Guatemala Notebook

Adíos, Guatemala!

2006-05-26T11:18:00.000-07:00

Here are the last few entries from my Moleskine, and the closing of the Guatemala Notebook…

*

I put Kristin, the boy, and the dog on a plane the other day. The house is nearly empty. Almost completely quiet. The things I’m taking with me are spilling out of four suitcases. Mallory has been sick with a high fever all week. She’s lying in the only bed left in the house dreaming, I hope, of good things.

The neighborhood has been carrying on with its perpetual song of hammers and birds and dogs and cars by day, and by night, crickets and more dogs, more cars. I imagine it hasn’t changed since they first began putting up houses in San Cristobal. Bob Merrick, my boss here in Guatemala, told me he remembers flying in a helicopter up here not 15 years ago, and there was nothing in these hills but the high grass and a few farms. Houses are going up now in every neighborhood on every street. Over our wall across the street a beautiful new home is being built, is almost finished. An old man lives there now. He sleeps on a blanket in one of the front rooms on the dirt. Maybe he is watching over the worker’s tools. I see him sometimes sloshing something with a stick in a few barrels, see him sitting on a bucket. The day I walked through (out of curiosity) he was sitting in front of a little fire poking at it with a stretch of rebar. He wore a straw hat. He didn’t smile.

I stood on our terrace last night and began thinking of last things. I usually try avoiding it, but sometimes you can’t. It was the last time I would look out over the city from that spot. The same lights flickered back, and I was no less amazed by the view of the closer roofs fading out toward the city and the hills toward El Salvador beyond. I will miss it, that view, this place.

*

My friend Paul dropped Mal and I off at the airport. We kept it short because men shouldn’t cry in airports. I guess. We flew Taca Airlines which, to my surprise, served free drinks. They pushed a mini-bar up the aisle, and I ordered a rum and coke and drank it beside a Mayan woman that couldn’t figure out how to unfasten her lap belt. Sweet lady. She couldn’t understand my Spanish, bless her heart.

Arrived in Chicago at 2 a.m., shuffled through customs, baggage, bought an Edy’s ice cream scoop for Mal and I, and took a shuttle to the Marriot. I slept, in the words of my friend, like a dead cat.

I’ve been back a week, and the buzz of homecoming hasn’t quite worn off yet. I’ve been shocked all week at how easy it is to get things done here. It feels like I’ve taken off a great big heavy wet coat and laid it down (in some airport maybe), because simply living in my own skin these last several days feels so much easier. Thinking back, I guess we had grown used to the inefficiencies, and the constant stress of getting by on bad Spanish and very little money. I keep wanted to speak to everyone in Spanish, or find myself making small talk with store clerks or strangers at the park, amazed I can communicate with these people.

*

I can’t in good conscience say Guatemala was good to us. It was not. These have been a difficult two years. Sometimes I think Guatemala is just like America, only drunk and a little stupid. But talking with Kristin recently, we were both amazed at all we experienced there, the things we saw and lived, the people we met and knew. I suppose it’s less where you are that matters, but who you are when you’re there. But the who that you are when you’re there shapes, in return, where you are, the place itself. Flannery O’Connor said that "somewhere is better than anywhere." And I supposed someone, it would follow, is better than anyone. I will miss the people more than the place, but again, the place is so much what it is because of the people. I will miss them both.

I am not sure how Guatemala has or will continue to change us, or how (in some infinitesimal way) we may have changed Guatemala. But to be honest, I’m not much interested in all that. I have learned to say with Walt Whitman that to be with those I like is enough.

A Word on Teaching at the Christian Academy of Guatemala

2006-05-18T06:02:00.000-07:00

I realize I have been quiet about teaching, which has consumed much of my time these last nine months. Maybe too much. Still, it has been good for me, and worth it. Several of my students claim mine is their favorite class, but that could be because I am easy. I have also been told more than once by my 12th graders that it’s more like a Philosophy class than English, but English was always more of an infatuation, not my area of expertise. I might have done better with History. Or maybe P.E. In any case, I am grateful for the year I’ve had, how it has forced me to speak in ways I have never spoken before, to read wonderful things I have not read since high school or college, and how I have been privileged to spend so much time with these good kids. They are every one of them filled with the beauty of promise (or is it the promise of beauty?), and I am glad to have known them. These deserve at the very least a page of this notebook.

(English 11, American Literature)

(English 12, British Literature)

“Real Madrid Signs Mallory Todd”

2006-05-17T19:02:00.000-07:00

(Pre-game photo)

Between the 6 or 7 stations covering futbol round the clock here, Real Madrid gets plenty of air time. So it was no small thing (for me anyway) to see the Mal in the white of Real Madrid last Saturday. I didn’t care that our kids lost 11 - 0 to Casa Shalom, an orhanage outside of town. Those kids deserved to win. They were amazing. But at least we looked good.

(After-game photo)

Brother John's Visit

2006-05-17T18:55:00.000-07:00

My brother John gave in to my pleading and came down for a visit a couple week ago. We had a great long weekend, hitting some of the sights—Antigua, Pacaya, Monterrico, even a four hour stint in Chimaltenango where the Volvo broke down. Three highlights: walking over Pacaya’s enormous lava flow, swimming in Monterrico (after two pina coladas), and visiting Amor del Nino, a special needs orphanage our friend Steve Osborne and his wife run.

(John standing on a lava flow, Volcan Pacaya)

(The beach at Monterrico)

(Amor del Nino, Love the Child)

(Kristin and Jose, Amor del Nino)

Cooking Thai in Guatemala

2006-05-11T03:10:00.000-07:00

I recently helped my friend Paul put together a Thai cookbook which included the more common recipes from his own kitchen. The book was part of a larger effort to raise money for a missions trip to Spain, which Paul and the youth group at Union Church have been hard at for several months. The idea was to open a monthly Thai restaurant at the church, with a suggested donation for the meal. Five courses, with variations: spicy chicken soup, curry puffs, Chiang Mai noodles, stir fry, and Thai curry. We did four nights over successive months, and I think raised over $7,000. Paul and I cooked, and the youth group served. For the last night, which was just two weeks ago, Paul bought the the kids restaurant-style aprons, black and to the ankles. For he and myself the same, along with white double breasted chef coats. For a night, I might have even felt like the real thing. Paul, of course, looked and was the real thing.

Paul and his wife Melinda have lived in Guatemala for four years. Paul works at the Union Church, and Melinda, like Kristin, is a counselor at the school where I teach. They both cook brilliant meals. We’ve been over numerous times, and I think every time we have stood or sat in their kitchen and cooked with them.

Paul spent a few years living in Bangkok as a kid, and attended boarding school in Penang, Malaysia. He remains connected intimately to those memories, which of course include the food.

After several attendees had pleaded for the recipes we were using, and with Kristin’s encouragement, we got the idea to do the cookbook. Unfortunately, it was only two weeks before the last restaurant, where we thought it would make sense to sell them. We finished it, and sold a handful that night, and a few more since. Paul asked me to write a Foreword. Here is what I wrote.

*

I confess that until moving to Guatemala, I had long associated Thai food with imported beer and business casual, the food that lured yuppies, and that all the cool kids from the cool side of town were eating when they were eating out. Thai was hip, and the spicier you ordered it, the cooler you were. The best Thai restaurant in Cincinnati, for instance, is located in Mt. Adams, a quaint little upper-class village overlooking the downtown. Here, successful young professionals spend their weekends eating Thai in their pre-faded chinos and Euro-cut button ups. As a small town boy from Michigan, with a humble cape cod on Cincinnati’s blue collar “west side,” there was always something about Thai food, or maybe it was the glib culture that appeared to surround it, that I rejected. Give me a grilled sausage and a helping of green bean casserole, thank you very much.

What I did not expect when we moved to Guatemala two years ago was to learn not only how to cook Thai food, but something about its enjoyment. I learned this in a humble kitchen in Guate’s Zona 11, at Paul and Melinda Gunther’s house. After several visits and many meals, some of them quite spontaneous, I began to learn the enjoyment of Thai food, or any food cooked with skill, care, and love, happens not in fancy candlelit restaurants with imported beer and a waiter named Hans, but over conversation and participation, in chopping cilantro roots and telling stories. What I found so memorable and moving about those times in the Gunther kitchen was the way Paul came alive behind his wok, and how the flame of his joy, his art, lit into my own mind.

Equally moving is that in Paul and Melinda’s kitchen, standing around and watching is forbidden. They will stick a cleaver in one hand, a stalk of green onion in the other. “Here. Chop.” And you’re off. And the conversation carries over the stir-fry and curry, and the world—yes, even out of the small economy of a rented kitchen in Guatemala City—opens up.

The thing is, I may never visit Thailand, never eat chicken satay from the street vendors of Bangkok, or taste fresh lemon grass from Ubon. But I have eaten some of the best Thai food imaginable, and that with good friends. With great friends. And in the process, have even gotten my hands a little smelly with fish sauce. And that is enough.

