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.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
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!"
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).
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).
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
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."
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."
Saturday, July 11, 2009
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.
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.
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