Review of Five Months in Santiago Atitlán

These have been five of the best months of my life, and it will be difficult for me to readjust to my life in the States. In many ways the quality of my life is better in Santiago, although it's not perfect.

The best things about my time here include the natural beauty of the area, the ease with which I've made friends, the simplicity of life and the gentle weather. I've missed some foods, friends and family, and organization. I've missed taking for granted the follow-through to a commitment, such as when two people agree to meet at a certain place and time.

And I've had a lot of free time here, to choose what I want to do with my day. I've had almost no chance to see TV or movies; the lake can be a distraction, but for the most part, I've stayed pretty busy with what I came here to do.

Guatemala is a poor country. The incidence of parasites is high. Malnutrition and undernutrition are everywhere, and are expected to be sharply worse in the year to come -- draught caused a poor corn harvest this year. But the real problems are cultural. Desperately poor people buy sodapop and chips to supplement their tortilla-heavy diets instead of the beans and vegetables that are relatively abundant. Parents believe refined sugar is an important part of the diet. Dental care is awful and small children routinely walk around with lollipops rolling over their teeth. Education is very poor and unvenly distributed. Some schools have much less to offer than others. Some public schools charged money to attend primary school until this year when that was made illegal. As a result our goddaughter started first grade at age ten along with dozens of other 7-13 year-olds from Panabaj and Chukmuk. Even at schools that didn't charge, education is often not valued nor seen as an escape to poverty.

In the poorer regions, women start having children around age 15, which truly exacerbates poverty, especially given the growing rate of paternal abandonment. Irma's sister and her two children have moved back home with Mom. I doubt the 19 year-old mother, uneducated and with no trade skills (the family is too desperately poor to have fostered skills such as weaving and embroidering) would be able to contribute anything toward food and firewood.

Education is the key to escaping absolute poverty. One of Irma's neighbors finished middle school a few years back, went to a six month nursing program, started working at the Hospitalito, and is now, at age 19, finishing high school, a feat not accomplished by many in the poor areas around Atitlan. She earns the minimum wage allowed by law, about $180 per month, and works long and hard hours, so much so that it may be impossible for her to continue her studies at the university level. But $180 per month is a fortune for many of the families of Chukmuk. Corn costs $20 per hundred pounds, or roughly $60 per month for a typical family; firewood costs another $10-15 per month; other foods may add $5 or much more, depending on what the family eats. With one family member earning minimum wage, the family may be able to seek occasional medical care, use the internet, buy clothing, further their education.

I came to Guatemala to enjoy, to learn and to help. I think I've succeeded. There's so much more to learn, and always will be, but that's the first step in helping others; understanding their motivations and needs.

The better I get to know the community and the individuals that comprise it, the more need I see, and I believe I'll be back. Next mission: more computer labs in the schools and teacher education on how to incorporate technology into primary and early secondary education. And more time with Irma and our friends.

Farewell Parties

Three parties on our last three days in Santiago. First, with the Hospitalito. Then, just the nursing staff. Both were filled with gifts and tearful goodbyes.

Our last day, Betty, her son José Luis, and our friend Rosa Viviana arrive around noon to learn how to cook lasagna, bread, and other goodies from up north. About 30 people are expected for the evening meal.

One guest of honor will be Irma Magdalena, the girl we're sponsoring. After taking her shopping on Sunday, we brought her to the Hospitalito to have her checked out on Monday. Her health is not too bad, though she may have some parasites. She got an ear lavage, which she hated. Her mother Magdalena had to come back a few times after that, and Geneen made sure she knew they were invited for Friday and gave her directions on how to get to Las Milpas.

But I was pretty sure we'd have to go to their house to get them and bring them. The culture often works like that here. Promises are made and abandoned regularly. When at 4:00 Rosa, José Luis and I set off for Chukmuk, I was very surprised to see Mother, daughter and grandmother already heading down the path to see us. And Irma in her new outfit.

It was great fun putting the kids to work cooking. Irma and José Luis were thrilled to mix the carrot-beet-coconut salad, and to squeeze lime juice on it. I had them shape the loaves of bread, and suggested they braid it. Irma is a whiz at braiding.

I chose a quiet moment to give Magdalena Q500, or about $60. She cried and said she's never seen so much money. I asked her to please make it last, that it was to help with corn and firewood.

Cooking for 30 is a lot of work. There are so many ore people I would have liked to invite. I was a little disappointed that the party mostly split itself into two groups, one group in traditional clothing speaking Tz'utujil, and one in modern clothing speaking Spanish and English.



Around 8:00, the guests left. Betty gave Geneen a shawl she wove. It's magnificent to the point that you can feel its aura.

I hugged Irma and told her to write, that we hope to be back next year. She hugged Geneen and burst into tears. We told her we love her.

Centro de Mesa

About a month before we left Santiago, Geneen contracted with a family to have a centro de mesa (table runner) made. Maribel and Ingri work at the hospital, and have been friends of ours since shortly after we arrived. Geneen and Maribel picked out the threads, choosing colors that Geneen felt best represent Santiago.

Their house is like other houses in Santiago, in that you enter the courtyard, and there are several rooms that open into it. María, the mother, sits in the courtyard and weaves much of the time. Her daughter Betty embroiders for a living.

María spends a week weaving our cloth. She weaves the old way, using a ceiling hook or post, and a strap that goes around her back.

The cloth is then sent to a woman who draws the figures that will be embroidered. Geneen has asked for hummingbirds drinking nectar, a design frequently seen on the clothing here.

Betty's part lasts a few weeks. Shortly before we left, we picked up the finished product, and were more than satisfied with the quality.

Shopping Day

This morning we picked up our goddaughter Irma at 9. Her mother, Magdalena, gave us permission to take her to the market to buy her some clothes. Yesterday we had arranged for Rosa Viviana and Ingri to go with us to pick out, and bargain down the prices, for a traditional outfit for her.

Most of the women of Atitlan wear a blouse called a güipil (wee-PEEL), a skirt called a corte (COR-tay), a belt, and usually carry a shawl. Some prefer non-traditional clothing, and many girls don't wear traditional clothing because their families can't afford it. That's Irma's case. Even for Chukmuk her family is poor. Many of her classmates wear güipil and corte, but she's never owned either. She wears paca, or used imported clothing from up north. Many Americans don't know this, but much of the clothing we donate to thrift stores or drop in used clothing bins ends up being sold in the so-called third world. It's a good thing for the poor here because they can often afford a few changes of clothing. And here especially, where the amount of labor required to make even a simple güipil is great, and the price tag of $20 is beyond the means of families such as Irma's.

Sunday is market day, and we can barely squeeze through blocks of vendors and buyers. Rosa and Ingri take us to one stall where they inquire about size and quality and begin to barter even before we're interested. That's good, because it helps us to learn what the vendors will really accept. Had Geneen and I tried to do this alone, we would have been out of our league, and the vendors would have eaten us alive. Not only that, but we learn all sorts of things about which colors are appropriate, where the designs should end, how the neckline should be. We're in the company of experts.

Every time we stop to look or talk with a vendor, we clog traffic, but we're not the only ones doing so. Worse, not only are the passageways small, but there are vendors sitting on the ground with baskets of peaches and other things, and it's hard not to step on them.