DANIEL TODD
Guatemala City
4/25/06

(Here is the book cover. Soi 10 is the name of the street Paul lived on in Bangkok as a kid)

Suitcases

2006-04-03T05:22:00.000-07:00

We have been tripping over strange suitcases for months now. One thing we have found ourselves occupied with this last year is moving donations. Since word is out that we are here and happy to do it, we are often, I mean almost weekly, on the receiving end of various donations to orphanages, some specified to go here or there, to this children’s home or that foster parent, or not. As the only advisable, cost-effective way to ship anything here, they arrive with travelers to Guatemala, mostly adoptive parents down to visit or receive their child. Invariably, these suitcases are ugly as sin, throw away or garage sale stock, but still packable, zipable, and totable. Some send shampoo and soap and deodorant, others clothes, some new, some used, and still others stuffed animals and the like. All of it needed and necessary on some level, and all, I am sure, a blessing to those that eventually receive it.

I spend a good 45 minutes to an hour a week sitting outside the lobby of the Marriot awaiting my wife inside chatterboxing with the latest adoptive parent or other—all sweet, sweet people, and my wife, a friendly face in a strange country. It’s not a glorious project, not filled with excitement, hardly memorable, but necessary.

We are glad to receive these suitcases, and move them. Sometimes we get them to Harvey, Orphan Resources International’s representative here, a Menonite from Pennsylvania and probably the nicest guy we’ve ever met, who spends his Saturdays delivering beans and rice and water, and some of the random suitcases we’ve picked up. Other times we take them ourselves. Often the timing—by grace or luck—is perfect, and the contents match the immediate need. My friend Dan Miller would call it serendipitous. Whatever the case, we are grateful to be a part of the process—from those donating and packing and lugging these things down, to the orphanage directors and kids that receive them happily.

Tigres Guatemala vs. Tiburones Tapachula

2006-03-05T20:20:00.000-08:00

Tigres Guatemala hosted Tiburones Tapachula, a Mexican semi-pro football team (that’s right, American football), at Campo de Marte last weekend. Until now Guatemala has never really had a football league or team to speak of, but with the support of one of the Castillo boys (son of the owner’s of Pollo Campero, our favorite chicken camp--the Guatemalan version of KFC, only better), and some new equipment from the States, Guate is now fielding a team Mexico’s semi-pro league felt might prove decent competition. Sadly, I have seen Mexican “pro” games on ESPN down here, and thought my brother John’s high school Munising Mustangs could handle them without breaking a sweat, so my expectation weren’t very high. And having grown up in small towns in Michigan, I can still say with a clear conscience that I have never stepped foot in a stadium so shoddy, nor have I seen such lousy football ever played in my life.

(Guatemala vs. Tapachula)

After the first series, I think the “Sharks” from Tapachula had wished they hadn’t come. After their 45 yard kickoff return, Guatemala drove their offense back to the 5 yard line in three downs, then blocked their punt. Guatemala would go on to block three more punts, send three of their players off on stretchers, and win 38-0. It was a sad day for Tapachula. While it’s doubtful Guatemala’s national soccer team will ever get the better of Mexico, at least they owned the gridiron last Saturday.

(No comment)

I went because one of my students, Nate Purcell, a walk on, plays wide receiver and special teams, so I actually had someone to cheer for. I’m happy for Nate because, having grown up in Guatemala, he’s never had a chance to play football. So it’s a little exciting for him. What was probably more exciting was the 2nd quarter touchdown he scored on a 20 yard pass.

(Nate Purcell in the end zone before his touchdown catch)

Guatemala is slated to play a team from Panama in April. Tickets are 20Q a pop, so let me know who’s in, and I’ll get tickets.

Bubba's Girlfriend

2006-02-21T06:57:00.000-08:00

Moving to Guatemala we never anticipating meeting such wonderful people. Sure we had our romanticized versions of what it would be like here, but they didn’t include the new friends we might make. Take Yuli for instance, Bubba’s girlfriend. He calls her “Luli.” Just look at her. If arranged marriages are ever in vogue, I’m gonna hook Bubba up with this little Mayan princess.

(Bubba and Yuli in Monterrico)

We spent Saturday in Monterrico at the beach with the Gunther’s, and I spent the drive home (my favorite drive in Guatemala) thinking about how blessed we’ve been by the people we’ve met here.

Sunzal Beach, El Salvador

2005-12-30T09:54:00.000-08:00

Taking advantage of our three weeks off from school, not to mention needing to renew my passport, we spent two nights at El Salvador’s Sunzal Beach, just outside of La Libertad. The five hour drive south down Careterra Salvador took us through a more desolate, arid landscape, but the road was good. And compared with Mexico, the border at Villa Nuevo (and La Hachadura heading back up the coast, on El Pacifico) was a piece of cake. We were through in no time, and no bribes either!

We arrived at the Roca Sunzal hotel a couple hours before dark, with time to hit the beach. Like Guatemala, the northern beaches of El Salvador are black, but unlike Guatemala, there are a ton of surfers. In fact, Sunzal Beach is peppered with seedy little bungalo hotels for extended stay surfers who were out every morning. I assume it’s more the consistency of the surf—every day the waves were perfect—rather than the size that draws them. It could be the warm water too. In any case, the atmosphere was easy-going. There were locals boys casting nets into the morning surf, lone snorklers with miniature float tubes, and day trippers renting cabanas with huge hammocks drink beer for breakfast. Strangely, there were more Americans than locals, and so we heard more English than Spanish. Oscar, the owner of the Roca Sunzal, in fact, spoke perfect English, though he never finished high school. He said, “Here, you don’t need pants. You leave all that behind. Here you can relax, wear shorts, and just live.”

Oscar left El Salvador as a kid, managed to pick up English in the States, landed a couple jobs, and eventually returned with enough cash and investment (from a friend in L.A.) to purchase some property on the beach (three years ago it went for only $40,000 he told us). He said he left the States because of the insane pace and bustle of life there. “Here,” he said, “you can live on less, and live well.” He had found, from what we could tell, easy living.

Predictably, I warmed to the national beer immediately. Kristin and I agreed that Pilsener makes Gallo taste (even more) like carbonated piss-water. The restaurant was mediocre at best, but eating your meals on the beach to the sound of the ocean covers a multitude of culinary sins.

(the happy couple of eight years)

We stupidly left food on our balcony one night, and found a little capuchin rascal biting a hole in our Cheetos bag. The nerve. (see below).

(Kristin giving a capuchin monkey the business)

Mallory and Cristian, I’m proud to report, have formed a deep and (I hope) lasting love for the ocean. There is nothing, nothing quite like it, and I am determined to find, someday, some corner of the world with room enough for easy living.

(Mallory eyeing the surf)

(Sunzal Beach sunset)

Las Posadas

2005-12-24T16:23:00.000-08:00

For the nine days preceding Christmas, posadas (processions) are commonly seen just after dark ambling down neighborhood streets to turtle shell drum beats, firecrackers, and figurines of Mary and Joseph. Each night we’ve watched them pass from our terrace, a rag tag bunch of kids bearing the Holy Family, as it journeys from Nazareth to Bethlehem, to houses of friends or family. A ritualistic dialogue occurs at each house before Mary and Joseph are invited inside to the nacimiento (nativity) to rest for the night. Here the Holy Family remains until the next night, where they will be taken once again to look for shelter, and come to rest in another home.

Tonight, on Christmas Eve, a figure of the Christ child will be added to the nacimiento for a final resting at the last of the nine houses. Here, all those who have participated these nine nights in the posadas will come together for tamales and ponche and a celebration. At midnight, the whole city will erupt with fireworks.

I am writing this having just finished our own tradition of meatballs and lasagna, and will soon head off to church for the Christmas Eve service, then back with friends for the fireworks. We should have a hell of a view from our terrace if the haze or firework smoke doesn’t cloud it out.

Spending our first Christmas in Guatemala, while not like home exactly, has been good. Still, I’m wishing we were under a heavy snowfall right about now, with mulled apple cider on the stove, and the rooms noisy with family.

Iximche

2005-12-19T10:11:00.000-08:00

Last weekend we spent a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Tecpan with brother Lucas, one my co-workers. Tecpan, the initial capital of the Spanish (though it was quickly abandoned for the Almolonga valley where the city of Antigua lies) is right off the Pan American highway, and boasts the closest Mayan ruin site to Guatemala City. The ruins of Iximche (pronounced ee-sheem-chay), a former Kaqchikel stronghold, are not nearly as dramatic as those of Tikal, but it has numerous plazas and mounds, and is situated on a pine and oak mesa surrounded by ravines and mountain ridges. It’s beautiful. The few altars where human sacrifices once took place were a little unnerving if you think about it, but it was one of the only public places we’ve found where our kids could run around at will, climb the mounds and low platforms, and enjoy the sunlight out in the open.

We saw no tourists, just local Mayans spending the afternoon, like us, with friends or family, enjoying the sun and light breeze. A few prayed by the ceremonial fire pits, and a priest Kaqchikel priest performed various ritualistic hand gestures over the smouldering fires, and spoke with some of the locals.

