Floating, Free Falling, and a Beautiful Finish

The clock first started ticking in mid August. The more tourists I talked to, the more I realized that despite spending over half the year in Guatemala, I had barely seen the country. I had visited Lake Atitlan twice, and nowhere else. That would be like... like living in San Francisco and never going to Yosemite, or living in Florida and never visiting Disneyworld, because on weekends you always just go to the same beach. I was having a wonderful time in Antigua and Guate City, but I wasn't seeing new places. And my time was beginning to run out.

I immediately grabbed a co-worker and made plans to see the beach that weekend. The closest and most popular beach to Antigua is Monterrico, a 2.5-hour drive away on the Pacific Coast. It's known for its black volcanic sands and unruly undertow in the surf (you can't really swim there, you'll get pulled under before you can blink). We booked a shuttle to go just for an afternoon. On the way, our driver pointed out signature sights of the coastal lifestyle: farms growing loofah and papaya, others culturing shrimp, and my favorite of all, the home of a family who raised crocodiles in their backyard. Oh, what a business to be in.

The rest of our beach day was spent strolling the hot, grey-black beach, and taking a tour of the mangrove swamp nearby. It was a quiet day outside peak season, so my friend and I were the only ones on the tour. Our original tour guide decided at the very last minute to have lunch at our scheduled time, so he sent his 13-year-old son, Carlos, to guide us instead. We walked behind the family home where they kept their "lanchas" (little dugout canoes), and Carlos led us into the swamp, piloting the boat with a long stick. He showed us through the tunnels formed by the mangrove trees' tangled roots, pointed out birds' nests, lizards, different types of cranes, and flying fish, all the while navigating through a sort of magical network of sunny waters and lily pad fields. It had such a peaceful effect; we were happy to feel lost there, but very glad that Carlos knew the way. It was his backyard, after all.

Where the year went after that, I have yet to comprehend. Suddenly, it was December 6th, and Safe Passage had closed its doors for the year. I didn't want to let them go, but the silver lining in saying good-bye to so many special people was the whirlwind end-of-year tour that began the very next day. With a group of ten colleagues, I boarded a bus to Rio Dulce. Then from bus, we hopped to boat and stayed one beautiful, warm sunset and one cloudy sunrise at a resort on Lake Izabal. Next, another boat down the river to Livingston, where we emerged from towering, tropical green cliffs on either side of the waterway into the open blue Caribbean waters beyond. The same route had once been taken by (real live!) pirates in the 16th century, a fact contributing to many an entertaining daydream during our little cruise. We stayed two nights in Livingston, long enough for me and a few friends to explore Siete Altares (a series of rounded-edged waterfalls attached to the Rio) and spend an afternoon beach bumming and sipping Coco Locos (a coconut sliced open, plus rum) on Playa Blanca. It was the quintessential paradise we had all dreamed of on so many dreary, rainy work days. We saw the sunrise every morning, and we ended the nights with seafood feasts and hammock pow wows.

With my time limited and my bucket list still beckoning, I and a couple friends broke off from the group early to see one more "must." We shuttled our way inland to Semuc Champey, a national park and yet another land of enchanted wonders. We stayed at an eco-lodge that overlooked the park's main attraction: a series of naturally turquoise spring-fed waterfalls and pools, wedged in a thickly forested valley of vines and trees older than history. It was gorgeous. Despite clouds and rain, we went on the full tour of the park, which began with a hike up the cliffs overlooking the pools for a stunning first view. Then, our guide, Toto, took us down to the water, where we followed him (with a great deal of blind trust) on series of short cliff jumps and natural rock slides in and out of the falls and pools themselves. At one point, Toto dove into the water, under a rock ledge, and disappeared, until he emerged a minute later from the other end of the same cliff some twenty feet away. Then, he instructed me to do the same: "Your nose, up! For the air. You go only one second under water." I followed him into the depths and out of sight, under the rock where he revealed a small inner crevice that allowed us to breathe just above the surface. We were walking along the underbelly of the cliff that, from the outside, had appeared completely submerged. That was the first moment in which I thought I was doing the craziest thing I would do all day. But the tour carried on to even more insanity after lunch.