After an hour or so, upstairs in the market building, we have found a corte vendor that both women are happy with. Irma has identified a pattern that she likes. I keep having her choose between one and another to make sure she really knows what she wants. She can be pretty quiet so I bombard her with questions. Rosa speaks to the vendor in Tz'utujil as Ingri translates for us. We can understand some of what's being said since so much Spanish is worked in to the native language here. For 300 quetzales, or $37 US, we buy a corte that is big enough to become 2 cortes for someone Irma's size. We have the vendor cut it in two -- one will be for Hilda, Irma's 12 year-old sister.

We buy a güipil, shawl, 2 belts (one again for Hilda), two pairs of shoes and three pairs of socks. Not bad work for three hours, and all for less than $100.

I ask the girls if they want pizza or regular food (comida corriente). Irma says she's like food. She has never heard of pizza. We decide it's time for her to learn about one of the world's most important foods, and head off to Pizza Utz (utz means good in Tz'utujil) where we stuff ourselves. I give Irma a brief lecture on how these two women are good friends, good role models, how she needs to work hard in school and become a teacher, anurse, an accountant or doctor, and that's that why we help her. We don't want to see you get married at twelve or working hard just to survive. there aren't many opportunities in Guatemala, but they do exist.

After lunch, we go to Rosa Viviana's house for Irma to try everything on. She is beaming with happiness. She's beautiful and proud.

Back in Chukmuk, we show her family the purchases. Magdalena is overwhelmed and breaks down crying. She says she can never repay us, and we tell her she does so by taking care of her children, and they they are very deserving children, being so well brought up. Geneen cries. Hilda is very pleased with her faja and corte. We walk home, savoring the day.

There is some chance the family will sell the clothing, but I don't think it's likely. Only if things were to get really desperate. And we'll hope, that with the little help we give, that won't happen.

Rosa Viviana

Rosa has become a good friend these past few months. Last night for the second time a small group of Americans and Europeans went to dine at her family's house.

Rosa at 24 works two jobs. She teaches first grade in the mornings and is a middle school principal in the afternoons. Her father works at the Catholic church. The pile of corn on the cob, the size of a pickup truck bed, in the living room is evidence that the family has a few pieces of land here and there. They don't work it -- they pay someone else to. The complex where they live has six or seven rooms that open to a courtyard filled with loud dogs, stacks of wood for cooking, hundreds of empty Coke bottles, all centered around a pila (sink for washing).

We have brought chicken mole, a salad and two quarts of ice cream. Though the family is well-off by Santiago standards, there is no refrigerator or freezer. The cramped kitchen consists of a small table, a wood stove and a sink. The stove has a chimney, something which is often not found in the Guatemalan Highlands. COPD is rampant as a result.

Rosa, her mother and aunt have made patin, tortillas, potato salad, broccoli, and a hot pineapple beverage. There are two types of patin -- fish and beef, both smothered in tomato sauce and wrapped in a large leaf. The fish are minnows, very salty and pan-fried. The beef has been marinated in lime juice before being cooked. The fish patin is much better than what I've had at the market before. The potato salad contains homemade mayonnaise, and even I'm a bit nervous about eating raw eggs here, but I don't turn anything down.

Rosa's mother shows us the different types of corn they produce -- yellow, white and black. The seeds they plant have been in the family for generations. The grow beans, coffee and avocados as well.

A few years ago, Rosa gave up a government job where she made a lot more money than she does now. She feels she can give more to the community working directly with young people, though she currently earns around half of her former salary of $600 per month.

Her aunt doesn't join us this time, probably because she doesn't speak much Spanish. We leave the rest of the mole and salad when we go, but take the ice cream.

Irma Magdalena

A few weeks back we decided to sponsor a child through Pueblo a Pueblo. They have 3 different types of sponsorships -- individual, school, or pregnant woman. We opted for individual, where our $25 per month will go toward school supplies and medical care for a child in Panabaj.

Panabaj is a poor village about a kilometer south of Santiago, where the Hospital used to be. In 1990 the government massacred several dozen people there, some of whom had not yet reached adolescence, and there's a small peace park erected in their memory. In 2005, a few months after the Hospitalito had reopened after being closed for 20+ years, Tropical Storm Stan caused mudslides that ruined the hospital, the town, and a large percentage of its residents. The area is now condemned, but is not empty. The government has built a new community on the other side of Santiago, called Chukmuk, and little by little is moving the residents of Panabaj there. The first wave bean last year, and the school only opened in February of 2009.

We were shown 3 applications of children that need sponsors. Two from Chukmuk, one from Panabaj. All were girls around age 10. Irma Magdalena's father left right after she was born, and the other two still had fathers, so we chose her.

Monday we met her. We had arranged to meet with the Pueblo a Pueblo representative, Irma's teacher, her mother and her outside the municipal building at 1:00 for lunch. Mother and daughter were the customary 30 minutes late, and the six of us went around the corner into Comedor Kathlyn's.

We had been warned Irma was shy, and were not surprised by it. In the small towns around Santiago most girls are pretty quiet. She never said a word the entire time, but communicates very effectively with her powerful smile, the kind where the face wrinkles a bit as she makes full eye contact with you through squinting eyes. Her Spanish is not strong yet as she's only in first grade.

Her teacher explained that the range of ages in her class is from six to thirteen, as many families don't allow their kids to start school until very late in life. Irma, if she passes each year, will be 15 when she finishes primary school and 18 when she graduates middle school. Middle school for most poor people is not much of an option, though, as it is not free. There isn't one in Chukmuk yet -- the students have to travel a few kilometers into Santiago.

Irma and her mother, Magdalena, both ordered fried chicken, rice, salad, tortillas and lemonade. Both saved the fried chicken for last, then slipped it into a napkin to take home. Magdalena washes other peoples laundry for a living. Her eyes fill with tears when she talks about her husband abandoning her and her four daughters 10 years ago. Two of the daughters are now married and have moved out. Fifteen is a common age for girls to marry here. The twelve year-old is still at home.

Computer Installations; The Youth Team Plays

My life's been very interesting and very busy of late.

Yesterday I biked to Panabaj, a poor town 1 km from Santiago where the Hospitalito used to be, and finished installing software on the computer there, at ANADESA. Then I biked to Chacayá, about 8km away, where I have helped them acquire 4 more computers for their tiny computer room. They now have six. Since I only have one copy of Windows, the installations took some time. The principal, teachers, and kids kept coming in to see what was going on. I started photographing some of the kids; they really seemed to enjoy it. By two in the afternoon I was back in Santiago at Escuela Chuul. They have 12 computers and need my help installing Windows and Office.



The computers won't fit in the school, which is an ex-pronade, and very basic in construction -- it's a few boards with tin. The pronade (pro-NA-day) system no longer exists in Guatemala, but it's effects persist. It used to be that some schools were governments schools, and some, the pronades, were managed by a group of parents, a sort of board of directors. The government gave the board the money to run things, and the system was very open to abuse. Within the last two years someone figured out that the pronade system was less than optimal, and now all public schools are so-called government schools. But the ones that were pronades are way behind in terms of resources.

The computers are in a house 100 meters away from the school, in a room with a bed. 12 computers crammed onto little tables. The expectation is that the students will hold the mouse and keyboard on their laps, two to a computer (and probably 3 or 4 to a chair, because the room is about 12 ft by 10 ft).

Escuela Chuul is 200 meters east of the soccer field (stadium, they call it), but on a dirt road that most outsiders never go on.

