14 de Mayo -- Guatemala City

Que pasa: I arrived on the 14th, but the program doesn't technically start until the 16th, so I have a few days just to hang out in Guatemala City (and finish the pre-program reading). I have been told that Mario, a friend of Dr Wallace's, will be picking me up at the airport and taking me to the hotel.

I thought about it way too much beforehand: What will be the first thing I say en espanol? I decided first to ask Mario if I should change into jeans. Then I thought that I needed to stop thinking about it... having a preformulated question would really only serve to make someone think I'm better at Spanish than I am. Besides, I hate thinking before I speak.

Guatemala City from above—on the outskirts, patchwork land divisions over bony mountains. As we got closer, we flew over a lot of little villages, differing widely in economic status (and, therefore, architecture). Some villages with rusty corrugated tin roofs, dirt roads, and brightly-colored cars. Then a lush, narrow river valley with a big blue longboat motoring upstream through water the color of dirt at a construction site. Then a larger cookie-cutter
community. Then a miniature city.

In the more developed areas, the little townships are sitting on what appear to be man-made plateaus... it's as if someone took a god-sized razor one day and in one horizontal slice took a little off the top of the mountains—the towns are about the same elevation, and at their edges are steep green drops into valleys.

You know how when you're looking out the window of a landing plane you play the “when will the runway appear?” game? Imagine Guatemala: a dirty poor neighborhood, a group of nicer buildings, an abandoned plantation (coffee?), a big yard with like nine school buses, and then ah! the runway.

Customs: many nice folks pointing for you. Then, at the baggage claim, a marimba band! Upright bass, drums, and about four marimba players. It was fantastic. The airport is also very nice and clean.

Then, the moment: my first Spanish dialog in a Spanish speaking country. I'm stepping up to a urinal, and the janitor says something to me. I reply: “Como?” he repeats himself. It's like six syllables, two of them are “pared,” which means wall (I think he means stall?). I don't know. I just say “Si.” Glorious.

I finally get to be one of those people with a name on a sign. I'm surveying the signs, denying “Taxi! Taxi to Antigua! Taxi to hotel!” and then I see Mario. We greet each other with big smiles and handshakes. A character: short, mustached, fast talker, heavy accent, raspy voice, missing some teeth, walks with a weird crippled limp that he tells me he has only had for a few months... It does pain him to walk around, I can tell. He says it's called something which according to my pocket dictionary means “to curl up.”

The first couple minutes were very strange. Lentemente, por favor. The first time you do anything that you've been anticipating for a long time is always weird, it's just awkward and a little frustrating... if I don't completely understand someone, I have a hard time deciding if it's because of his speech or because he's using words that I don't know, or both. You've heard the way they ramble on the telenovelas. If the world had subtitles, it would be a lot easier.

When I read in Spanish, I can often guess what a word means. That is much harder to do in speech, but it is gratifying when it happens. Por ejemplo, Mario gave a Qetzal ($$) to a beggar woman standing at a gate. She nodded and said loudly:

“Djoseetoleendo.”

I decided that she was calling him a diocito lindo, a “pretty little god.” Cool.

Before I arrived, I had written it off that I would have an easier time understanding than being understood... I just thought that that was what happens. I'm finding that it's definitely the opposite for me... at least it was today. I would ask Mario a question, and he would understand and launch into an answer, and sometimes I kind of understood, but he talks a lot and I don't know if most of it is just babble or what.

So I payed attention when he was talking to his girlfriend (he's like 50, and I later found out that he has nine kids). Yes, a lot of what he was saying was just random colorful stuff: “Si mamita, eh ha ha! Si mi cielo.” (Yes, my little mommy. Yes, my sky.)

I see why Dr Wallace (the program director whom I have not yet met in person) made friends with Mario. He's such a character. I was asking him about how acceptable it was to take pictures. From the flurry of advice that he gave me in return, I decided that I will just play it by ear. (FYI—around the more traditional communities where I will be in a few days, taking pictures of children can be pretty dangerous. I have read stories from various sources—a German woman beaten by a crowd because she accidentally told a mother “I want your children” instead of “I like your children.” An Asian lady beaten to death because she picked up a crying child to comfort it. These happened in the 90's I believe. One (older) stereotype of white foreigners around there is that we are robachicos: Childrobbers!)

Anyway, we're driving along and Mario is telling me about photography. We passed some girls (jeans, skirts, lowcut shirts) and he said something like “If you take pictures of some beautiful girls like this,” and he stuck his hand out the window. One of them turned around playfully, “then it might be dangerous.”

But yeah, conversations are basically either hit or miss. There have so far been two distinct times of complete awkwardness, where two or more people are looking at me for an answer and I have no idea what is going on, but then Mario and I had a full blown conversation about traffic here, in the US, and in India. Guatemalan traffic is somewhere in between the two others—lots of honking, liberal attitude towards numbers and lines and other peoples' patience, but no elephants.

The hotel is quaint and mysterious. EcoHotel Los Proceres. Three stories, Organic layout (you have no idea what the inside looks like from the outside). Maybe twenty rooms? It feels like a house. Nice hard tile floors, stucco, the hallways and lobbies lit only from windows that are at odd places. I sat on the balcony/roof and read some, while traffic partied on down below and big misty clouds rolled in with purplish sheet lightning (no thunder).

After crashing for few hours on the bed, I decided it was time to go exploring.

It's weird being in a new city by yourself, regardless of language. Being tall and white, I feel like I attract attention. (There are very few gringos (maybe like 1 in 1000).) What keeps me from being self-conscious is walking a little quicker than everyone else and not looking lost, even if I am. That is, I never stand still and gaze around trying to get my bearings. If I'm standing still, I'm looking at a map. Sometimes I ask strangers. A fun episode:

Me: Disculpame, sabe usted donde esta un lugar con internet? Een-terr-net?

Stranger: Eh...

Me: Een-terr-net, en la computadora? Si?

Stranger: I... I'm sorry, I don't....

Me: Oh. Dude.

Turns out he was from Texas. First estadounidense (American... “United States-ian”) I ran in to.

The city... I don't know, it's cool. Kind of dirty. Lots of people. Lots of people crowded on buses. Lovely dense and green trees and birds. Big house-speckled hills in the distance. Some nice skyscrapers. A lot of alleys.

I stopped by a comedor and got an arepa—beef and chicken on a soft tortilla. It was pretty cheap... 30 quetzals, which is I dunno, $4? It was scrumptious and pretty filling. The bartender was very nice. We chatted some. The weird thing is that it was 7:00 and no one was out yet. The restaurants were about as busy as 4:00 here. The place where I was was kind of a bar too, and the guy told me that it usually picked up around one in the morning. But still, late dinners here.

So one time this guy ran up to me: “Hey, hey. Hallo. Maya! Check it. Maya!” The look of wonderment he had in his eyes made me laugh later. He was trying to sell me some masks and a flute. I replied: “No me interesa, lo siento.” What I meant was, “Sorry dude, but I'm about to go live with some real Mayans. Sucka!”

15 de Mayo -- I had an entire MSWord page that was a mini-rant about advertising, but I think I'll save it for later. Enjoy the photos.



Museo de Popol Vuh from the outside. The Popol Vuh is a collection of Mayan texts compiled by the Mayans after the Spanish came over. Masks, art, burial urns, crucifixes. Cool cool stuff.





La vista de mi hotel.