Crossing the iron bridge that hung some 30-40 feet over the river at the foot of the falls, we next entered a cave. Toto turned us over to a cave guide, who handed us each a tall white candle and led us into the darkness. With the candles as our only light, we slowly navigated the freezing underground waters, wading and even swimming when necessary, stopping here and there to take in the dim sight of the beautiful rock formations and massive inner caverns. Then, we stopped. The guide told us to stay put and wait for him to light the way. He scampered ahead, extra candles in hand, into the darkness. You could tell by the way he moved that he was so familiar with every inch of that cave, he probably didn't even need the light. When he finally came back to lead us on, we could see why it took such time. The tunnel ahead rose abruptly, and in order to keep going, we would have to climb, one by one, straight up the middle of a roaring, gushing white waterfall. When my turn came, caveman handed me the rope that was attached somewhere invisibly above, counted to three, and thrust me into the pounding rapids that immediately engulfed me at the base of the fall. Talk about blind trust - all I had was the rope in front of me, and this guy's word that I would make it to the top before I drowned in the rush. Well, okay. Finding my footing and following the rope's trajectory, I climbed into the cascade, and in four careful hoists, miraculously made my way over the top of the waterfall. My friend who had gone ahead of me laughed. "So crazy, right?!" Not much farther along after that, one more pool and one more cliff jump awaited, this one about a 15-foot drop. After the waterfall, that seemed easy. "Jump right in the middle," the guide says. "Otherwise, you hit rocks." Splash, we survived.

After the cave tour, Toto took over again, bought us beer, and handed us inner tubes for a quick but relaxing float down the river. Our adrenaline settled. We thought the tour was over. But after coming ashore, as we walked back up toward the lodge, we crossed the big bridge again. Three quarters of the way across, Toto came to a halt and began collecting our tubes. He pointed to a spot in the murky river waaaaaaaay down below: "You can jump here." As if it were obvious. My eyes widened as I leaned over to look. There? No. No f***ing way, Toto. This time, he had to be joking. This was no baby cliff jump, this was a method of suicide. I waited for a smile and a "just kidding!" but as I waited, two guys from our tour group hoisted themselves up and over the iron rails and off the edge, just like that. Falling, falling, falling, splash....... and they surfaced. Well, I couldn't let them be the only ones. If your friend jumped off a bridge, would you jump, too? Yes, apparently I would. THAT was the craziest thing I did that day.

I returned home from Semuc the next day with four days left in Guatemala and one more bucket list feat to accomplish: hiking to the peak of Acatenango, the volcano that dominates Antigua's western skyline. And it was to be an unforgettable finale. With a group of eleven friends, I climbed through steep farmland and forest trails, past the treeline and above the clouds, five and a half strenuous hours to our campsite just 200 meters below the summit. From the site, we could see two active volcanoes (Fuego and Pacaya) erupting in the night, the silhouettes of countless distant mountains, the bright lights of the capital, the faint Pacific coastline, and the streaks of shooting stars above. It was the most indescribably beautiful sight I have ever seen. No one wanted to sleep, no matter our fatigue. We sat around the campfire for hours, sharing jokes and favorite memories, and quietly absorbing the dreamlike scene around us. We were awestruck, weary, happy, filthy and exhausted, and on top of the world. I could not have asked for a more perfect ending to the year.

That night, as I looked out over the country, I could see the places I had explored. I thought of the people I had grown to understand, and this little world I had become part of. Or rather, the places and people that had become my world. I felt overwhelmingly grateful for it all. Grateful, and unsure of how it would feel to leave that world behind. But I've come and gone enough times to know that you never fully leave a place once you are part of it. You keep pieces - images, feelings, lessons learned and relationships forged - with you forever. That's how our little worlds evolve, and in turn, how we do. So I head now for the next adventure, knowing Guatemala will be with me for a long time to come.

This year, when I give thanks...

My volunteers often comment that their experience with our communities helps them remember to be grateful for what they have. They talk about what they have learned about our students: the rough conditions in which they live, their varying and often volatile family dynamics, the disheartening odds they face, and their resilient spirits. In reflecting on these realities, the volunteers make comparisons to their own background. Many times they realize aspects of their lives that mark them as privileged, advantages they never knew they had in life.

I have experienced many moments here that evoke similar reflections, the most resonating of which usually result from interactions with the mothers we work with. A few weeks ago, for example, we hosted a "Family Day" at Safe Passage, where we invited the students and their parents to come in for a day of games, prizes, fun, and food. One main event was a raffle where parents who had won tickets over the course of the day could win small prizes. As they were getting ready to call ticket numbers, one of the moms, Juana, turned to me and said, "Could you help my mother?" (She gestured toward the grandmother next to her.) "She can't read." I looked at the tickets. Each had a 3- or 4-digit number printed on it, in numerals. I looked at the older woman. From my experience with our families, I could guess that she had never been to school. As they called numbers and I scanned through her tickets looking for winners, I thought about what her life could have been like. I cannot fathom growing up and raising a family without this skill that I have always considered so basic. I cannot imagine looking at a printed "203" and viewing it only as figures on a paper, with no decipherable meaning. Her grandson is in our preschool program. He is three years old and probably not far from surpassing her in what we consider education and academic skill. But the knowledge she must possess that has no relation to academics... I can't imagine that either.