My first month here I tried to head that way. There were some really messed up glue-sniffers and drunks, and the road got really bad and narrow and I asked myself if I was prepared to die. My answer was no, and I got out of there with my tail between my legs. Now, many people know me, and I feel welcome there. "That's the gringo that's helping with the computers. He's also the soccer trainer."

In the evening, while dining on pesto that Neus made, the phone rang. The principal from Chacayá was dropping off the computer he's had at his house for a while, that the coffee plantation gave him. It doesn't work. Since my residence, Las Milpas, is not on a road (it's on two footpaths, though), could I meet him at the Hospital? I leave my pesto and head off there, a 5 minute walk.

The computer is at least 15 years old and the formerly beige plastic of the monitor has attained a telltale yellowish hue. The dust is thick. There is no mouse. Not much hope here.

The nice thing is, he gives me a gift, and tells me how much he appreciates what I do. Diego Chávez is well-known and very much admired in community here. It means a lot to me. He wears regular clothing at the school because he doesn't want to show off where everyone is poor, but here, in Santiago, he dresses traditionally -- cowboy hat, western shirt, three-quarter length pants with purple stripes and lots of hand-embroidered flowers, sandals. He's a community leader.

His gift to me, he explains, is something he got in March when he went to a meeting in Quito. It's a bag made of alpaca that says "Ecuador" on one side.

Saturday I awake and check out the computer. The power supply doesn't work. I'm confident that if we replace it we'll find that a lot of things don't work. The question here is, what can we take from it that will help us and how do we dispose of the garbage?

At 11 the youth team has a game. Last week the senior team played, and I gave a silly interview and had no idea what was going on. This time I was better prepared. No screaming. But I managed to avoid the interview until half-time.

We played against San Lucas which is 15 km away, but more civilized than we are. They're in what's called the third division, which is somewhat competitive. With success, they could move up eventually to the professional level. We are nothing, not any level. Santiago had a third division team at one time, but allegedly got thrown out for cheating. That's supposed to be one of our objectives, to put together a team that can handle the third division. Well. I had never seen a third division team until today; now I know.

San Lucas was leading 2-0 after 30 minutes. We weren't playing badly, but they were clearly the dominant team. I was yelling as loud as I could because the speakers were right behind me.

For the first time in two months, I learned their names.

And here's something I learned. Last week's game was televised. Several people I asked throughout the week had said they hadn't seen the game live, but on television. And then I learned the worst -- my interview was shown several times throughout the week. "We're going to WIIINNN!!" Haha, stupid gringo. Win against Xelaju with your chubby little teachers.

Shortly before halftime, we started to play. All of a sudden it was 2-1 and we were in the game. At halftime, we went to the dressing room under the bleachers for our chat. The electricity hasn't been installed yet, and I don't know if there will be a fan when there is, but UUF! it was a bit pungent there. I made several player substitutions, gave a pep talk, and went outside.

The man with the microphone approached. I felt confident and explained that we were making several changes, and the important thing was that everyone played, that every game is a training exercise, that the second half is going to have a very different flavor.

The soccer was up and down in the second half, but we played well. We tied the game ten minutes in and went ahead with ten minutes remaining. Somehow we managed to hold the lead, and won, 3-2. I couldn't believe it! I congratulated the players, told them to get their butts to practice on Monday, that there was still a lot of work to do, and headed off to Escuela Chuul to continue installing Microsoft products on old computers.

Local Beauties

Rosa Viviana & Geneen.


La Reina del Pueblo at the after-game celebration, July 25


Geneen before going to mass.


Hospitalito picnic. Felipa & Ingrid.


Nila at the picnic.


Geneen at Lyn's house, July 19.

Xelaju 4, Atitlan 0

Saturday, July 25, was the main day of the fair. The main event of the fair is the soccer game. Several thousand people cram onto rooftops, on top of trucks, and even squeezing on to the edges of the field.

An hour before gametime, I found out that everything I'd heard was wrong. The younger team wasn't playing at all. The older team was to play at 1:00.

I'm not the trainer, but the head coach.

Here are your starting eleven. Four of them have never attended practice, but they've been training on their own.

You're playing 4-3-3 (four defenders, three midfielders, three forwards). Three forwards is a lot, and I only use this alignment when desperately trying for a goal. It leaves you weak in the midfield and too crowded up top.

And Xelaju is not a semi-pro team. It's a professional team from the top league here, and has been the national champion before. It has several foreigners, many of whom are absolute superstars here in Guatemala.


Jhonny Cubero with Cruz Pablo

Both teams walk out onto the field for the national anthem. The players are accompanied by little kids in uniform. The beauty queens are there. The guy from the radio is there, broadcasting live. He's interviewing people from Xelaju.

"And now we're going to interview John Fulvar, the American Coach of Atitlan."

I correct the pronunciation, and he asks for my predictions. I start off ok -- "We're going to play hard, and hope to win."

He asks again what the result will be. I think maybe he's trying to generate enthusiasm from the crowd, so I in a loud voice I say "We're going to WIIINNN!!" No response from the crowd. They're not that way. I look like an idiot.



Even more so four minutes into the game when it's 1-0 early on, as no one closes on an open player 25 meters from the goal.

I'm on the sideline where the coach and substitutes should be. Almost -- I'm right on the line, not a bit behind it. There are two or three rows of fans in front of me, constanly sliding forward. The radio asks them to please move back, but no one responds.

We have a break-away. The keeper is out of position, and our player chips it over his head, but way wide. An easy goal squandered.

Half time is 1-0, and we're playing well. We're obviously on the defensive, but we've had a few chances, and are not getting slaughtered. We've sent one player to the hospital and still have three subs left. I called Geneen as soon as he came off and we saw how quickly it swelled. She couldn't hear me since the speakers behind me were booming loud enough to make my bones shake, but a litle farther downfield, if I screamed, she could hear.

We're allowed five substitutes, but don't have enough jerseys...

The second half is predictable. We're exhausted, and don't create many chances. Their 3 goals are not very inspired, but their passing is great. Xelaju are awesome, and we played respectably. I'm not going to be lynched!

We have a brief lunch together after. The mayor congratulates me. The players are smiling and ask if we're going to continue training.

"That depends on you guys, if you can find time and want to keep going."

One of the forwards responds, "You're the trainer, you tell us!"

The Meal

Last night's dinner was good. I found some sort of ocean fish at the mercado. You'd appreciate the second story of the mercado. I was afraid to go up there the first week I was here. The stairs are crowded with vendors and it looks quite dodgy. Once up there, you can barely walk as there are dozens of women sitting on the floor with baskets of fish and crabs. Nist if the fish are mojarra, but occasionally you see something else. My vendor told me I was buying lovio (low VEE oh). At least that's what I think she said. No one's ever heard of it.

For the first time ever here, I found green bananas. I couldn't believe my luck.

Take 2 very green bananas, half a cup of milk and an egg and blenderize. Add a cup of flour and a bit of baking powder and salt. Fry in shallow oil in an oval shape about 4 inches long. Broil the fish after coating it in a bit of macadamia oil, salt and pepper. These two things go perfectly together.

With this I made a coconut brown rice. Cook half a pound of brown rice. In a frying pan, saute finely chopped onion, garlic, fresh coconut, macadamia and carrot. Add the rice and half a cup of coconut water. Cover and cook for another 10-15 minutes. Save enough coconut water to have a shot of coco loco (rum in coconut water).