(Cristian in front of sports arena where the Kaqchikel used to play a game similar to basketball, with ground-level baskets, but players could only use their hips to play the ball. Losers, according to Lucas, were executed.)

(Cristian with brother Lucas)

(A Kaqchikel priest)

Back at Lucas’s mother’s house, we ate pepian (traditional Guatemalan chicken dish), and Mallory and Cristian played with Lucas’s cousins, all beautiful little kids that spoke both Kaqchikel and Spanish.

(Mallory holding a kitten with Lucas's cousins)

Leaving the over-crowded and polluted streets of Guatemala City, even for an afternoon, was hugely refreshing.

Wife Rear-Ends Some Guatemalan

2005-11-19T14:41:00.000-08:00

I got a call yesterday during my Spanish lesson that Kristin and the kids were in a slight car accident near Mallory’s school. I was able to hitch a ride to the scene (our other car is in the shop again) to find the rear window of the other guy’s SUV busted clean out, along with a nice dent in his back door. Now it’s important to note the general rule of thumb regarding accident clean up in Guatemala: never wait for (or call) the police. If there are injuries, the police take both parties to jail until a proper judgment can be made, which can take up to a week. Fortunately nobody was hurt, but I felt hurried to get on with the negotiations lest one of Guate’s finest showed up. I was also fortunate enough to track down Byron Sanchez (an acquaintance of ours) by cell phone, who studied law in the U.S., and has a reputation as a troubleshooter for some of the gringos we know. It’s good to have a short list of “troubleshooters” here—I have a whole page full in my Moleskine.

Turns out I had to sign a contract stating I would pay the other guy’s insurance company for the damage. The contract failed to mention in what time frame I would pay, or the amount. Byron also pointed out additional loopholes, finishing with, “This is Guatemala, Dan. There are half a dozen ways out of this contract. Pay them a hundred Q a month if you want, it doesn’t matter.”

For the record, Kristin claims it was the other guy’s fault.

Who Dey

2005-10-31T18:20:00.000-08:00

While I’m holed up here in the third world, the wife and kids are enjoying Halloween. I begged Mallory before they left to hook me up with some fine American candy. Word is she came through beautifully. And I’m told instead of “trick-or-treat” at the neighbor’s doors, she was saying, “who dey, who dey, who dey think gonna beat them Bengals!”

(Uncle Mark and Mallory celebrating the 6-2 Bengals)

A Graduation

2005-10-28T18:38:00.000-07:00

The boy graduated a few weeks ago from Sunny Day pre-school in a gallo costume. The show started late, and there were enough chair for maybe half of the attendees. Most parents brought relatives. It was a packed house. We anticipated all of this, and so arrived early. It could have a been a high school or college graduation to see all the overdressed Guatemaltecos streaming into the school. Side note: waist-down women’s fashion here consists of impossibly tight slacks (usually red) or jeans with v-shaped pointed heels. (When I say pointed, I mean you could kick a hole in concrete with these things.)

Cristian did great. He had this rocking (lurching?) hip-swing going on to what sounded like latino blue-grass (if that’s even possible). I was so proud. My boy in a chicken suit, getting his first diploma in his home country.

(Between los elefantes)

(Bubba with diploma)

September Reportage

2005-09-05T20:04:00.000-07:00

Returned nearly a month ago now from four weeks in the States—forgive me for the overlong hiatus—to a flat tire, dead car battery, and no Internet connection. Amazingly, I was able to resolve all three in under two record breaking hours. The year’s luck looked promising until the clutch on the Volvo went out on the eve of our one-year anniversary in Guatemala. How fitting! I called Darvy, our troubleshooter, who showed up with a stretch of good rope and towed us from Antigua up the mountain to San Lucas with his ’84 Nissan hatchback. Two weeks and two days and it’s still in the shop. Business as usual.

So we bought a green All Sport Mazda MPV family cruiser with 92,000 miles. The power locks don’t work and we blew a tire the second we had it, but I’m loving this thing. It seats 8 Americans, and probably 12 or 13 Guatemalans.

*

I started teaching a couple weeks ago at the Christian Academy, and while I still feel like an imposter (I hated school, every minute of it), I am enjoying it immensely. Kristin also started counseling at the school today. It was weird for us both to be on campus again, only on the other side of things.

*

Wednesday night I’m heading down to see the U.S.-Guatemala match with the Principal of the Christian Academy, Kevin Fry, who invited me just this morning—his treat. He warned me the only tickets he could get were in the “U.S.” section, unfortunately, and if we don’t dress appropriately—in support of Guatemala that is—we’ll likely get tortillas (if not worse) chucked at us.

*

We also celebrated Cristian’s 3rd birthday today with Beetleman.

Crossing Over

2005-06-28T08:01:00.000-07:00

Since we are living in Guatemala on tourist visas, we are required to leave the country every 90 days. Fortunately, for a small price, you can buy an additional 90 days, extending your stay to six months before getting out of dodge. With our six month limit bearing down hard last week, and plane ticket prices only going up, we were forced to exit the country by whatever means available, which turned out to be the car and the nearest border. El Salvador, the closest border crossing to Guatemala City, has been the traditional point of exit and re-entry for most “tourists” like us, but having recently grown wise to this border misuse, declared open borders with Guatemala last month, and consequently no longer stamp tourist passports.

With El Salvador out, there are three alternatives by car: Mexico to the north, Belize to the northeast, and Honduras to the south. We decided on Mexico primarily because of the gorgeous Caraterra 1 highway to Escuintla (our usual route to the Pacific) which would take us a third of the way there. The road from Escuintla to Tecun Uman squirms north almost parellel to the coast, eventually works its way down to two good lanes, with much truck passing, lots of rain, and enjoys the greenest farmland imaginable.

We reached the border well after dark without incident, but had to circle the tight and flooded streets of Tecun Uman several times before finding the crossing: a narrow, fenced drive in the heart of the city, with no sign or outward indication of what it was. With some help from a Guatemalan named Eric, dressed in khaki shorts and a sleeveless black concert tee, who spoke a little English, we made it through without too much trouble. I could not tell at first if Eric worked at the border crossing, or just hung around because he could speak a little English.

At the migracion building, we changed our quetzales for pesos at a 1.3 rate (not too good), filled out forms, and made up a story about visiting Tapachula for the weekend, etc. Our real intention was to spend the night and beat it back over the border first thing next morning.

Eric offered to help us on the Mexican side, and take us to a nice hotel. Worn out from the nearly five-hour drive, not to mention having no idea what we would find on our own in the dark of Hidalgo, I agreed.

Hidalgo turned out to be anything but dark. The most noticeable difference between Mexico and Guatemala upon crossing the border is the street lights. Hidalgo was lit up like an evening soccer match, only there wasn’t a soul on the street. Wet buildings, puddles, pot holes, and tons of street lights in every direction, but no people. I was a little unsettled by this since it wasn’t yet 8:00 p.m.

First off, we had to pay 50 pesos to have our car fumigated. Next, more paperwork, which to complete I had to borrow a pen from the man behind the counter, which was one of these long and narrow chest-high deals with a tiny slit for limited communication and form passing. When I finished, because the slit was so tiny, and because the man’s desk was so low behind it, I had to reach my arm in to the elbow and gently drop the pen onto the his desk. This turned out to be the biggest mistake of the night. The man at the desk, let me add, was dressed in his shirtsleeves with several gold variety necklaces around his smoky neck, and could have looked natural at Tony Saprano’s card table. Behind him was a goon in a blue security uniform. At once, after dropping my pen onto the desk, they both began barking at me about something. When the look on my face told them I didn’t understand what the hell they were taking about, the goon proceeded to re-enact what they mistook for rudeness on my part (dropping the pen) by picking up my passport and flipping it carelessly onto the other man’s lap. I got the point, and fighting every instinct to tell them what I really thought, I leaned in close to the window slit and said los siento (I’m sorry) a couple of times. It was enough, fortunately, to get us through.

Three or four blocks from the border, we pulled up to Hotel Marzari, one of the only buildings still lit up and open for business. We climbed out, paid the gringo rate of 300 pesos (twice at least what the room was worth), and clamored into our room. The textured walls were the color of Barbie skin, and the two single beds were mounted to the same headboard with barely space to move between them. Mallory looked the most confused. A trip to Mexico, to her, meant something quite different from what it meant to us.

Even though the restaurant was closed, I got the owner to send someone out for a couple of beers—Modelo Especial, which is as bad is it gets, but like my Dad always says, “I’ve never had a bad beer.” It’s true, once you get into it, it’s not so bad. So we played cards and drank beer and watched the lizards climb the skin colored walls. It was to be the highlight of the trip.

Next morning we packed and got out as quickly as possible. There was nobody to flag us down on the Mexican side, so we crossed the bridge again and headed back into Guatemala. This time we were stopped at a different check point, but taken into the migracion building once again. An old man, in the same vocation as Eric, was there to see me through for a small tip. And a good thing too, since the migracion man wasn’t going to let us through because we hadn’t stayed for three nights in Mexico, which is necessary for these crossings to go smoothly. But I wasn’t about to turn around and head back into Hidalgo. I claimed the stomach flu, but that wasn’t well-received. In the end, 150 pesos did the trick.