That woman's daughter, our Safe Passage mom Juana, graduated this past weekend. She officially passed the equivalent of sixth grade in our adult literacy program, meaning that she has completed elementary school for the first time in her life. I don't know how old Juana is, but I would guess she is not all that much older than I am. I know she has at least three children. Before this weekend, she had never had a graduation before. She had never felt the support of family and friends gathering to celebrate this kind of personal achievement. She beamed. And she was not the only one. Five mothers passed the grade alongside her, and another eight parents graduated the same day from the middle school level. Their parents, including the woman from the raffle, watched them with what I saw as a calm, content form of joy. Maybe the same joy my Grandpa once expressed when he looked around at our Thanksgiving celebration and saw his great-grandchildren running around so happily. Feeling the assurance that you have left a mark on the world, and that your mark is beautiful and ever-growing. That your children will have better opportunities than you did.

I have always known that I was lucky and privileged, relative to most people in the world. And I have always understood that my wealth extends beyond the material (we give thanks for good health, for loving relationships, for simple happiness). But this year, I am thankful more than anything for the opportunities I have had in my life to learn. I have learned from my parents, my teachers, and now, from the families I have worked with. And by all of their lessons, I am better able to work on my own beautiful mark on the world.

On the Day of the Dead, the blog is alive!

Iiiiiiiiiit's back! Despite my best intentions, I've been pretty MIA on the blog these past few months. Mea culpa. Guatemala has definitely not been void of stories to share, and I will do my best to catch up here, starting with this weekend.

Halloween kicked it off. With Day of the Dead on Friday, everyone had the day off, so Thursday night's party went all night. Antigua's streets were predictably packed, and music blasted on every block. I dressed as my favorite ball player (Yadi!), showing pride despite the bummer World Series finish the night before (more on that in future posts). Friends got together, creative disguises and hilarity ensued. A classic Halloween success.

The real highlight of the weekend for me, however, came the next day, Day of the Dead. Latin American tradition devotes this day to the remembrance of loved ones who have passed. Typically, families spend the day at the cemetery praying and "sharing meals" with their ancestors. When I learned about this in school, I thought it was a little creepy and... silly. But after seeing it in practice, I can't believe the beauty of the experience. Families dressed in their finest, most colorful attire, graves re-painted brightly and covered in blankets of flowers, sun shining, children scampering around, old men chatting and ladies relaxing under trees, and the occasional apparent moment of silence and reflection from group to group... the whole scene was a celebration. Not dwelling on loss or hoping fruitlessly for a sign from beyond, as I had imagined, but a beautiful display of love and togetherness.

That scene took place at the cemetery in Sumpango, a town about 20 minutes down the highway from Antigua. We went there because, in addition to the cemetery gathering, Sumpango hosts a unique Day of the Dead tradition - kite flying. The kites represent an opportunity to communicate with the dead, and a warding off of bad spirits. Many are a typical size, but the ones that upgrade the event from local tradition to full-blown festival are the massive, multiple-stories-high works of brilliant tissue-paper art that represent months of preparation and meticulous care. The big kites display gorgeously intricate artwork, and messages in appreciation of nature, life, and the people's Mayan heritage. Visible over the hill from the cemetery, and in the skies above, the kites added yet another impressively beautiful feature to the Day of the Dead celebration. I could not imagine a more peaceful image.

For the first time in a long time, this weekend I was able to stop thinking about work and take time to reflect on my (ever-shrinking) time in Guatemala. I am so grateful for the beauty I have witnessed here, in unsolicited kindnesses, in personal growth, in nature, in art. In something as simple as a kite in the wind. I never thought I would find this kind of joy on the Day of the Dead.

Highlights and New Heights

I saw the wave coming at the end of May. Five teams in four weeks, and my family on their way to Guatemala – I knew June would be a rush. It’s been awhile, but here are some highlights:

I finally got to join the Safe Passage mothers for their Saturday morning running club. The day I went, it was five moms with about four kids in tow each; the youngest was 2. The mom in charge of bringing snack that day ran the whole 30 minutes in her traditional traje (woven ankle-length skirt) and flats. Snack was refried bean sandwiches.

On a similar note, playing ultimate frisbee on Sundays has gotten epic with the rainy season. Playing sports in the rain always has been and always will be twice the fun.

Work got wild. I led all those teams, in a row. They were almost all high schoolers. In many ways different and in many ways the same week to week. One team came from a Jesuit school that had me flashing back to my high school experience a lot more than average. Another team engaged me a in a plot to solicit a serenade for their student leader by a dark and handsome Guatemalan guitarist. Multiple teams had dance parties with the Safe Passage students. Nothing breaks down cultural barriers like a spontaneous teenage dance party.