More on the Soccer Team

Monday, July 13, for the U-20 soccer team, we only had 5 players show up for practice. It's not fun to arrive at 8 am, see the coach with the bag of balls and watch players slowly drift in. They and the coach communicate almost entirely in Tz'utujil, and I sit there twiddling my thumbs until nearly nine when practice actually starts. There isn't much we can do with 5, so we just play 3 on 3.

Tuesday, the same thing happens, only the 5 who show up are different than the day before. They look demoralized, upset that so few people have showed up. Somehow between the time I leave and the time I get home I have lost my keys. I think they fell out of my pocket while I was riding my bike. They're nowhere to be found.

This is a low point. July 25 both teams (U-20 and the senior team) have very competitive games for which they're not prepared. Morale is in the toilet, and the coach is telling me I'll be in charge. There will be thousands (no exaggeration) of people watching.

The fair in Atitlán is a big deal. Forty days ahead of time, there was music that lasted all night, which signals the kickoff. Since then there has been a beauty contest, and there will be all sorts of other competitions -- swimming in the lake, weight lifting, and who knows what else. There are all sorts of new food booths in town now, and temporary places that sell beer. The festive mood is slowly rising. Later, closer to the 25th the crescendo will be even more intense. There will be rides and more drunks and lots of traffic.

The day of the 25th it will be difficult to get around, there will be so many people.

The soccer teams will get slaughtered.

At 2:00 Tuesday, the senior team has practice. They have some excellent players, but most of them can't show up regularly since they work. I'm in an awful mood and don't feel like going. I show up pretty late, almost 2:30. Nine players. They run laps. We stretch. I have them run suicides, then we do a drill in groups of 3, in a line, moving across the field passing. I exhort them to not wait for the ball, run to it, pull it in, spin, give a crisp pass. They're listening, and I see more effort. We move in to a complicated little posession game in tight space. They're really applying themselves, and my mood is lifting. We do a half-field posession game, and they're doing great. It's the 4 best against the other 5, and the 5 are winning, which is as it should be. Ninety minutes of hard work, and we stop. The coach buys 30 bags of water, and then 11 sodas. We note that they really look like a team.

No other practice is scheduled until Saturday.

I have no clue how the schedule is set, why some players stop showing up, why new ones appear out of nowhere, who invites them. I'm clueless, and hope I don't get lynched the 25th.

Saturday arrives and I have 9 U-20 players. I do the exact same practice that worked on Tuesday for the other team, and it's pretty good. I have a little more hope, but not much. At least I'm getting some good exercise.

Racism

Racism has many forms, and here's how I encounter it here.

This morning I'm walking to the gym. On the way, I pass through the main tourist area of town. Santiago doesn't get a lot of tourism, but it gets some. A local man comes up beside me. "Where do you want to go? Parque Central? The market? Maximon?"

I tell him I'm going to the gym. He's baffled, and I have to repeat myself several times. "I live here," I explain. He wanders off.

This happens all the time, except usually I recognize the person who approaches me, and my replies vary from "What, you don't recognize me? You said the same thing yesterday." to "Maximon? No, my name's John."

Here's another one. Two days ago, a guy carrying a stack of blankets enters the yard while I'm having lunch on the porch. His story is, he lives near the Mexican border in the jungle and raises all sorts of animals. He shears them and weaves blankets and rugs. He proceeds to takes them out of his bundle and show me.

"This one is llama, and this one is rabbit." The prices are from $125 to $600. I ask for a business card, since I don't have that kind of money on me. He hasn't got one, and refuses to write the address of his business in the jungle when I offer to go there to see his shop.

"I spend all my time out among the rocks with my animals." He must make a sale now, as he won't be around tomorrow. After I convince him that I have less than $10 on me, he offers to trade for American clothes or gadgets. He likes my 4 year-old bottom-of-the-line cellphone. He likes my torn-up yellow trail running shoes.

I need both items, and that wouldn't be fair to him, I explain. He persists. Finally, I've had enough and let him know I'm cooking and have to go inside. As a concession, I draw him a little map of where to find other foreigners. It's intentionally vague, downright wrong about some details, but I'll probably never see him again.

Yesterday in Panajachel, I see identical blankets hanging in the stalls. This morning I see him in the market in Santiago. He has a booth where he sells clothing.

If I weren't a light-skinned foreigner, he wouldn't have wasted time and lies on me. They're nice blankets, some kind of wool, but if I want one I won't buy it from a creepy guy like him.

One more example. The boat to Panajachel costs 15 quetzales for locals. It took us a while to figure this out, as foreigners told us different amounts and no boat ever offered to take us for that price. The worst thing is when you approach the docks people ask you if you're going to Panajachel. "Sure," I used to say. Wrong decision. That means they walk you up to the boat, then the boat wants even more money since they have to pay that guy a commission.

Now I've learned. If they ask where I'm going, I ignore them and walk up to the boat. I try to always have exact change. Even still, most of the time I have to argue. Their reply is, "We charge tourists 25. 15 is for locals."

My reply is, "I'm here for the long term, working as a volunteer. I know they price. I always pay 15. Charge the tourists whatever you want."

Usually, they'll concede after that, but not always. Once, coming back from Panajachel, the guy collecting money refused to go below 20. I sat in the sand. "Fine. I'll wait for the next boat."

That can be a while, maybe an hour or more. A long time to wait for 62 cents, but it's not the money. I dislike racism. Just because I have light skin and an American accent doesn't mean I should be treated differently.

After 10 minutes in the sand, the boat's pilot approached me. "I'm in charge here. We'll just charge you 15."

Trip to Belize, Part II

From Livingston, we wanted to head to Punta Gorda, Belize, so we took a boat to Puerto Barrios, Q30 ($3.75). Livingston is between the two, but there are not many direct boats from Livingston to PG. In Puerto Barrios, we went to the Immigration Office and paid our $10 exit fee, then bought boat tickets for $25 apiece. During the short wait, we ate thick flour tortillas (it's been months!) with beef and chiles. The boat ride was lightening fast due to the calm water. Before, the trip took over an hour both times I went. This time is was 35 minutes.

The nice thing about PG is I know people there, and Sustainable Harvest lets me sleep in the office. It's not more uncomfortable than a hotel; the only thing is, someone might pop in early in the morning.

After 2 nights in PG, we took the bus to Placencia. Looking around the bus was fantastic. Every ethnic group was well represented. Halfway to Placencia, an old-style Mennonite family got on, taking a sick child to Independence, the town across from Placencia.

From Independnce we took a water taxi to Placencia ($5 US each) thorugh the mangroves. We saw some cinnamon-colored heron which I haven't had a chance to look up.

Placencia is more of a tourist town than PG, but not much. We located a tour operator that would take us to the Belizean Cayes for $70 each -- a fortune for us who think in Central American terms -- but we bit the bullet our second day there.

I have to say that was one of the best decisions of my life. I tend to dislike tourist behavior. My idea of getting to know a place is walking its streets, talking to its residents, and with luck, being invited into homes.



But the reef -- that's amazing. We zipped out 20 miles east of Placencia to Silk Caye, passing dozens of islands with homes, some humble, others grandiose; many very solitary. We saw dolphins by the dozen.



We arrived at a tiny island near the reef. The depth of the sea drops from near zero to about 3000 meters at the reef, which is home to more species of different living things than I could ever imagine. Coral, fish, sharks, turtles, rays, mollusks... I was overwhelmed.

