dirty curb in front of the alley we need to walk down to get to my car. About this moment, Tony decides to tell me the story of how his wife threatened to send a hit man after him once. Tony, whose hip gets worse by the day, is cradling my right arm like a bride, like a girlfriend, leaning heavily on me even for a small man. He stops just shy of the curb and turns to me, looks me in the eye, and says, “It’s very easy to have somebody killed here, Daniel.”

To get directions from any Guatemalteco is an exercise in bewilderment. You never get the same story. Never. And since nobody pays attention to street names, nor which way is north or south, etc., you risk a great deal going on anyone’s word. Directions from Guatemalans are as good as, say, a mediocre land mark that you have to strain to see at night. Kristin brought her cartoon city map, which has saved us numerous times. She’s a genius with that map, and with her impeccable memory and deer hunter’s sense of direction, I usually feel safe as a kitten.

But, alas, we got lost in no time. The only advice we had gotten about visiting Zona 1 was not to meander off the main the roads. Within minutes, I was on a narrow side street squeezing the Vovlo between ghetto rides and surly looking townsfolk.

I think it’s even more frustrating to see the place you need to get to (the theater was in plain view above the blackened and filthy building fronts) and not be able to get there, than to be lost outright. We could see it. We could circle it. But with all the one-way streets, all the people, the buses, we could not seem to get close. Of course we eventually found it, but not without our hearts getting a little rattled in the process.

The National Theater (also called the Miguel Angel Asturias Theater) is said to look like a jaguar from the outside, with the buildings to its front and back representing volcanoes, but I thought it looked more like a mishapen cruise ship. The line to get in with tickets in hand snaked a couple hundred meters around the outer pools and fountains. We waited nearly an hour, which put us well past the designated starting time (which we knew meant very little) before we actually got inside the ship. The lobby was impressive for two reasons. First, the ceiling had these amazing lights in the shape of jacks, hundreds of them, hung in assorted shapes, just glistening there above us. Second, there were about six U.S. Marines in full dress uniform serving coffee and punch. Marines, as you probably know, have the most impressive military uniforms on the planet. I had to do a double-take. It’s not often you see such proud and stately figures in such humble service. Everywhere you go you see guards armed with sawed-off shotguns in bad security uniforms, in front of nearly every store, and yet here, at the National Theater, we see the real deal, the best of the best, serving…punch. Weird.

Stepping into the theater was like entering the set of a bad 1970s science fiction B movie. The balconies had a “modern” angular design with what looked like gold and bronze colored wallpaper covering them. At either end of the stage were wood-paneled semi-circular towers that clashed with the bronze and gold wallpaper. The seating was like that of a movie theater. The ceiling rolled like a characatured ocean wave and look smoke-stained. The small, circular lights on the side walls were arranged in no particular order, and about 1/3 of them were burned out. The acoustics sucked.

The orchestra was small and young and handsome, as were the tenor, bass, and alto. The choral group was massive, the women dressed in black with red scarves, the men in black suits, at least a hundred singers in all, maybe more. They were great, and it was wonderful to hear live music again. I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed choirs, particularily at Christmas time.

I felt a little bad leaving at the intermission, but to be honest, we could barely keep our eyes open. As much as I would like that masterpiece, any masterpiece, to move me, to change me in some way, to draw me closer to God somehow (why not, it is after all the greatest telling of the Gospel every conceived), and for all my desire to be of the “cultured” crowd, I stumbled out of the theater with my wife laughing at what an embarrassment I thought the architecture to be, and wanting a frappuccino badly. We were tired from another day, and a little giddy. We drove home, flipped on the TV, and I drank a beer. So much for culture. Frankly, I am ashamed of myself.