It felt surprisingly good to be on Guatemalan soil again, even though we had only been gone for less than a day. The return drive was equally beautiful. We stopped off in Xocomil where Guatemala’s largest water park is built, and which happens to be the country’s number one tourist attraction, and after waiting in line twenty minutes, discovered on this particular morning of all mornings they didn’t accept credit cards.

Yes, a predictable welcome back to Guatemalan life, with 90 days more in our pocket.

Long Overdue

2005-06-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

I've had more than one comment trickle in that the pony pictures have got to go, or at least be removed from poll position. So, with very little energy for proper updates or commentary, I wanted at least to remind the few faithful visitors to this notebook that we are alive and well, surviving the rain season just fine, and growing used to the earthquakes.

Our guests have found new digs in Antigua among a group of other adoptive/fostering families, so the house has grown quiet without Lilli and the Deck’s around, whom we greatly miss. In their stead is a dog (Buddy, golden retriever pup) we agreed to look after while his owners are in Oregon for a few weeks. Buddy and Maya get on great, but they’ve begun digging deep and dangerous holes all over the yard, which Buddy likes to sleep in on his back. They’re at one another constantly, but it’s endearing. The downside is it’s double the shit I have to shovel and fling over the Great Wall into Sector B-1.

Well, I’ve officially agreed to teach at the Christian Academy of Guatemala this fall—English and World History, so start praying now the rest of the summer will be enough time for me to bone up on everything I’ve forgotten about both subjects.

Hoping to make it back to the glorious mid-west this summer. Stay tuned.

Magical Pony Party

2005-05-21T16:33:00.000-07:00

So Kristin pulled off the “magical pony party” in celebration of Mallory’s 7th birthday. Despite early confusion over the headgear, mistaken to a girl for rabbit ears, the kids had fun, and Mallory, as the center of attention, was in her element. Also, despite seven good years of heavy fortification, a Barbie slipped in under the radar.

(Mallory with pony head cake)

As mind blowing as our daughter turning 7 is to me, I am even more in awe of the pony pinata we found for the occasion. I couldn’t decide whether the pony had a demon, or if it was really just a homosexual dragon in pony drag. Kristin wanted me to “trim” the wicked teeth, lest they scare the children. Of course I refused, knowing our pony would receive punishment enough at the hands of these missionary kids.

(The attack of the drag(on) pony)

(The death of the drag(on) pony)

Angel in Guate

2005-05-16T16:14:00.000-07:00

The Deck’s have moved into Casa de la Todd with their little angel, Lilliana, all 5 pounds of her. She is the most precious little nugget I have ever seen (though terrifically precious herself, Mallory was no nugget). Between the eating and the sleeping and the poo-ing—the trinity of the newly born—I think my favorite has been the sleeping. She is a professional, could put on a clinic. She is hard at it even now, and I am wishing I had a pink onesie of my own to slip over these skin and bones and join her. There is no sleep like the sleep of the very young.

Julie will be fostering Lilliana from here while the adoption is processed, and David will come and stay as often and for as long as he can. We feel so privileged playing a part (however small) in this extraordinary experience with them.

(Mallory earning her keep)

For more photos of Lilli, click here.

The Ocean Revisited

2005-04-19T13:22:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-11T16:50:00.000-07:00

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.

Semana Santa

2005-03-26T13:34:00.000-08:00

We made our way into Antigua Wednesday morning, expecting heavy crowds, perhaps a walk down the mountain just to get into the city, but found nothing of the kind. The city was quietly humming as ever, the sun was on the low rooftops, and Fuego, Agua, and Acatenango, though covered slightly with a dull morning haze, stood hugely over the outer hills.

(volcan Agua)

Sadly, neither the famous alfambras (painted saw dust carpets), nor the Semana Santa (Holy Week) processionals Antigua is so well known for throughout the world, were scheduled to appear or take place on Wednesday. Good Friday and Easter Sunday, according to the schedule an attendant had given us, were the better days to visit. Fortunately, there was to be a kids processional slated to depart from Parque de la Merced at 2:00 p.m. Determined to get a taste of all of the excitement, we decided to wait. Our morning quickly filled up with shopping, a visit to a few of the churches, and lunch.

(la Merced)

Around 1:30, we made our way under the Arco de Santa Catalina—said to be the only structure untouched by the great earthquake of 1773—toward the Parque de la Merced. We could see boys here and there coming quietly of out side doors and from around corners, dressed in royal purple robes making their way, like us, to the church.

(Arco de Santa Catalina)

We arrived in time to find a good place to watch across from the church along Calle del Manchen. Two or three women were already spreading dampened grass, long glistening threads of it, along the cobblestones, and an old woman was dropping flowers down the center in groups of three. The edges were bordered with strung daisies.

The anda emerged from the church around 2:45, fort-five minutes late, or right on time by the Guatemalan clock. Forty or fifty young boys lined each side, anda-bearers as they’re called, with serious looking faces. The float swayed.

The base was made of finely carved wood. In the front was a plain looking cross nailed with spikes, a black bound Bible fixed to its center, with a tiny lamb sitting on top. The figurine of a small Christ in a blood red robe carried a golden cross in the middle, and in the rear, a white altar.

Despite all the anticipation, in truth, the processional emerged and was gone round the corner and out of site within a few minutes. A band struck up a sad tune at its turning, following at a short distance, and the little Christ on the kid’s float got smaller as it swayed down Calle de la Aduana toward the artestian market. I had filled my digital camera’s memory with those minutes, as had a few hundred other observers.

Thinking back on those minutes over this Good Friday, I was a little sad at how my spirit failed to get caught up in the event. Failed, in fact, to feel much of anything at all. I got my pictures, very important. I talked about Guatemala for a while with an older lady from Colorado who’s friend was sick, and couldn’t make it. I made sure the goods we had purchased at the market didn’t get stolen, and that our kids—sticky fingered from ice cream and dead tired—were within hands reach. I kept track of where we had parked, and decided in my mind the easiest way out of the city. We left the scene and the crowd and the little Christ.

The children’s processional with 2,000 boys strong (or so said the brochure) could have been any parade really, considering the way I approached it, considering the lack of reverence I brought to the event. Cultural appreciation? Sure, I had some of that. Spiritual sensitivity, an awareness, a presence, to what was being offered and celebrated? Not a lick. The good Protestant scoffs, of course, at all this Catholic pomp (frivolity?). But the Christian, never good for one, since he is forever humbled by the knowledge of his own sin, should come alive at the celebration of his Christ’s passion, whatever the form—Catholic, Orthodox, Protestant. If my heart was in it at all, like they say, it was in it for the photos, sadly.

* * *
Yesterday evening I was coaxed into the street by Mallory to join a game of futbol the neighbor kids had started. The neighbors’ shacks were filled with new faces—the holiday appearance of family and friends, I supposed. After the game, sweat soaked and still catching my breath (the altitude here is a killer!), Alida, the nine-year old neighbor girl, pushed a plate into my hand with a lump of chicken on a tortilla. Her smile made a shape of joy. “Gracias, Alida.” I waved to her mom across the street, who was bending over her tiny fire.

The sound of laughter and a ruckus of kids playing poured through our windows all evening. The fires next door burned late, and the women laughed long and hard. The givenness of it is what strikes me even now, the common communion of family. No party plans, no invitations, no house cleaning, no last minute trips to the grocery for beer and chips. Just faces around a fire, barefoot kids giggling in a metal shack. The breaking of corn tortillas, the sharing of unpurified water in plastic cups. The holy holiday. Love covering a multitude of sins. Maybe even my own.

The Pacific

2005-03-10T06:19:00.000-08:00

As a lover of beaches, I was happy to make the drive to Puerto San Jose last week with our guests, Mark and Angie. The currents there are reported to be dangerous, and the sands black.

Puerto San Jose was a filthy beach town with little of interest, just thin crowded streets, bikes, faces, signs, tons of shop and restaurant signs. The hotels along the shore were unkept, cheap. The air was heavy and hot. We talked ourselves into a one-year membership at Aquamagic, the kind of water park that would go under fast in the U.S., but for Guatemala, it was a little paradise. Huge slides, wave pool, pool bar, pirate boat. We ate pizza on the sand under a black mesh canopy. I drank a cold Gallo in a white can at the pool bar. Mallory and I hit all four slides four hundred times. Mark and I swam in the huge black surf. We got a little banged up, got flipped over and thrown. I was reminded of the poet Marina Tsvetaeva’s description of waves as “all composition and muscle.” Tsvetaeva was comparing waves to lyric poetry in this case, its rhythms, etc. And I was comparing the waves at Puerto San Jose to other waves of other beaches of my life. Beaches, like waves, like poetry, must be approached, entered, touched. I like Whitman’s line:

Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves…

From the shore, on a postcard, from the air, they are pretty, but they do not come alive until we throw ourselves into them. This is something like what Mark and I did. And I realized how much I love, have always loved, doing it.

The same water—a different wave.
What matters is that it is a wave.
What matters is that the wave will return.
What matters is that it will always return different.
What matters most of all: however different the returning wave,
It will always return as a wave of the sea.

(Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poets with History and Poets without History”)

(Cristian Diego with rake)

(Favorite photo of the week: Mark “Cookie” Miklautsch in the zone)

Climbing Pacaya

2005-03-04T09:31:00.000-08:00

Kristin’s brother Mark and I headed an hour East of Guatemala City yesterday morning to climb Volcan Pacaya, one of the more popular volcanoes in Guatemala. We went despite a recent U.S. Embassy warning against climbing Pacaya due to heavy activity. But I’ve found that the U.S. Embassy will issue a warning for American’s if they spot a gardener peeing in the road, so I wasn’t too concerned. On clear nights, even from a great distance, you can see the flash of explosions over Pacaya’s nipple-like cone, so I was more than a little tipsy with anticipation.

The road up the mountain was newly paved with a grand view of the landscape East of the city, with Volcan Agua for a backdrop. The days have been more hazy lately due mostly, I think, to the burning/clearing of vacant lots (I’m guessing here, I haven’t really confirmed this with anyone), so the view was a little obscured, but we got enough of it to shake our heads at such beauty.

A little over an hour and we pulled into the “park,” paid our 25Q apiece, and found a guide named Alturo who charged 50Q to take us up the volcano. He had a legitimate looking badge and a machete. We were set. It was his second trip of the day, and he would likely take another before supper. Since his hair was still cleanly feathered, and I could detect no wear or worry on his face—in fact, he looked spritely—I figured the hike couldn’t be that bad.

The walk to the base was a good hour uphill on a wooded trail, nothing too exciting. Alturo pointed out various trees and vegetation of note, but I understood very little. There were times it could have been Michigan woods, to be honest. The altitude is what made it a little strange, hitting us almost immediately, and forcing stops every fifteen minutes.

The base was a huge sprawling awkward plain of yellow grass and a scattering of low trees. Rising out of its center, the smoking cone of Pacaya was enough to make us shudder not only at the distance still ahead—horribly steep—but also its huge and strangely live presence, which was compounded by the noise of the explosions within. Alturo told us that Pacaya was speaking, saying, “Welcome, welcome, come to me, yes, come to me,” and laughed.

(view from the base of Volcan Pacaya)

As we came to where the trail got steepest, we could see the hardened magma from the last serious explosion (2000), which sent lava over the side and down, though heavy winds, our guide told us, helped harden things relatively quickly, leaving a strange, cracked yet amazingly smooth black surface that trailed out of our sight around the cone and further down.

(remains of the 2000 explosion)

We ascended up a trail of soft, gravely black magma we found our feet sinking into at least six inches with every step. It was slow going. The rocks were warm and smoking. Smoke was blowing up the cone and circling above. After climbing a good two hundred meters, we could no longer see the base below. To our right, literally a step away, the drop could kill a man, though the fall would be a long, long sliding and tumbling over rock.

I was struck by how similar the terrain near the top of the volcano was to Peter Jackson’s rendering of Mount Doom in the LOTR trilogy. There was something spooky about seeing nothing but white smoke over the long ledge to our right and behind us. We were over 2,500 meters according to our guide, and breathing was not easy.

Someone told me that there was a new, smaller cone inside the main cone, and it was this smaller cone that was spewing rocks. When we reached the top, I realized there were actually two smaller cones rising out of the middle, another 30 meters or so high, and they were both shooting rocks and belching their bienvenidos to us, a thundering welcome.

Like good tourists, we caught our breath and snapped our pictures. We were both half expecting a bowling ball sized rock to land at our feet if not on our heads. The guide seemed calm though, which is a tourist’s best and sometimes only solace. Still, the cone felt alive, and I can’t say I have ever felt such a thing in all my life.

The descent was all heel sliding and boyish lunges. Toward the bottom, we ran, laughing hugely at the body’s ability to negotiate all that angle and surface and speed. I was reminded of the Devil’s Logslide at Grand Marais in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where my folks would take us occasionally to descend a massive dune that was once used to roll logs to the Lake Superior shore.

(Mark booking it down)

Near the bottom, after a more rapid hike, our guide cut a stretch of vine from the trail and slipped up the bank and out of site. I caught something about watering his horse. Several minutes and a couple hundred meters later, we heard the clop of horses coming down the trail, four in all, with Alturo leading the first by his cut vine. He bid Mark hop on the first, bareback, which he did. I got my turn soon after. It was a surprising and happy finish to a long day’s climb.

At the park entrance we bought ourselves and our guide a Gallo, and took a seat. I thought about how Guatemala’s notorious attractions continue to astonish me, but more than that, and more importantly, I thought about how good it was to sit with my brother-in-law in the shade in such a wild place among strange people. The greatest surprise of the day I think was the subtle realization of how extraordinary it was to be sitting in this very place together, of all the places we might be in the world. We exchanged knowing smiles at the Lord's providence which had led us both up and down even wilder and stranger paths than the one we had just taken to bring us there.

The Scorpion

2005-02-14T19:31:00.000-08:00

Kris found a scorpion in the boy’s closet this weekend. I laid the smack down with the flat of my sandal, obviously. Although I am told they are but a painful nuisance, I have read how “some information indicates that [scorpions] from North America are less venomous than their relatives from Central and South America.” Of course, of course. I’ve managed to identify this one as of the Centruroides gracillis variety, known as the Slenderbrown or the Florida Bark Scorpion in the U.S., and in Cuba, the Alacran prieto (dusky scorpion), which I tend to prefer. In any case, the worst I’ve seen in Michigan is a wood spider, and in Ohio, the freaky jumping crickets that took over our garage. And then there were the cicadas. But scorpions? No. If I find one in my bed I’m on the first flight to Houston, I promise.

Reportage

2005-02-03T09:08:00.000-08:00

My posts have grown more sparse, I admit, and I am wondering if it is because we are feeling more at home here. The more comfortable we become, the less interesting things begin to seem, and I would not bore any of you with our daily office. However, Kristin has told me I should not give up on this little blog project just yet.

Some more general reportage is in order then.

First off, the kids are adapting famously to life in Guatemala. Placing Mallory in the missionary school (The Christian Academy of Guatemala) has proved to be a good decision. Her teacher is fantastic, and she has made some good friends there. Kristin has been volunteering to watch the kids during the teacher’s lunch break a couple days a week, which gives them a much needed break. They are all very grateful for this, and thank Kristin every time she shows up.

Cristian has lost much of his Spanish since we took him out of Las Abejitas, but we’re on the lookout for a new school to send him to. He loves the new dog, but tends to abuse her by yanking on either of her two left ears, or squeezing her hind quarters in a kind of neanderthal hug. I’ve caught him several times flat out whacking her with a shoe or toy or whatever happens to be laying around. I am not sure where kids get their violent streak. Fortunately, Maya is passive (so far), and lets him have his way with her.

Kristin is still on the lookout for a more permanent ministry. She has been asked by All God’s Children to work one or two mornings a week, giving adoptive families tours of the facility, and handing off their kids. This was one of her favorite things to do when she was working at Hannah’s Hope full-time, so she’s happy for now to get plugged in again in this way. She has also lined up a couple trips to other orphanages next week, which she’s looking forward to. Stay tuned.

Kristin spent last weekend in Antigua helping out with a youth retreat. On Saturday the kids divided up into 10 teams, one of which Kristin was on, and they did “The Amazing Race” modeled after the reality TV show, which took them from one end of the city, on foot, to the other, and back again. Kristin's team, as you might have guessed, cheated as much as possible, and still didn’t finish. That’s my girl!

I have been able to work without too much trouble, though our Internet connection seems to be getting worse by the day. I have placed countless calls to Toema, the Convergence Internet supervisor, who has made countless promises about taking care of the problem. Just a few days ago, I put in an order for ADSL from another provider, Telgua, which is notoriously bankrupt on customer service (an oxymoron in Guatemala, except in the hotels and restaurants). Anyway, Toema is tired of hearing from me. Hopefully Telgua’s connection will be more stable. I’ve been told theirs is the best, but on the downside, they can take up to six weeks to install your modem. We’ll see.

I’ve also been helping out the youth pastor at our church by researching some of the topics he teaches on. It’s a good fit for me because I get to read up on interesting subjects, come up with a few ideas of my own, and yet not have to stand and deliver them in front of forty-something missionary kids, who know and have heard it all. It’s a good sort of challenge for me.

The weather has remained very nice, low to mid 70s and sunny, and at night dropping to the high 50s. The only difference is the haze. Most days we can barely see the city from our house, and the volcanoes are almost always missing from the horizon, or if they do appear, are like fuzzy mounds across the sky. I hate to think of what the air quality is doing to us! The haze, I’ve been told, is mostly due to the burning of vacant lots, which is common this time of year. I wish I had the courage to burn all the trash wrappers and dog shite outside our wall. It could use a good clearing in the worst way. I took the time once to pick it all up, but two days later it looked exactly the same, maybe worse. We're looking into concocting some kind of hellfire pepper mix and soaking the grass to drive off all the strays. But the garbage is another hurdle. I will never understand litter.