And suburned. I didn't think about that until after 10 am.



After 2 days in Placencia, we returned to PG, took the boat to Puerto Barrios, took a bus to Guate and spent the night in the Posada Belen, a former house in Zone 1, built in the 1870s. It cost 3 times what I spent before in Guate, but, since I'd been the primary one to back out of going to Tikal, I felt a bit of a splurge was in order.

After another four hour bus ride home, I was exhausted from the travel, but wil never forget the two hours we spent in Independence the morning we left Placencia.

We had arrived at the water taxi at 5:55 am, only to learn the first one doesn't leave until 6:45. I knew we had a long bus ride to PG of an hour and a half or two hours, and that the first boat leaves PG at 9, so we were in a hurry. I thought only two boats left, 9 and 4, and that if we missed the 9, we'd have to spend the night in Puerto Barrios, known more for murder and prostitution than for tourism, though I've always thought it wasn't so bad.

Anyhow, at 7am we were at a bus stop in Independence. I asked a Mennonite watermelon slesman if he was heading towards PG. He let us know we were in for a really long wait, and that his day was going to be spent selling watermelons.
We chatted over the next two hours, and that made the time fly. He was born in Bolivia, lived in Canada for 4 years, came here 8 years ago or so. Educated me about the various different groups of Mennonites in Belize. The first ones came to southern Belize in 1996. He has five kids, doesn't use motors, speaks German better than English and his Spanish is poor.

I love the conversations in Central America. So many people have so much enthusiasm and so much to say. What should have been a huge letdown, 2 hours in the middle of nowhere, knowing we're going to miss the boat (it turned out there was one at noon, so we caught a bus to Guate), turned out to be such a positive experience.

And his watermelon, at $0.40BZ the pound, moved pretty well.

Renewing the Visa -- A week-long Journey. Days 1 & 2

Thursday, we left Santiago Atitlán at 6:15 am, flagging down the bus a few hundred meters from where we sleep. We woke up at 5:15, breakfasted on coffee and corn flakes and whizzed out to the road. The bus came within a few minutes.

$3.75 each to get to Guatemala City, arriving at 10 am at the new station. Outside, we found a cab. He wanted Q60 ($7.50) to go downtown, but we got him to drop to Q50. He promptly took the taxi sign off the roof, and we drove on. A block later the police stopped us. They talked with him and reviewed his papers before approaching us -- "You're foreigners, right? Do you know this man?" they asked.

"No, we're just taking a taxi to the Litegua station downtown."

The talk went on. You have to be careful to get a legitimate taxi. You'll know them because they have a sign on top. Many people want to rob tourists and pretend to have a taxi service.

Of course I've heard these horror stories for years. I hadn't been very careful. Anyhow, his history was clean, and the police said there should be no trouble riding with him. I more or less knew the way, so I kept an eye on our route, which was uneventful. We got to the Litegua station, and bought tickets to go to Rio Dulce, about 5 hours away, for Q60 each.

Your tourist visa is good for 3 months. To renew it, you can spend days in line in ugly Guatemala City, or you can leave the CA4 (4 country area of Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua) for 3 or more days. Since I really like southern Belize, I want to share that with Geneen and renew the visas at the same time.

While waiting for our bus to leave, we walked around the block and bought lunch: a hot dog for Q6 (75 cents), some tortillas with a chile relleno for Q7 and some outstanding grilled pork with tortillas for Q10. We couldn't eat that many tortillas and left them with some fat in a bag on a bench when we were through in the hope that they would go to good use.

During the long hot bus ride to Rio Dulce we watched some stupid Matt Damon movie where he's a spy with memory loss. It's better in muffled quiet Spanish, but still not worth the effort of lifting your eyes to the screen.

We asked to get off before the bridge (yes, THE bridge. The only way to get up north at all in this aprt of the country. If that bridge goes out, how on earth do you get to Flores? Through Cobán? Yeah, right.) Anyhow, if you walk down under the bridge and all the way to the water, you get to Hotel Backpackers (Q150 double with private bath), which is run by Casa Guatemala. There's a dock for swimming, free internet (so what if it doesn't work? It's FREE!), a great restaurant, and the rooms are like the ones in Thailand in the movie The Beach where you can stand on the bed and look over the wall into your neighbor's room. The rooms are built on a dock that juts out over the river and you can see the water through the cracks in the floor. There is a sheet covering the screen that separates you from the world. The fans in the room keep the environment just barely bearable. After a dinner of fried fish (Q60. Geneen had fried chicken for Q50. I know, but she doesn't eat much seafood), I slept great.



We woke up at 5:30 am since we'd gone to sleep so early. By 6, we were drinking coffee on the dock with music blaring from speakers nearby. We wondered why so many people prefer that to quiet...?

By 9:30 we were on a water taxi heading to Livingston (Q125 each), and that ride is among the highlights of my time in Guatemala. You head through the Golfete, which is wide, and then the Rio Dulce narrows the last few miles before Lívingston.



We saw plenty of neotropic cormorants and white herons, and something the driver called gallina del monte (but my research indicates he should have said Gallito de Pantano, or Northern Jacana).



Some young people in Barra Lámpara wanted to sell us their findings:





In Livingston, we checked in to the Casa Rosada, same price as last night's hotel. Little cabins by the Rio Dulce. The first thing I did was jump in to the water and swim around for a few minutes.

Our mission was street food. I found tortillas and beans with chiles from a toothless Mayan woman for Q1 (12.5 cents) which was pretty filling. I don't know if the giardia or the beans were more filling...

Geneen held out for Garífuna food, which we found on the beach on the other side of the peninsula. Fried fish tail (huge portion!), slices of cabbage, and a whopping portion of some fried dough made of green plantains and (I think) flour. I had to help her eat it, and it is in my top few favorite meals ever. Now, I guess she eats fried fish!



But even better than the food was the location. We sat at a plastic table a feww feet from the water's edge, next to a man asleep in a hammock. A little boy and girl played in the sand. The little girl later decided to comb the sleeping man's hair, which he slept through. A pig ran by. Another came by and stayed for a while until a dog chased it away.



The food cost Q30 and the drinks were Q17 (beer and soda). The chef had to get out a piece of paper to add the 2 numbers. I was happy she got the change right...

We walked a few more kilometers of narrow beach over shells, dead fish, shoes, bits of plastic, discarded vials, fallen almonds and coconuts, passing vultures, pelicans, seagulls, Garífuna, Mayans, Ladinos and white tourists. We arrived at a slightly better beach and swam for a bit. Geneen was starting to get too much sun, and we were hoping to find a taxi back. A few meters from us, people were boarding a boat for a hotel right by ours. The captain agreed to take us for the cost of a cab (Q20, or $2.50, for both), and we were back in a flash!

The Routine

Wednesday I was till tired from Monday's soccer practice. I hadn't slept very well the past two nights since I kept waking up feeling that something was crawling on me, but I never found anything.

After an uneventful morning in which it was difficult to concentrate on my programming projects, I headed over to the soccer field for practice. Practice is supposed to start at 12, but for most events, one doesn't show up at the appointed hour here. This is not true for work or professional sports or school, but this is how our players saw practice. Coach Gaspar and I were ready to go at 12, but didn't have a quorum of ready players until 12:45 or so.