I moved, again. Third move, fourth living situation, and this time, really, it will be the last. I now share a house with two friends, Amanda (the same roommate from the last house) and Melissa. It’s a one story little casita that costs less and is much closer to the center of town than we used to be. We call it Los Tulipanes (The Tulips) for a sign conveniently posted outside our door with that title. To save money even further, I opted to take the smallest room, which was built originally as the maid’s quarters. On our first night, we discovered that Amanda’s room, the master, has a wall switch that rings a bell in mine, should she need to call me to bring her hot beverages, etc. Like that scene in Cinderella, haha. Anyway the place also has a baby little courtyard and a comfy family room with fireplace. We have instituted periodic family dinners. I know I said I planned on making the last place my home, but this place already feels like home without my trying.

And finally, the highlight of highlights, just a day after we took over the new home, my own family came to Guatemala! Lisa (my sister) and my dad arrived just in time to meet my Jesuit team (an easy group for my family to mingle with, for sure). They shadowed me on the job for a few days, getting the official Safe Passage tour and a few project sessions in with some students. Lisa made instant friends with my team members, and with the kids in their classes. Dad was a beast at groundskeeping in the preschool, hacking up weeds so fast he broke one of the shovels. They were a mighty force.

On the days I was able to take off work, we went exploring together, discovering new wonders and basking in Guatemala’s natural beauty. We took a gorgeous hike at Earthlodge one day, catching the view above the clouds. Another day, we hiked Volcan Pacaya. We took a completely different route than the previous time I’d gone, complete with lush forest and picturesque views of a crater like called Amatitlan. When we got to the top, we roasted marshmallows on open vents emitting volcanic steam. The top of the volcano, as before, was windy and barren - a rough, out-of-this world landscape. But our tour guide’s tag-along puppy kept us company the whole time, reminding us that soft comforts were still not far away.

Near the end of the visit, we took the family tour on the road and headed out to San Marcos, one of the towns along the Lake Atitlan shore that I had yet to spend enough time in. True to the reputation I knew of it, it was full of hippies. Lisa and I got massages from a woman named Beatriz and sipped “raw” almond-banana smoothies under the fan-like leaves of ceiba trees. The three of us stayed in a hotel that the tour sites describe as “Alice in Wonderland for adults” where each room had a theme; ours was recycled art, and it was possibly the coolest (indoor) place I’ve ever slept. Everything was constructed with colorful old glass, the walls sported mini murals of indigenous stories, and every nook and cranny was creatively utilized. And it was up high. Dad kept saying how it felt like a treehouse.

Our last adventure together in San Marcos was a visit to a park along the town’s western shore. We rented kayaks, hiked a small hill to a Mayan “ruin” (circle of stones?), and took a swim off the rocks. I was easily persuaded to jump off the 25-foot-high platform set up over the water. The second time, I even managed to do it without screaming. It was a beautiful day.

I am hoping that more days like that one are on the horizon. Having now passed the sixth month mark in Guatemala, I am officially in the second half of my year here. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve ever lived anywhere outside the U.S., and I feel like I still hardly know this country. There are still cities to get lost in, peaks to ascend to, views to wonder at. It’s time to make a bucket list – everything I want to be sure I do before my time here is over. The way things have been going, I know time's not about to slow down and wait for me.

Where to throw the toilet paper and other (reverse) culture shock experiences

I took a trip home this month. Back to my beloved STL, my family and friends, my baseball and my beer. After a whirlwind visit, I flew out to the only other place I’ve ever considered home – DC. I didn’t get enough time in either place, but the time I did spend was wonderful. A few things, however, struck me quite differently than they used to.

One, the simplest of all, and yet the most difficult to adjust to, was the toilet paper. For four months now, I’ve been throwing used toilet paper in the trash can. At first, I think most people from the State find this kind of gross. We aren’t comfortable with letting the stuff sit there in a trash can; we want it gone. But I had a very hard time kicking the habit and going back to my former, immediately-flush-it habits. And what’s more, I didn’t like it. Flushing toilet paper instead of canning it no longer makes sense to me. It’s paper, it goes in the trash. Whose idea was it to flush it? How did we all end up doing it that way? I don’t get it. But don’t worry. While I was home, I managed to remember that in the States, it goes in the toilet. Most of the time.

Two, things that work. Wifi. Water pressure and showerheads. Buses that run on schedule. None of these are reliable in Guate. I’m pretty sure I did a little victory dance taking my first U.S. shower. But then, I also had some trouble understanding the urgency of getting to the bus stop by exactly 6:04.