Soul Coughing, that great threesome of a band that lit up so many late night drives through Chicago, has a great line that I think of whenever my vision gets fouled by road waste:

"I could be condemned to hell for every sin but littering." (Mike Doughty)

Little Maya

2005-02-02T05:04:00.000-08:00

Since Guatemalan crooks are deathly afraid of dogs, we got us a puppy a couple weeks ago just to be safe. She had been given the name ‘Ixmucane’ (pronounced ish-moo-cahn-eh), the name of a Mayan creation goddess, one of thirteen. I would have been glad to call her ‘Ishmu,’ but the girls preferred ‘Maya,’ which is sweet, and fits her just fine.

Maya likes to chew on rocks and on Cristian’s forearms. Mallory is ecstatic. Kristin is allergic. And me, I’m just happy to fortify the compound.

Like the great Gerry Fleck, Maya has her own deformity, two left ears, which I find irresistable.

Lago de Atitlan

2005-01-13T14:27:00.000-08:00

We spent a night with Bill Moulder at the renowned Lake Atitlan last weekend at the Rancho Grande Inn, where the host assured us our bungalo was the best in town, claiming both Robert Redford and Al Pacino had stayed there.

The drive to Panajachel on the Pan American highway was adventurous. The road weaves through the mountains west of Guatemala City, and narrows through a handful of small towns which left us with the impression that this, not the Capital City or our beloved San Cristobal, was the real Guatemala.

The last hundred or so kilometers were pure mountains. The road snaked around precarious cliff where farms grew on impossibly steep inclines. We passed locals hauling bound packs of firewood on their backs (always uphill), the occasional serious biker, and were passed by several tour buses packed out with gringos.

The vigorous landscape left me a little car sick as we approached Panajachel, also goes by Pana, or Gringotenango, and has been for many years the hippie mecca of Central America, and a major tourist attraction. Many have called Lago de Atitlan the most beautiful lake in the world.

It was nearing sunset when we began our descent into Panajachel which, even at lake level, is still at an altitude of 1,560 meters. We came around a bend to find a mirador (lookout point) with a view of the most spectacular thing I have ever seen.

The luminous clouds at sunset twisting around the volcanoes had an otherworldly presence, a kind of magic and miracle in their shape. We stood in shock for several minutes, literally in shock, then gathered enough of our gringo wits to snap a few photos, and took off.

We arrived in Panajachel after dark where its narrow streets were flooded with cars, buses, shoppers, and boys negotiating the scene on old Huffy’s. Pana did not have the charm of Antigua, to be sure.

After settling into our overpriced bungalo, we walked Calle Principal, the main street through town, and scoped out the handicraft booths while looking for a place to eat. We settled on a little dive in the center of town and had a nice meal, then caught a tuk tuk (a motorized rickshaw) back to our Robert Redford bungalo, where we lit a fire and reminisced about our Trinity years with Bill.

Standing on the beach the next morning taking in the three volcanoes looming over the lake, I could see why so many people come to this place, and why many never leave. We tooled around the beach, had coffee, and took a boat ride. It was a perfect day for all three.

(Bill and the boy on the streets of Panajachel)

The Tell

2005-01-05T21:03:00.000-08:00

Tonight, looking down on the city’s countless street and house lights below, it’s quiet. I’ve just come in from smoking a good tobacco—Losantville from Cincinnati’s Straus Tabacconist, which has a searing and memorable flavor, if a little dry with time. There are stars too, not like Michigan’s, of course, but enough to take your breath away if you look up long enough. It’s getting colder and quieter.

My friend and Trinity professor Bill Moulder has spent the week with us, and tonight is in the north, in Tikal, at the Jungle Lodge, and maybe even now is scaling the ruins under the same stars. I am hoping what Mayan gods remain will be good to him there. His kindness, which covers him like the scent of freshly cut flowers, or like light, should get him back safely I think.

Leaving behind family and friends, and what snow Cincinnati had for us, was bittersweet. Still, I was surprised at how happy I was to return to this city, this world so alive and filthy with life.

"The Tell":

I want to tell my friends how beautiful
the world is. Not but what they know
it is terrible too—they know as well as I;
but nevertheless, I want to tell my friends.
Because they are. And this is what they are;
and because it is and this is what it is.
You are my friend. The world is beautiful.
Dear friend, you are. I want to tell you so.

(William Bronk, Life Supports)

I have made no resolutions this year save to memorize this poem.

The Day of the Devil

2004-12-07T21:16:00.000-08:00

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

2004-12-07T08:20:00.000-08:00

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

2004-12-03T15:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Some Thoughts Surrounding Our Flight From Oakland

2004-11-30T04:50:00.000-08:00

From what I can tell, even though we haven’t lived there yet, San Cristobal will be more our speed. There is a Scandinavian Gym just down the main boulevard from our neighborhood, so most likely I will fit right in (Mom—I’ve been meaning to tell you there’s a Curves not two miles from our house here in Zona 10; I’m sure I could get you a part-time gig there if you and Dad decide to winter in Guate). There is also a view of Volcan Augua, yes, the very same volcano our little neighborhood in South Antigua butted up against. And to the left—I have no idea which direction this is—there’s a view of the city which I imagine at night will light up like Christmas. Harder to get used to, I think, will be the morning cock’s crow next door. Kristin is dreading this wake up call. Anyway, I am anxious for Saturday—to get our stuff in a truck and out of town, up the hill, and into our new digs. Despite being a little old fashioned at heart, I love new places, sights, roads, geographies. I like that we will be learning a whole new area, with its own feel, its own pace.

However, we will not leave Oakland without some regret. Our house at the end of 11th Avenida “B” has a charm and tranquility hard to come by in this city. We wake up to tall exotic trees, the sound of birds, a distant and harmless dog’s bark, and always the sun. Even now as I write this an almost full moon is in my office window, and it’s perfectly quiet outside. We will miss our neighbors, the gringos from Portland, their kids, their friendship, and their pong table in particular, but not their dogs. And of course Tony, my morose nextdoor neighbor with the bum hip who wants so badly to leave this country for a new life in Florida. This week alone, no kidding, he has asked me for 40Q, bummed six Advil, two AA batteries (twice), the last of my good rum, a cup and half of brown rice, and a bag of microwavable popcorn. I will miss his laugh and his heart that I know is good, but there is nothing else about him or his life that I will miss.

(15th Avenida Finale, Oakland, Zona 10)

I will miss too the quiet street leading out of the barranco, and the folks that greet me every morning with a wave on our drive to the bus stop and back again—the neighborhood gardener whom we’ve passed urinating on the side of the street countless times (not uncommon in Guatemala), the pack of women walkers, the handful of maids on their way to work, the rides I sometimes give them where I try speaking to them in something like Spanish. Three months has felt almost like a year, a complicated and sometimes arresting year, but a good one.

New Digs

2004-11-22T18:41:00.000-08:00

We met a motley crew of missionaries at a party a couple weeks go in San Lucas. It was hosted by Gregory G. (I can’t spell his last name), a missionary qua entrepreneur who runs a medical clinic in the mountains, among other things. There were horse rides and food and assorted entertainment pieces. It was great to get out of the city, and to be among folk whose speech we could understand. After talking with missionaries of all breeds all afternoon, including one American ex-cop working full time for the Guatemalan police, we learned that most missionaries end up doing something different than what they originally came for. This came as good news to us, since we are in the process of a significant uprooting ourselves.

Kristin has decided to find another ministry here since things at the Hannah’s Hope have not worked out. The details are a little complicated, but the short of it is that they are going through a lot of changes, and the timing was not right for us or them. So at the moment, my unflappable wife is researching other orphanages and ministry opportunities. While we did struggle with these turn of events initially, we’ve grown more and more excited about the possibilities that are opening up to us. For one, we’re happy to be moving out of this dog and pony show called Zona 10, and into San Cristobal, a more residencial area just outside of town with cheaper rent a better view.

I have to confess I am a little embarrased to be moving into a house even bigger than the one we are presently living in, but we were ready to give anything for a yard. There are so few parks in Guatemala City that a yard is essential if you have kids. The place we found is in a gated neighborhood called los Pinos (the Pines), which is a five minute drive from Mallory’s new school, the Christian Academy of Guatemala, and within walking distance of our bank and Paiz, the better of the grocery stores. We will have a great view of the city and two of the volcanos, one of which is still active and was smoldering yesterday as we drove by. The neighbors have chickens, turkeys, and yes, a few gallos too.

(The view from the street)

(Front view from inside the compound)

(The yard)

(The view from the terrace)

(The wife)

(The cool stairwell)

A Gallo Christmas (Or, The Beautiful and the Ridiculous)

2004-11-07T13:22:00.000-08:00

Standing in the center of Parque Independencia, the city’s most picturesque obelisk where the main veins converge—Avenida Las Americas, Boulevard Liberacion, and La Reforma—, stands a massive green cone glittering with Christmas tinsel, candy canes, snowmen, and crowned with, of all things, the ubiquitous Gallo Cerveza logo. The sight embodies so much of what I’ve found to be a balancing act between the beautiful and the ridiculous here.