We ran them and did many of the same drills I use in Tucson, and when it started to rain hard, we continued. We did lunges, sprints, the most exhausting exercises. I left with a real sense of satisfaction -- this team is starting to take shape, the coach & I work well together, the players are working hard and we have a lot to teach them.

I'm getting a little Tz'utujil from it. After we scrimmaged today, he was lecturing the team in their language, which hasn't added words in centuries, but borrows from Spanish. For some reason they tend to use Spanish numbers and dates, and since most of the soccer terms are borrowed words, I can catch xome of it. Today I understood "Chamuc mojon puest," and I was so proud. No assigned positions in a pick-up game.

But most of the time, after he talks to the team I have to say, "Maybe the coach already said this, but..."

Anyhow, Wednesday, after practice I was exhilarated and very wet. I rode my bike home, not minding getting splashed by passing trucks and tuc-tucs. Took a shower to get all the sand off my body and put on clean dry clothes. All of a sudden I was famished.

Geneen agreed to go out for fried chicken and tortillas. I assured her the rain was about to let up, and as soon as we stepped out, it did. Three minutes later it was pouring hard, but we were prepared in raincoats and with an umbrella.

We rode a tuc-tuc to the market, where there are four or five fried chicken places within a block of each other. On the way, we drove through deep puddles, and got wet again. We passed long stairway alleys with so much water streaming down that they looked like waterfalls. The people descending the stairs were taking a big risk, I thought. Imagine losing your footing in that!

As we were buying chicken, two members of the team passed by, slapping hands with me and calling me 'prof'. Then we walked around the corner to where some ladies make tortillas. I frequent their business rather than others because they sometimes offer black (you may call them blue) corn tortillas as well.

Six inches of water rushed downhill on the side ofthe street in front of their grill. We had to stand in the rushing water waiting as they made our order of 25 cents worth of tortillas. One of them (María) pointed at Geneen and asked me "Her name is Genny, isn't it?" It turns out Geneen had met two of the three in the Hospital a few weeks before.

They were very smily and talkative -- they must be used to me by now.

We bought sodas in a store a few doors down, and grabbed a tuc-tuc back to Hospital, where I wolfed down my food, giving Canchita the bones, which she later vomited.

Canchita is the hospital dog and merits a blog entry of her own.

Afterwards I tutored Edwin in math and English. He's 15 and attends a boarding high school in Guatemala City, but, since the government closed all schools for these two weeks due to swine flu, he's got time on his hands.

That was my Wednesday, and my Thursday was nearly equal, except instead of the trip to get fried chicken, I gave a math class for the nurses. This is our third or fourth one, and I started with high expectations, that these are people who have to administer medication and must be pretty adept at certain things, such as ratios. Each class I've had to lower the bar -- today we discussed some very basic concepts about fractions, such as how to represent them graphically. Things like two-thirds. I'm not saying they're stupid, not at all, but that they come from a culture and an educational system that does not stress these skills.

The Soccer Team of the Municipalilty of Atitlán

About four weeks ago, my friend the administrator of the Hospital, invited me to a meeting at the town hall. The town is forming a soccer team, and he wanted to introduce me to the board that's been put together for that task, to present me as someone who could "coach the coach", who could be the team trainer. Perhaps my best selling point is that I'm a foreigner, but I was honored, and went.

The meeting went well. Some members had grand ambitions of someday having an athletic club like they have in Europe or Argentina, with the men's soccer team being the main part of the club, but having all sorts of other teams for both genders, all kinds of facilities, a restaurant, etc.

Others simply wanted to prepare for the fair that's coming up on July 24, that Santiago Atitlán won't gets its ass kicked.

The area doesn't have a great soccer history. There is one guy in town who played semipro for a few years, what they Division 3 in Guatemala. He was picked for the coaching job, but the board feared he didn't have a lot of drills to offer, and that a foreigner could be more like a drill sergeant and command more respect.

The idea was to invite 30 or so players, practice for a month or more, and then select the best subset for the games in late July. Some wanted to invite less; a few of us wanted to invite more. If discipline is expected to be lacking, you'll do best uninviting the first few that show a lack of respect for the team's interests.

Most of the board were hoping to start June 1. I let them know I'd be gone until the 7th, and the coach suggested we start then.

A budget was also presented at the meeting, with some rather ambitious requests, such as practice shoes for the players (I mean, come on!), but many necessities as well like balls, cones and vests.

I met with the coach again the following day; we exchanged ideas and I let him know I'd call him the day I was back in town, and that whatever day and time he wanted to practice would be fine, that I could arrange my other activities around that. (That's right, I have no real schedule at this point in time. It's amazing! I'm doing several web-based projects, and was planning to return to teaching, but Guatemala has closed all schools for two weeks due to swine flu.)

What happened next is depressing, but it gets better, so you can probably handle it. We got back Friday, and I saw him Saturday. Most people play soccer Saturday and Sunday, and we were hoping to start Monday.

The equipment wasn't due to arrive until Wednesday. I suggested we start training anyhow -- we can run, discuss strategy, do all kinds of strength training exercises. "Well, the committee doesn't want that. They want us to wait until Wednesday."

On Wednesday, he told me, "They've arrived but they're too big. I'm sending them back." I guessed correctly -- "The cones? What about the balls and vests?" "The cones are too big, and we still don't have balls or vests."

The story drags on, with similar events on Thursday, Friday and Saturday, with he and I staring at an empty field some of those days. It wasn't his job to notify the players -- someone else on the committee was allegedly in communication with the captains of the teams of the town, and advised them to send So-and-so and Whats-his-name, but somewhere communication was breaking down.

Today, Monday, practice was to happen at 11. I showed up at 10:50 with a sheet of paper with a sequence of drills scribbled on it. There was the coach, sitting in the bleachers by the dirt field, with some cones and a bag of balls. Today, the president of the committee is going to talk to the players, he told me. We sat until 11:30, when he said, maybe I should come back tomorrow. I walked up to the market, and bought cucumbers, carrots, sweet peppers, a mango and some spicy chili powder for tonight's food. (We made hummus the other day, and I've got some whole-wheat bread with nuts and garlic worked into it rising at home.)

I passed the field on my way home, and saw the committee president's motorcycle in the middle of the field. Nine players were jogging around the perimeter of the field.

Practice was happening! I quickened my pace, shook hands with the president and the coach. The players were nearing their last lap, and we set up for drills.

The players are 17 and 18, enthusiastic, decent, but with lots of room for improvement. We trained, then scrimmaged some other people who happened to be around (but only managed a tie!), and then I suggested, almost jokingly that we run more. They'd already been going hard for an hour and 15 minutes. The coach disagreed, but every one of the players wanted to do more training, so we pressed on, and then the coach organized a few more drills. We went until everyone was quite exhausted, and set a time for tomorrow.

Despite the fact that much of the conversation was in Tz'utujil, I felt things went pretty well. We'll see how many people show up tomorrow...

Trip to Ixil -- the Finale

After several days of hiking, Geneen couldn't take much more, so we traveled to Cotzal by tuc tuc and then by van. The poor tuc tuc could only go about walking speed uphill with us giants inside, so we got to see a lot of the countryside that way.

There was not much happening in Cotzal. The men wear black felt hats, as opposed to the straw hats of Chajul. The market was totally closed, and we hunted for a comedor (eatery) listed in Moon's Guatemala. We found it, and ordered eggs, beans, tortillas and coffee for $1.25. It was good though we were getting tired of the same foods. Fruits? Veggies? Anyhow, no milk for the coffee, no napkins, no salsa for the eggs, no change for a Q100 note (about $12.50). No nothing going on in Cotzal. Bus to Nebaj.