Three, the buildings. And the city landscapes in general. I had forgotten how large and how shiny we like to build things back home. Not that Guatemala doesn’t have its fair share of modern architectural ventures; it does. But something about walking around DC made me sort of… simultaneously marvel at and question the design of everything around me. It seemed that every building was intended to compete with those around it. Who could construct the shiniest, sleekest, most polished stone-glass monolith to make their suit-donning minions feel important? But at the same time, wasn’t it nice? It did make me feel good, to be in a place that seemed taken care of. And the rowhouses lining the streets of Shaw-Howard, with their colored bricks and miniature front porches, how are those any less charming than Antigua’s rainbow of colonial walls? They aren’t. Both are beautiful.

Four, grocery shopping. Specifically, the produce section. Whoa. That was a lot of food, all in one place. And so spread out, and so organized, and so clean. In Antigua, I have two options for produce, and neither looks like that. I usually go to the market, which is open air, and the food is freshly plucked from wherever it came from. Still sporting the dirt from the farm, the stems, the leaves, everything that has been shed and rinsed for our glistening produce displays in U.S. stores. I buy my Guate fruits and veggies from dozens of individual vendors who sell their wares in small quantities. So, okay, it’s a farmers’ market. A crowded, inexpensive farmers’ market serving as the vendors’ main source of income. Their biggest competition is Antigua’s grocery store, the Bodegona. But the produce there doesn’t look a whole lot different from that in the market. And the produce section as a whole spans a space that I’d compare to say, the size of my living room. The space occupied by one produce section in the States, meanwhile, could probably form the foundation of an entire house. Everything with its neat little section. And so. Much. Food. I might have gotten lost.

Five, food trucks. Food trucks get their own category because they represent a lot more than just selling food out of trucks. Which, I should first explain, works a lot differently in Guatemala than in the States. A Guatemalan food truck is a guy with a pickup parked on the side of the road selling ceviche out of the truck bed. The food truck trend in the States used to excite me. Now I can’t believe the fact that it’s even considered a “trend” and not just… something someone does to make a buck. And in Guate, it’s with so little regulation or backlash. I remember reading news in the States about standing businesses requesting limitations on food trucks – where they could park and sell food, at what times, on what days. Because God forbid someone with a less costly business concept is actually able to stay afloat in a sea of Starbucks’ and Cosi’s. Small businesses in Guatemala – and I mean really small businesses – don’t face nearly the same level of challenges. If I want to start a business selling pancakes out of my living room, I can. If I want to get a motorcycle and ride around town selling ice cream out of a cooler, I can. It’s a lemonade stand-style economy in Antigua. But it’s not about teaching sweet childhood lessons in basic math and customer service. It’s about putting food on people’s tables. And for me, they’re adding to the character of the town, the simplicity that I so enjoy about living here. On wheels or within walls, no U.S. dining experience can compare to eating burritos at El Farol. While the cook grills my veggies, his daughter does her homework in the back room, and his son learns to walk in between the tables. Because the restaurant, to them, is just one room in their house. That’s the kind of small business I wish we had more of back home.

I was surprised by the things that struck me so oddly during my visit. But I was happy to see them in a new way. New perspectives add value to experiences, and no experience will ever be as valuable as going home. 

My Dry Hot Guatemalan Summer

It’s nearing the end of “summer” in Guatemala – the hottest time of the year, as well as Lent/Holy Week season. This is appropriate, as my job has grown to feel ever more like a return to my days as a summer camp counselor. I wake up with the sun, spend every meal with my team, answer the same questions and lead them through the same schedule of activities as the last week's team, and the one before that. When plans go awry at the last second, I come up with a new plan on the spot. I make sure every little need is met at every turn, then go to bed exhausted knowing it won’t be enough sleep before the alarm rings again. But, I love it. Just as I experienced at camp, the day-to-day wear and tear is a worthwhile trade for the growth and discovery I see people experience. I get to know people in weak moments and in shining ones. I witness my team members fighting discomfort and fear in favor of trying something new and challenging. I watch them form bonds with our students that transcend language barriers, cultural differences, age, and socioeconomic status. I see smiles and laughter and spirit. And frustration. And new understanding. And I am privileged enough to play some role in it all. Just like at summer camp, I get to be part of small but significant change.

As this “summer” rolled along, the Lenten season in Antigua incited a barrage of purple banners, street vendors, and heavier-than-usual traffic. Swarms of people from the City and surrounding towns flocked in to view the town’s famous Lenten processions. In the words of my roommate’s brother, Bertram, the processions are, “like a bad school play.” Small crowds of men wearing long purple robes march slowly through the streets, a few in gladiator costumes to represent the Romans, with women in white dresses and veils. A select number (maybe 20 at once) carry a long, heavy platform supporting statues of the day's designated depictions of Christ. Amid dense clouds of incense, they file along to the sound of the band that brings up the rear. The songs are… theatrical. Think, a 25-member out-of-key brass band, accented by a few drums and cymbals. At an overdramatic, low-budget school play, performed in your high school's parking lot. But at such a profound level of public reverence. When a procession passed the only Irish bar in Antigua on St. Patrick's Day, for example, the bar stopped the music out of respect. Despite the outsider's impulse to critique, these traditions are part of Antigua's history, its identity. And that we can appreciate.