Not far from the Obelisco, and just a block over from La Reforma, Guatemala City’s grandest avenue (to our consternation, they close it every Sunday for public access—dog-walkers, joggers, bike rides, and the like, so it’s nearly impossible to get from one side of the city to the other), the most obnoxious replica of the Eiffel Tower you could imagine stradles a dirty intersection of a run down business district of Zona 9. We pass by El Torre del Reformador every Sunday on the way home from Church.

El Torre was erected in honor of president Justo Rufino Barrios’ “reforms” of the 1880s, which amounted to putting Guatemala on the capitalist map with the introduction of coffee as a large-scale cash crop (finally Guatemala had something to offer the world besides cochineal, a dye made from cactus worms, and formerly Guatemala’s chief export. Never heard of it, right?) But to pull this off, Barrios needed both land and a sizeable workforce. Like so much bad history before him, he looked to the indiginous Indians to fill both needs. Barrios seized Indians lands and auctioned them off to the highest bidders. Since the Indians could not afford to buy their own land back, they lost it to wealthy landowers or foreigners, mostly Germans. Not willing to work for the pathetically low wages offered them, the Indians were content to live in self-sustaining simplicity off their own corn plots. Good enough. But Barrios solved this problem by instituting a system of forced labor called mandamientos, giving local police authority to round up the males of every household to be used as landowners saw fit. A convenient system of debt bondage was adapted to put the Indians to “good use” helping Guatemala become another champion of “capitalism.”

El Torre del Reformador, then, with all its junk metal, celebrates the junk reforms of a junk president; yet another example of a beautiful country blurred by an obnoxious monument.

A prominent though more subtle form of the same thing is Guatemala’s social class system. Guatemalan’s are beautiful people, both on and under the surface, rich or poor, it doesn’t matter. Not to us anyway. Class in Guatemala, and maybe everywhere it holds sway, is defined in large part by education, which is defined by birth (usually), which is defined by fate or if you’re religious, by God. Ultimately then, if you follow me, class comes back to a source outside of ourselves. We can do very little to control it. There are exceptions, of course, but you must turn stones to find them. There is little use boasting in one’s birth, since one can’t lift a finger to influence it.

If you engage a ladino (generally mid- to upper-class mix of Indian and Spanish blood) on the subject of the “help,” education is cited as the dominant divider between rich and poor, upper and working class, the haves and the have nots, or however you want to put it. It most cases, it is taken for granted that the “uneducated” cannot be trusted, befriended, or given any decent measure of outward respect. The “help,” as they prefer to be called (not 'maid' or 'muchacha', which are more common), don’t eat at the same table, in some cases don’t use the same utinsils, and are often reduced to a humble table in the garage. The “help,” if they’re lucky enough to get a ride in a car, climb in the backseat without a word, even if they’re the only passenger.

I realize this is not the United States, and I know this country and others like it have long and complex cultural histories, but at the risk of sounding naïve to these realities, I cannot buy into this kind of supercilious nonsense. I may be beating a dead horse, but here’s why: First, “education” is only got by proximity, or luck, or, to use the language of Christianity, by grace. If you are born into a family of means, you get educated. You get to have maids. You get what you want. You drive shiny SUV’s with tinted windows and uniformed guards with shotguns man your house front, and subservient muchachas wipe your toddlers plump asses for you.

Second, “education” is overrated. Regardless of education, life happens to you. Nobody is spared. Both get ill, both have mediocre sex, and both chew the same chiclets bubble gum under the same ultraviolet sun. They both fall in love in the same old ways, die the same tragic deaths, and get buried in the same soil as their fathers and mothers before them. Both eat rice and beans, cry at births and weddings and funerals, and dream of betters lives in a time of peace.

Aside from all that, and perhaps more importantly, we’ve found the “lower” class to be much warmer and friendlier—the kind of folk, rooted in community, we came in part to find. The class makeup of this culture is the most ridiculous—no, the most obnoxious—thing we’ve seen yet, worse by far than the Gallo Christmas tree.

And here we are, oddball and obnoxious lower-middle class Americans living amongst a private, buttoned up, and elite diplomat community in a part of the city so removed from the real Guatemala it begins to resemble the materialistic commericism we thought we had left behind. No such luck.

Las Abejitas

2004-11-02T10:17:00.000-08:00

We found a great little school for Cristian in our zone called Las Abejitas (the Little Bees), and decided to send him. They start the kids in school early here, and since we figured he’d pick up on Spanish quicker at a school than here with me and the maid, we went ahead with it.

Today was his first day. He wasn’t exactly terrified, but was in no mood for such nonsense as picture taking by Dad. We dropped him off out front like we had been told to do without ceremony. He entered without a scene.

We picked him up a little early, at 11:15, and we could tell straight off that he’d had a great morning. The Director confirmed it. So we paid the first month’s tuition and bought him a chupa (this has become my favorite word to say in Spanish. Pronounced choo-pah, it means frock or coat, but could also mean a tobacco pouch. What versatility! In this case, it means a little orange warm up suit which he will wear twice a week). And so begins a lifetime of school, which is what it seemed like to me. And I loathed every minute of it!

Halloween in Guate

2004-10-31T19:54:00.000-08:00

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

2004-10-25T13:17:00.000-07:00

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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…

*

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)

*

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

2004-10-20T07:25:00.000-07:00

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

2004-10-15T06:38:00.000-07:00

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

2004-10-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

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

2004-10-07T15:20:00.000-07:00

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

2004-10-06T13:41:00.000-07:00

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

2004-10-05T20:29:00.000-07:00

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

2004-10-01T06:24:00.000-07:00

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.”

Mama Kristin

2004-09-29T06:18:00.000-07:00

Every Saturday we take Mallory and Cristian to Hanna’s Hope to play with the children, and so that Kristin can make her “rounds” to check on things. This past Saturday, I left Mal and Cristian in Casa 5 (where the oldest kids stay) and tagged along with her so that I could see all the other children, which I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to do.

Watching Kristin walk from room to room, child to child, calling their lit up faces each by name, and hearing them respond, “Mama! Mama!” moved me. I was reminded of why we’re here. In addition to her most practical sense of life, and her ability to get the things done that need it most, Kristin brings a spirit of love and compassion to these houses and these kids. They are all of them beautiful, and were so happy to see us last Saturday. They called me “Papa” too, and I counted it a privilege. Though they don’t realize it, they are rendering a service of love to me many times more than I could to them. One is easily changed sitting on the floor mixing it up with a bunch of toddlers who act as if you’ve just brought in chocolate cake and presents, when in reality, all you have are your open arms, your broken Spanish, and eyes to tell them they are unduly precious.

It is overwhelming to be in a room full of kids starved for familial love. I am reminded of my own journey, and how blessed I have been to be loved by my own family, and my wife’s family too, and by so many friends along the way. Being away from “home” creates a space for reflecting on those things that sustain us most. And without those familiar things and people that surround your life and provide a sense of belonging, even comfort, anymore present, you can't help but think of their importance. You can’t help but miss them. I keep thinking of the poet Thomas McGrath’s lines from his Letters to Tomasito,

How could I have come so far?
(And always on such dark trails!)
I must have traveled by the light
Shining from the faces of those I have loved.

That light shining on those faces is what I think we need as much as we need anything. To wear a face of light for these kids at Hanna’s Hope is a strange and wonderful thing, a blessing. You’ve got to see it to believe it, like they say. Even a tired face, a face full of its own life with its own problems, like my own, can light up the humblest room.

La Casa en la Cuidad Capital

2004-09-26T18:11:00.000-07:00

It’s taken all of three weeks to fill these cavernous rooms with our lives. Having purchased some cheap furniture, stove, refridgerator, beds, etc., and having slept here long enough to fall asleep and dream and wake up properly, without that displaced feeling you get from hotel rooms or the in-laws, etc., it’s as good as home.

(Front view)

(Side view)

(La sala)

We did manage to celebrate Cristian’s birthday a few weeks ago albeit on a cardboard box and without chairs. He was king for a night. Since then he sings, “Happy Birthday To Me” in the cutest voice you’ve ever heard. (Click here to listen)

(Feliz Cumpleanos a Cristian!)

A Good Day

2004-09-26T17:30:00.000-07:00

Finally, after considerable inactivity, two young bucks speaking the fastest Spanish I’ve heard yet came rambling up our drive in their little van to install my cable Internet. Their gear: an enormous ladder, wooden cable spool, and a Zenith modem twice the size and weight of my computer—-what a sight! You should have seen the smile on my face.

I had to help the short one heave a stretch of cable line onto the roof to his partner, then supervised the endeavor as best as I knew how. In the end, it was up and running to my satisfaction.

That same morning—-it was a day to remember, believe me—-I drove home a white ’92 Volvo 240GL with only 128,000 kilometers, which is like a drive in the country in Volvo-speak. It’s easily three feet longer than our mini-van back in Cincinnati. A jewel.

