The Ocean Revisited

Returned to the Puerto San Jose beach over the weekend. The drive felt much shorter than previously, and we discovered from a lighter haze how truly beautiful the drive is. When you leave Guatemala City and head south toward Escuintla you pass Volcan Pacaya on your left, and skirt the base of Volcan Agua on your right, which is never less menacing no matter how many times you pass it. Antigua lies near to the other side.

The highway is new and wide and, best of all, downhill. You coast through lush sugar cane farms with low mountains in the distance, and as you near sea level, it looks like the Africa I’ve always imagined. Dry rolling fields of tall grass and scattered African-looking trees flash by, with an occasional water park under a long and lonely construction. It gets hot too, but not unbearably.

The waves were once again pounding the black sands. I couldn’t resist getting out a little too far, and even managed to force the life-guard out of his lazy umbrella chair to toot his whistle at me. Mallory got a toot too. Like father like daughter, like they say.

Residential Prison

Residencial B-4, our gated neighborhood, just erected two block walls to wall us off from our neighbors, and to block us from entering Residencial B-1, our usual route to the grocery store three blocks down the hill. They put one lone laborer to it, and after a good three weeks, they’re up. We’ve been officially incarcerated, with no contact whatsoever with any of our neighbors.





Our landlords dropped by to check out the walls yesterday, beaming. They appeared satisfied. The point of it, I came to understand, was to “protect” us and others in the neighborhood from the poorer neighbors living in the shacks across the street. When they asked what I thought of the new walls, I couldn’t help myself. “Muy feo,” I said. Very ugly. Surprised, they went on to explain how it was important for our protection, that we were much safer now. Yes, I thought, safe from the world, tucked behind our gates and walls and razor wire like every other middle- to upper-class Guatemalan. Fitting right in. Safe. Cozy in our little prison.

I refrained from telling them we miss our neighbors already. If I had told them I used to keep the gate open on Saturdays so the neighbor kids—Alida and Marie and Beatrice—could come and play with our kids—kick the bucket and tag and musical chairs and futbol—they might have asked us to move out on the spot, or, happy we pay our rent on time, simply told us we were crazy and left us alone.

Commenting on the same subject a while back, a good friend of mine wrote how the opening of gates (in a country such as this in particular) “…allows possibility in. Of course, possibility is always fraught with some danger, which is why most us live a death-in-life: our doors, our hearts closed for fear of what might usher itself in, which does anyway for all that we may attempt to lock it out. But much is lost, when we don't take the risk.”

I prefer the risk not to be walled off from the world.