So, during Lent, the processions wind through Antigua on a maze-like path, most beginning at 1 in the afternoon and ending around 10 or 11 at night. The route is a mystery, but you will know a procession is heading your way when you see people preparing “alfombras” - carpets. This is the coolest part, much cooler than the processions themselves. People create this artwork in the middle of the street using colored sawdust and a variety of other materials (grass, wheat, flour, glitter, seashells, flower petals), laid out in the design of a bright, beautiful, religiously-themed carpet. When then processions pass, they walk over them, and then what remains of the carpet is gathered into a bin and burned. It’s like an offering, but the practice also has ties to indigenous traditions and the theme of impermanence. Where the processions are, for me, underwhelming, the carpets that precede them display wonderful expressions of personality and community.

Lent culminates in Holy Week, which in Central America equals vacation. Schools and businesses shut their doors, and everyone takes to the beach. Other than a couple previous half-day trips (I visited a macadamianut farm and a homemade chocolate operation), Holy Week was my first opportunity to experience Guatemala as a tourist. My boyfriend, Jon, flew in for the adventure. First stop: Guatemala City. After a lively, mildly crowded chicken bus ride, we successfully rendezvous’d with Jon’s friend, Delia, who had generously volunteered to “kidnap” us. She took us to the National Museum of Archeology and Ethnology for a glimpse of indigenous art and history. Then, we hit a delicious pizza restaurant, and the city’s central plaza. Our plaza visit fell on the occasion of an annual demonstration, in which students from the University of San Carlos put on a march in mockery of all things authority-related: The University President, the government, and the Church. They wore hooded robes in the university colors and carried statues modeled after the Lenten processional statues, except with figures portraying, for example, a skeleton carrying a cross. Very interesting. We followed a few students to the bars to wrap up the day.

Next, in an attempt to escape the Holy Week mayhem, Jon and I shuttled out to Lake Atitlán, in the western Guatemalan highlands. We stayed in Panajachel (or simply “Pana”), the second-biggest lakeside town. Pana’s docks offer picture-perfect views of the two volcanoes just across the water, and at night, small clusters of light reveal the other towns at their base. By day, we explored these towns: Santiago, the largest but ugliest, home of “Mayan God” turned tourist trap, Machimon. San Pedro/San Juan, where we had a pleasant lunch of artisan cheese and sangria. San Marcos, the scenic hippie haven. Pana itself, most notably its nature reserve with rope bridges, waterfall, and spider monkey playtime. And San Antonio Palopó, most traditional of the towns we saw, where everyone speaks Kaqchiquel (the native language), and all the women wear indigo blue “trajes” (woven blouses and skirts).

To get to most of the lakeside towns, it’s most common to take a public “lancha” – small ferry boat. But between Pana and San Antonio, the preferred method is to jump in the back of a pick-up truck with the women in trajes and hold on tight. In either case, the postcard-worthy scenery and fresh wind in my hair made these rides almost a destination in themselves.

After the Lake, we returned to a people-saturated Antigua for the final three days of Lent and the biggest, longest processions of the season. On Good Friday morning, the processions begin at 4 a.m. and go all day and night. We witnessed the crack-of-dawn carpet artists preparing the streets for these processions at 5:30 a.m., on our way to catch the shuttle to VolcánPacaya. We climbed the volcano, an easy hike by anyone’s standards, in a tour group comprised of ourselves, a Spanish couple, and 7 or 8 teenage Israeli girls who I can only describe as princess types. They all rented horses to ride up instead of walking. While we made the ascent huffing and puffing, they were saddled in, smoking cigarettes and taking selfies on their iPhones. Lookin’ cozy. Anyway, in less than two hours, we reached the farthest point our guide would allow us to go, where the weeds and dirt under our feet were abruptly replaced by rough, dark volcanic rock. It looked like the surface of the asteroid in Armageddon. Towering above us, the mouth of the volcano steadily emitted giant wisps of white smoke that conjured up images of an enormous cauldron cooking some mysterious potion. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. On the way back down, we could also see two other volcanoes in the distance – Agua and Fuego, and Fuego was smoking chimney-style the whole way. It was a fascinating little adventure.

Good Friday (Volcano day) was the height of summer’s action. After that weekend, things have really quieted down. I find myself wondering what happened to all the people. Like me, they’ve all returned to their homes and their routines. My team’s driver, Jorge, tells me it’s about time for the heat to go away, too. “And then it will be winter, when the rain comes,” he says. Without getting into the semantics of what classifies different seasons, I nod in anticipation. Let’s just see what the next season brings.