(The Volvo & the little master)

Expectations

2004-09-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

All week I have grown over-bloated with doubt. There is so very little here you can count on. The only sure things I know of are the rain and the incomprehensible traffic. I have been waiting days to purchase my car and for a proper Internet connection. Every day there’s a new excuse, and never a good one. There is an alarming shortage on creativity in Guatemala in this department. Yesterday the cable company told me they couldn’t come to my house because of the rain. Since it rains every day here, I was speechless. I figure the sooner we lose our expectations on anything and anyone, the better life will get.

In Guatemala, the calendar, even time, is but a mere reference point at best, at worst, a boy’s toy watch that never worked.

First Weeks

2004-09-17T06:28:00.000-07:00

*

Despite a rain delay in Dallas, we made it to Guatemala City in one piece Sunday night. Anibal, as promised, held an orange sign with my name on it in the waiting area just outside the airport. Fortunately, it was no trouble (in fact, it was almost too easy) getting thru immigration and acquiring our luggage. I bought Kristin black beans and bread at a food stand while our luggage was being loaded onto a van, then we packed ourselves in. The kids fell asleep almost immediately.

The drive to Antigua was strangely familiar. Much of it we remembered from a year and half ago—the thin twisting climb into the mountains, the pickup trucks with kids and young couples standing in their dusty beds, green road signs with names distant and strange to us. Antigua lay around a last bend in the road, just as I remembered. It was dark, so we couldn’t see the mountains or volcanoes I had promised Mallory.

Mario, the Director of Tecun Uman, the school we will spend two weeks studying Spanish at, met us out front of his school. He drove us to an apartment several blocks south of the central square, down Avenida 5, into a newer development. I was disappointed to be so far from the square, but the place seemed nice enough. As we got out of the van, we heard a piercing screech not far from where we stood, in the shadows. It sounded like someone had squeezed a large monkey. Mario explained it was the whistle of a security guard, blown periodically to scare off potential robbers. It wasn’t clear to me if the whistle was blown when a “potential” robber was seen, or just for good measure. Later that night, and the two nights since, I have heard the whistle several times, and so have put my hopes in the latter.

Our apartment is in a two story house and conjoined to seven other flats by a small, roofless central garden. The rooms are small, rustic, and dank. We have two bedrooms, a living area, bathroom, and smallish kitchen. The floor is red ceramic, the walls stucco and painted lightly orange and blue, with red brick archways over the kitchen entrance and a strange, square opening off the kitchen—again roofless—extending to the ground floor and to the open air above. A long sheet of plastic keeps the rain out, but not the noise from the tenants below. They have two kids, like us, and their noise is not unlike our own. Anyway, the kids like it. My favorite place is the roof which has a great view of Agua, one of three volcanoes looming over the city directly to the south, and green mountains in every other direction.

(the view from the roof of our apartment)

*

It’s Tuesday night, our third night here, and we have settled into a kind of rhythm. Notwithstanding the language barrier, which I am particularly frustrated by, the biggest challenge has been the family logistics of living twenty-five minutes by foot from our school, and in a much smaller place than our house in Cincinnati.

We began our classes today at Tecum Uman. I will be studying with maestro Victor on the roof of the school. Victor is a short, serious looking middle-aged man, and from what I can tell, an experienced teacher. He has a high-pitched laugh which he breaks into occassionally at the strangest times. I like him very much.

There is a tangerine and a papaya tree heavy with fruit growing up through the building. Like the great tight rope walker Philip Petit, when I see fruit, I want to juggle. I couldn’t get my mind off it all morning during our lesson. I mistook the unripe tangerines for limes, since they are nearly identical in appearance, until Victor corrected me. In any case, I mean to steal a few for tossing before the week’s up.

Notwithstanding Victor’s apparent prowess as a teacher, not to mention my eager mind, four hours with the maestro dispelled my hopes of picking up the language quickly.

(Victor and I)

(Mallory with one of her teachers)

(Kristin with Rosa, her maestra)

*

It’s no problem getting online in Antigua. I’ve been told there are roughly 40-something Internet cafes in the city, five or six of which I have visited already. We pass about 8 on our way to school. I spent the afternoon today in one of the more interesting cafés called the Funky Monkey, which I think is run by a young American, but I’m not sure. The sign in front dubs it the “coolest” Internet café in Antigua. “Cool,” in this case, refers to loud American music, smoking paraphernalia, and ashtrays. Still, I was shocked at how good it felt to hear “Sweet Child of Mine” playing on the hi-fi, and to be among smokers—surely the most congenial and generous folk on earth—was a comfort. You can get connected here for about fifty cents, or four quetzales, an hour, which isn’t too bad considering the connection is high-speed, and the people are generally friendly, though I haven’t found a shopkeeper yet that I can understand.

(the central square, Antigua)

*

Even in good shoes, the walk to the school is a bear (Tecun Uman is located about 3 blocks west of the central square). I need to remind myself that most folks who work in this city live in pueblos a good 45 minute walk from the city. I am far too used to the convenience of my car. There are more bicycles here than cars, by the way, and more “chicken buses” (public transportation) than bicycles, though walking is the norm. As a rule, all the cars are stolen.

(Avendia 5, Antigua)

*

Our seventh day in Antigua. All week I’ve smelled burning leaves and branches from unrecognizable trees—all being cleared for further development and burned. The laborers, the older ones anyway, look like photos from outdated Spanish textbooks dressed in their gray slacks, white camisas, and yellow straw hats with machetes strapped to their belts. Happily, the new homes going up in South Antigua look two hundred years old. From the roof of our place you can see enough of their inner gardens and exploding flower work to covet their wealthy lives within.

Were I to grow old here, I think my life expectancy would double if only for the day’s long yawning. There are no demands for rushing here. Like the poet Nicanor Parra’s Santiago, Chile, “the days are interminably long: several eternities in a day.”

(Kris and Mallory in front of Augua)

*

The guards are blowing their monkey whistles more fervently tonight. Either there are burglars about, or, more likely, they are tired of the crickets. Or maybe they’re just bored.

Today I watched a man fifty feet up a tree hack down limbs with a machete. I could not make out anything binding him to the tree for safety. He was risking his life, as far as I could tell, for an afternoon’s wages—which I would guess are roughly equal to a package of hot dogs.

*

Our last day in Antigua. In the rain season the days can’t decide how they want to come off. Any hour could bring rain. Temperatures move from cool to warm back to cool with no pattern whatsoever, which might explain in part why nobody wears shorts here. But the mornings are all the same. The sun rises early, the houses are quiet and colorful, the air lithe and lighter than any other time of day. The sky is generally blue with wisps of low clouds which prefer the volcano peaks, often hiding them from view.

Having found a casa in the capital city, we are attempting to move in today. We didn’t expect to find a place so spacious in Zona 10. It lies at the end of a cul de sac and just five minutes by foot to Hanna’s Hope where Kristin will be working. Through contact with a missionary here, we discovered Darvy, a local lifejacket. I pay Darvy $20 a day to take us around, translate, help me at the bank, etc.

I’ve discovered that most gringos down here—missionaries in particular—have a “guy.” Without a “guy,” you can’t hope to accomplish much. Darvy serves as a conduit to something resembling efficiency, a word more akin to fantasy here than in the States. Our livelihood rests on and with Darvy.

We leave Antigua without regret, needing a more permanent residence to call home. Antigua is so beautiful, but suffers from typifying too perfectly the Spanish colonial baroque a gringo is more apt to want to photograph than call home. Besides, there are more Europeans on the streets than locals, it seems, so that if it were not for the architecture (most of which appears on the verge of collapsing), and the now familiar shape of hills and volcanoes, one might easily forget where he is.

I made the mistake in our first week here of referring to Antigua as a city that perpetually yawns. Perhaps Time is drowsy in this altitude, and nods its great head from time to time at the impossible inefficiency of the place, but no, I have learned that Antigua is a city that walks—walks at all hours, walks to language schools (which may outnumber the Internet cafes), walks to work and back again, walks door to door with tortillas in wicker baskets, walks to the market and to the bus, walks home.

*

We left Antigua Saturday as we had found it two weeks before. Our new rented house in Guatemala City lies in Oakland at the end of 15th Avenida Finale down a little side street no larger than a driveway which, if it were any longer, would fall off into a barranco. There are few houses in the city, I’ve been told, this secluded. I’ve also been told seclusion makes us more suseptible to robbery. We’ll see. We do have a 12’ wall with coiled electrical barbed wire surrounding the house, so it has the feel of a compound. It is also conjoined to a sister house by a common wall, same architecture, and a man named Tony living there with his maid. Tony was born in France but spent most of his life in Guate. His first words to us, just over the wall and out of site, were: “Hey gringos,” in what sounded like a heavy New York accent.

The rooms of the house are huge, the ceiling close to 15’ in the upstairs master bedroom, and a shared kitchen, dining, and living room make up the downstairs, with double glass doors opening to a thin backyard garden. The place is almost embarrasing, I must say, especially since many people are referring to us as “missionaries” here and back home. We are here, in part, to love and serve the fatherless, or better, the family-less, which is another way of saying the homeless. And so I hope we can make of this place a home for more than just ourselves.