By this point, Geneen had become very travel-weary. We decided not to do anything else in the Ixil triangle, but rather to start heading south. We zipped off to Quiché, the departmental capital 2 hours away.

Selected a hotel from the travel guide, which cost twice as much as the guide said it would (Lonely Planet, it turns out, has the correct price of about $20 for a double). No toilet paper, towels, or soap. we asked, and received them. Only one pillow. we asked a nd got a second. Then at bedtime, though we had 3 beds in the room, only one had sheets. Asked and got that. In the morning, when we were ready to go, we had to wait 5 minutes for the receptionist to appear to give us back our key deposit.

Quiché was nice though. Very relaxed small city, with good food (we found fruits, veggies and pastries!!), easy to get around, very friendly.

The next day we went to Chichicastenango, 18km to the south. On Friday, Chichi is the deadest place you could ever imagine. We had planned to hit it on Sunday, which is market day, but thought it might be at least half as good on a Friday. It's not. We dragged about and killed two hours there and then found a van that was heading to Panajachel, just a boat ride from home.

We discovered that Pana is the most fun town around. Yes, it's touristy, but fun. For one thing, there is plenty of choice of restaurants. Our favorite has become an Uruguayan one, where for Q58, or about $7 US, you can get an unbelievable cut of meat, potatoes, veggies, and garlic bread. It's outside, so a stream of vendors and beggars from the street flows up to the table.

A 10 year-old Kakchiquel girl with a huge smile on her face comes up to us. She knows she's adorable, but tries to look pitiful. "Buy something," she whines. No one is buying anything today. I need money so the family can buy tortillas."

We resist, but she stays. I've said no to the first several, and the pressure has been intense. Her outfit is beautiful, she has a bundle of colorful chalinas (little shawls) stacked on head, her smile is amazing. After being denied in all my attempts in Ixil to photograph people, I try again: "I'll give you a quetzal (12.5 cents) to take your picture."

"Cinco quetzales!"

"OK, but I might have to take two or three pictures for that amount of money."

"If you take two pitures, ten quetzales. Fifteen for three."

The first one was perfect.

Trip to Ixil Part III -- Chajul

We awoke before 6 to a green valley filled with mist and fog. We have wonderful pictures, but my camera has stopped talking to the computer, and I keep striking out when I try to get an SD card reader. Patience! It will be worth it.

Breakfast consisted of pancakes smothered in fresh cream and sauco (Elderberry?) jam, with coffee with milk that left the cow an hour ago. Round two was eggs and black beans (smothered in the same cream!) and tortillas.

In Tucson I rarely eat corn tortillas. Not only do we get such good flour tortillas there, but there aren't women in every kitchen patting that day's ground corn into tortillas. I've tried, but haven't had much success. Here, I'm a huge fan of the corn tortilla. Everything about them is just right.

Our mission for the morning was to head west for several hours, then try to catch a bus back to Nebaj by early afternoon. Had the dogs not left on their own, the mission would be to escrt them back to whence they came.

We headed west, descending along a sometimes raging creek, seeing steeply terraced milpas (corn fields) and little houses with tile roofs. For a while we followed an Ixil woman, her two sons and two sheep. The sons and sheep bounded playfully with high levels of energy. People working a hundred meters away waved.

In the distance we could see a cell phone tower, and, though there are no printed maps of the area we could find, one place in Nebaj has a map drawn on the wall, which we'd stared at for a long time, so we knew there were villages ahead. But when we came to a fork in the road, we weren't sure which way would be best. I thought uphill looked better.



Soon we were in the town of Kambalam. Cute little kids from their houses would call out phrases in English, like "Waht is your name?" or "Good-bye!". (Adios is a common greeting in Central America when someone is passing by.) Every motorcycle, truck or bus honked in greeting when we passed.

Two hours or so into our hike, we encountered a group of women resting in the shade. The bundles of wood they carry on their heads lay next to them on the ground. I asked them the name of the next town. "Nebaj", they told me. OK, so I'm not very good at navigating. We should have gone downhill. They told us it's pretty far, about an hour walking. Since we didn't have firewood balanced on our heads, we were unfazed, and continued into town.

From Nebaj, we got on a bus to Chajul, the northernmost vertex of the Ixil triangle. North of Chajul there isn't much. You could hike for days, maybe weeks without going through anything bigger than a tiny hamlet. You'd pass through jungle, then cross into Mexico. Yes, I want more adventure hiking!

In Chajul, a family of nine daughters and one son enthusiastically invited us into their home. The mother was bed-ridden in the main room of the house, and four of the daughters pulled out the weavings the have for sale. Chajul gets some tourism, but not much -- the only other light-skinned person I saw was an Ixil boy who lacked the normal pigmentation with blond hair and pink skin; maybe albino is the word, but I don't want to wax technical! The daughters were in their teens and twenties, and eager to talk about their weavings. Very effective saleswomen as well -- we bought one of their hand-made shawls for about $18. Hardly a "fair-trade" price as it must have taken weeks to make.

We got to watch several women do back-strap weaving while in the Ixil region. The patterns they create with such ease are complicated and symmetric.

Trip to Ixil Part II -- Acúl

Spent the first night in Nebaj and awoke before 6 am to the sound of marching band music. That was so sad, because it wasn't Guatemalan music at all. Plus it wasn't very good!

The day before, on the bus heading to Ixil, which is known for its remote beauty and traditional architecture, the bus was blaring "Baby Don't Hurt Me" on its ample speakers. I rarely hear traditional music -- I think I hear more Guatemalan style folk music in Tucson than here.

Anyhow, that first night we decided to find a restaurant that was a little outside of town, and had to ask directions. That can be difficult, and we ended up walking a few miles in total, but the churrasco (grilled beef) was well worth it.

So, after waking to the sound of the school band, we grabbed a quick breakfast and were on the trail to Acúl by 7 am. Acúl is a 7 km walk up and over a mountain from Nebaj. Early in the walk, 3 dogs were accompanying us -- a female and two interested males. It seemed like she was nearing that time, and one male was considerably more aggressive than the other, who went home after a few minutes.



We were surprised how long they stayed with us -- we thought one or two km would have been a lot, but as we entered the village, the two were still with us. We worried that they may be a liability, because if they killed a chicken the people would blame us.

About half of the village was very friendly, and returned our "Buenos Días" in a very friendly manner. One woman started screaming shrilly, not straight at us, but almost. I have no idea what that was about.

Then a group of four girls, around 12 years old, would stare at us, and then after we passed they'd run fifty feet ahead and wait for us to pass again. They didn't seem to speak anything more than the most basic Spanish, but laughed at us quite a bit. It was a little unnerving. It got worse -- soon there were six or seven boys and several more girls, and they started shouting something about "Allez gringo" or "Alllambrinco" -- we couldn't tell.

The dress they wear is exceptional, but the Ixil would not give permission to have their picture taken, even when we offered a little money.

Just past the town is a cheese farm (if you haven't been to Guatemala, you might not know what a luxury this is!) that also serves as a tourist destination. Not one that is overrun by tourists, though. Sure, we have rooms. Uh, let me get my clothes out of here, I shower here sometimes. Why is the bed wet? Uh, I guess someone who was wet sat on it. Hmm, I never noticed that window is broken. The other room? You'd rather stay there? --This was the grandson of the Italian immigrant who founded the farm in 1938.