When things aren't so new anymore

Where has time gone? I mentioned recently to some friends from home that it had been a month since I left the States. They said, wow, it feels like so much longer. I said, what?? I feel like I left yesterday. There is so much I haven’t seen, so much I still want to learn and explore and master here. How is it nearly March? And what have I been doing all this time?

Well, I worked with my first volunteer group at the end of January. They were high schoolers from Maine, almost all girls. In them, I saw my high school classmates, and my own teenage self. When they had to say good-bye to the kids they’d worked with that week, emotions swept over them like I never expected. So many tears. But I understood. I remember the first time I felt that way, the first time I bonded with someone and then had to leave them behind to live out the hand they’d been dealt in life, while I returned to my world of privilege and excess. I saw those girls’ hearts break at the painful discovery of a whole different reality than what they had known before. I have felt that pain, and I know how it molds you. And I know what it can do when you let it. If I had any doubts before about what I’m doing here, that first group washed them away with those tears. This work is invaluable.

During the same week, reality bit me, too. I experienced my first heightened security situation in Guatemala City. In the middle of the day, a violent encounter erupted between a local gang and the police. It was not closeby necessarily but near enough to work that we were instructed to stay inside for the entire afternoon (We have guards at all doors, as standard practice). Ultimately, it was more of an inconvenience than a threat to our safety, but the proximity of the event, and the scale of it (yes, some people died) reminded us that the safety we feel within our building does not extend to the community around us. Nor does it extend to our students when they leave our building. They experience much more in this world than I would like to imagine.

Two weeks after that memorable first group, I took the plunge and led a group on my own. In contrast with the first bunch, this team was comprised of some long-time “Friends” of Safe Passage, all near my parents’ age. I witnessed my favorite moments with them in their interactions with their sponsor children. Each sponsor parent contributes a monthly donation to their chosen student’s education, but what clearly matters most to them is this once-a-year visit. I watched one graying team member light up after a morning playing math games with his sponsor daughter and her tutor. Her shy smile ignited a noticeable boost to his already cheerful composure, and that short hour was all he talked about for the rest of the day. “She never had a real father figure,” he told me later. “I know I’m nowhere near an adequate substitute, but…” But positive personal interactions like this, even in small doses, can do wonders for a child. And for an aging gentleman with a big heart.

At work, I found insight and fulfillment. In Antigua, I finally found a home. Last week, I moved, again and for the last time, to a house that I intend to settle in. I live now in the northeast section of the city, in a quieter, more residential-like neighborhood. I have two roommates instead of seven, in a two-story house that includes a (frequently) candlelit rooftop terrace. A cleaning lady named Lucia comes three times a week and has become a joy to chat with after work. Thanks to her, I can walk around barefoot here (the true measure of feeling at home). I can cook a proper meal and lounge on the couch watching bootleg DVDs from the market. I can relax. I can have friends visit and offer a comfortable place to rest. This is my place.

With Antigua as my home, I have learned a few other norms of living here: 

• Greet friends with a kiss on the cheek.
• Never expect anything to happen on time, or on the day it was scheduled.
• Learn to give and follow directions according to landmarks and estimated walking distance, not street names. No one knows the street names in Antigua. And house numbers? Good luck.
• Get used to stares and cat-calls, and try to ignore. No matter how many foreigners flood Antigua, white girls will forever draw indecent attention from local men, regardless of how modestly the girl is dressed or how long it’s been since her last shower.
• Don’t walk alone at night if you’re a woman. Guy friends know how unfair your life is and will usually walk with you as courtesy. Resist your long-engraved, self-empowered feminism and just let them walk you. It really is safer. If you’re guy, you can walk alone, but try to look passively tough while doing it. You should be wearing pants and sneakers, with a hood pulled up to cover most of your face, hands in your pockets. Eyes downward, but alert.

• When you go out, be ready to visit the same haunts, often. If you want to find the ex-pat crowd on a Friday/Saturday night, hit one of these spots: The Irish Bar, the Illegal Mezcal “café,” the salsa place, or the late-night bar. During the day, check the smoothie joint, the outdoor market, or the Ultimate Frisbee field (which is really a soccer field, but that’s not what the ex-pats are playing). On Sunday/weekday evenings, the “sports bar,” and for happy hour, the rooftop terrace bar. In most of these places, don’t bother with Spanish. The employees are probably ex-pats, too.
• Don’t wear high heels in Antigua. They don’t mix with cobblestones. This goes without saying among most ex-pats, but many Guatemalan girls have yet to get the memo. These same Guatemalan girls may be just the distraction that causes you to lose your guy friend/escort home before the night is up. Así es la vida. So who is the empowered one?