The view is like something in the Swiss Alps. Very green, dairy cows, wood buildings, clouds starting to drift over the mountains...

No, they're not our dogs. They just followed us from Nebaj.

Lunch was huge -- chicken (raised on the farm!) in a brown gravy, tortillas with fresh cheese (all from the farm), rice... We saved the bones for our escort dogs. We hadn't encouraged their presence at all up to this point.

Right after lunch, we went to read in our room. We were worn out from all the walking, and needed a break before the next bit of exertion.

Shortly into our reading it started to rain. Hard. I fell asleep for probably 2 hours. When I woke up, the girl dog had finally packed up and left, but the male was still there, and was not getting along with the dogs that lived there. So much growling.

We walked several more miles, getting to know the town better and heading further west as well. Finally, after 6, our other escort disappeared.

There were two other guest parties, one of whom we got to know a bit -- a father and son from Huehuetenango.

We chatted with them till nine, and again at breakfast Wednesday, and then headed out on our next trek.

Trip to Ixil

Monday morning we walked to the pier at Santiago and boarded the boat to Panajachel. We waited about30 minutes, then we zipped across the lake. There was a bus waiting to go to Los Encuentros. There, another bus was pulling out to Kiché. I had to go to the bathroom, but it was already rolling. In Kiché, we waited 5 minutes befoe our bus left for Nebaj. What an easy trip! We were there by noon!

Nebaj is the largest town in the Ixil triangle, a region that suffered incredible violence during the Guatemalan Civil War.


Here's a photo of the market at closing time, in the area where all the butchers are....

Were in Chajul now, at an internet place, and the keyboard is awful! I have so much to say, but it will have to wait...

Comparing Guatemalan Life to My US Life

A few days ago I saw a small plane, and a few days before that, a helicopter. I realized I haven't seen or heard any other flying machines in quite some time, and that quite a few things about my day-to-day experiences are quite different. Here are a few:

It's been about a month since there's been a day with no rain, though today may prove to be the exception.

I've hardly watched any TV or movies since I've been here. I did watch 90 minutes of excellent soccer today -- Yay Barca!

I never experience hot or cold except to a minimal extent -- it's always pleasant here.

I haven't felt heating or air-conditioning for quite some time. A little when I was in Honduras.

I very rarely travel in motorized vehicles and haven't driven in nearly 2 months. I walk many times as far here as I do in the States.

I no longer think it's strange to travel standing up in the back of a pickup with 10 of 15 other people, almost all of whom are at least a foot shorter than I am.

I no longer think it's uncomfortable to sit 3 people to a seat on a bus, touching the person in the seat across from you except when the guy collecting money has to squeeze down the aisle.

I am not surprised when nine out of ten vehicles I see are tuc-tucs.

I don't work out with weights here. I really miss that.

I haven't been in a large supermarket my whole time here. The only produce section I know is the market.

I never have a bottomless coffee in restaurants or diners any more. I had coffee with breakfast in a comedor a few weeks back. It was lukewarm and barely had any flavor.

I eat fried chicken regularly. I never eat it back home. Here, it's freshly killed and freshly cooked. It's so good! God only knows where it comes from in the states.

Pork is not seen in Santiago. There are some pigs in other towns.

I haven't had flour tortillas since I've been here, with one exception. Geneen bought some at a Gringo Market. They were awful, not the fresh ones we get in Tucson. But the corn tortillas here are fantastic, hot off the plancha!

I think it's odd when I see women in athletic wear. Aside from a few foreigners and people from the city, women wear corte and guipil (traditional dress) here.

It's been months since I believed anyone when they said something would begin at a certain time, or be completed within a certain time frame.

I am fully used to seeing garbage strewn all ove the place, and buying things with mcuh less packaging.

I am no longer amazed when I discover that adults, who work in technical fields, have no idea how much six times seven is.

I don't want to grow insensitive to all the dogs whose flesh is wasting away as they convert what little food they get into milk for their puppies.

It's been a long time since I thought public urination was strange, or seeing topless women washing their laundry in the lake was unusual. I've stopped wondering whether the crap in the streets is doggie-doo...

Geneen and Neus go to Xela; John and his math class

I was going to write an entry about how I haven't been robbed, and I still haven't, but Geneen has.

She and Neus went to Xela for the night, and the following morning were in the market by the bus station. The market was so crowded that you were pushed or pulled in every direction, constantly touching other bodies on all sides. She had a Q$100 not in a zippered pcket on her thigh and several more bills in the outside zipper pocket of her purse. Both locations were cleaned out, she doesn't know when.

I asked about her credit card and ATM card. They were safe inside her purse. You have to wonder why at least some cash wasn't in a safer place, but it wasn't a big loss, probably about $30 or $40. It left her without any money, but fortunately she wasn't traveling alone, and Neus keeps her money "where the bats dwell".

Mostly, Geneen has hurt feelings that the country where she is volunteering would treat her so badly, but she's getting over it quickly.

---------Last Day Teaching (for now)-----------

I decide to make yesterday my last day teaching math for the 6th graders in Chacayá. It's a great class and I'm having a lot of fun, but I need to back up and evaluate. Here's what we've done in my 5 classes there: add 8s and 9s, then 18s and 19s, then subtract (mental math); sequences and addition with negatives; sequences in general; and, basic understanding of fractions. The last topic was the worst. I thought I presented simply and clearly, but the rate of response was worse than normal. Even among the few that are not shy about trying to respond, they tended to be wrong. Which is more, 3/4 or 1/4? By the time you're 12, that should be pretty simple...

Anyhow, I ended Wednesday by taking out a plate of 24 brownies. We spent an hour Monday on fractions and an hour Wednesday. I'd just assigned them a few problems comparing fractions. What's the answer to number 1? A small boy near the back of the class, who's pretty vocal, volunteered the correct answer. "Come up front," I instructed him. I whipped out my cleaver. "For those that don't behave well!" I got a laugh.

I showed him a sign with 3 fractions -- 1/4, 2/8, 7/8. Choose how much you want. He wanted 7/8 of the brownie. I gave him a whole one to save myself trouble. The class definitely perked up with this. After 6 or 7, I started randomly picking people. It was clear everyone would get a turn. Finally, someone chose a low fraction, I think 3/8. I cut the brownie in eighths, scooped three pieces toward her, ate a piece myself and gave the rest to the classroom teacher, Cruz Pablo.

Poor kid. Soon after, another student joined her in choosing poorly. I had enough left to give each a whole brownie later...

I'm still teaching English at the Hospitalito, math for the nurses and a good bit of tutoring. I am hoping to reevaluate my numeracy ideas and jump back in in a few weeks with younger kids.

My initial thoughts on my success with the 6th graders: Overall, good. I think it's fantastic for them to get exposure to someone from another culture, to another style. The education here continues to be very much rote learning. This class was great when I asked them to copy from the board into their notebooks, but if I asked for a bit of creative problem solving, well.... ouch! So that's what I want to rethink. My ideas on math itself are pretty solid. I don't want my students to memorize formulas and algorithms. I want them to understand the logic behind patterns in numbers, to understand mathematical balance and relative size. That's what numeracy is all about for me. If you can have 7/8 of the money we earn together, or 8/100, which would you rather have?