Urban Movement

I moved (already). As much as I loved living with my host family, it’s cheaper to live on my own, and it allows me to live at my own pace. I now live about 8 blocks north of Lucky and Jose, in a house that I share with 5 other Safe Passage volunteers and 2 other gringos who work/study in Antigua.

To clarify, as I might have omitted this before, I live in Antigua, but my organization works in Guatemala City. Antigua is smaller, safer, and more foreigner-friendly than the City. Its cobblestone streets are lined with colorfully painted one- to two-story buildings, along with ruins galore; the vacant remains of 17^th-ish century churches speckle the map. The tiny, one-block park is the center of town, the hub of its charm. The Cerro de la Cruz (Hill of the Cross) marks the north, and Volcano Agua dominates the skyline to the south. Every afternoon, the market on the west side booms with cheap produce. Avocados grow rampant here, and native Antiguans are known as “Panzaverdes” or “Green-bellies” for their avocado-heavy diets.

Antigua attracts heaps of international ex-pats, as well as wealthy Guatemala City residents, who saturate the streets on weekends. There are spas, language schools, and gourmet restaurants. I've seen menu items here I never dreamed would have reached Central America – gnocchi, crepes, bagels and lox, a bottomless mimosa brunch?? Even in St. Louis those are hard to come by. Thank you, tourism industry.

By contrast, I spend most of my days in Guatemala City’s Zone 3, a place adamantly avoided by tourists and Guatemalans alike. The primary features of Zone 3 are the General Cemetery and the Basurero (Garbage Dump). Before I get off the bus, I can usually smell it – the putrid scent of rotting… everything. Vultures swoop overhead. Above dirt-caked asphalt, dusty tennis shoes hang from electric lines by the dozens. Makeshift tin and/or grey concrete homes fill every square foot available.

The communities surrounding the dump arose during Guatemala’s Civil War. Their story echoes many around the world: Circa the 1970’s and 80’s, state military and guerrilla forces pursued each other in a battle for control of territory/resources. Rural communities got swept up in the violence. People witnessed violent atrocities. They saw their innocent neighbors, friends, family members murdered. Tortured. Massacred. People ran. They ran to the capitol, and they survived, settling in the least desirable sections of the city.

In Guatemala City’s garbage dump, the children and grandchildren of the war’s internal refugees continue to fight for survival. Many make a living digging, waste-deep, through the trash, salvaging and re-selling anything of value that they can find. Many more operate as middle men, buying salvaged materials from the dump and refurbishing them for sale to manufacturers. Very few remember, nor do they hope for, a life beyond Zone 3.

I often reflect on the terrible synchronicity of it all. The people whom those in power considered trash now live in trash. In the land society has designated to bury its dead, reside those who are dead to society. And in the ravines of this land, day after day, these people bury themselves in waste and decay, in order to live on that which has been left for dead, forgotten. As they themselves seem to be.

The idea of our work at Safe Passage is to break the cycle of working in the dump, to empower our students to move UP. If a young person achieves a high enough level of education, s/he may get hired in a formal capacity. If the mothers of our students can learn a new trade through our social entrepreneurship programs, they can make more money and save for their families in ways that were never before possible. If the fathers can advance their own education in adult literacy classes, perhaps they can use what they’ve learned to take on a new level of employment. The smallest increments of progress make an indefinable difference.

All in all, there’s a lot going on, and a lot to take in. But there are some really wonderful movements to be a part of.

“By tomorrow, you will have a new family.”

This is what my driver told me Sunday night, on my first ride to Antigua. After a long day of flight delays and hanging out in the Houston airport, I finally made it to Guatemala and arrived at my homestay just in time to pass out in the room they so wonderfully prepared for me.

I am living in the home of a couple, Jose and Lucky (pronounced, Loo-key) Morales, which turned out to be more of a mini-hostel – at least six other international travelers occupy the place. This is to my liking. I do not feel like a stranger interrupting the family’s daily routine. I feel like one of many guests who support their business and enjoy their hospitality. Jose laughs a LOT, and Lucky is sweet, motherly, and a fabulous cook. (Photo = the street the house is on, with a view of one of Antigua's surrounding volcanoes, called Agua - I think)

Yesterday was my first day with Camino Seguro (Safe Passage), and I couldn’t help but think back to Camp Lakewood. In my many years as a counselor there, I was a veteran camp person. I returned every summer and immediately rejoined a long-established circle of friends. Brand new counselors took time to find their place there, and we veterans took time to see them as “camp people” like ourselves.

On my first day, I got a taste of how that felt. I met a troop of about fifteen returning Camino Seguro volunteers, who hopped on the bus, eagerly greeting each other, chatting about work and recounting recent weekends together. They welcomed me and two other newbies warmly, and I have no doubt that I will soon find my place in this Camino Seguro family, but I know it will take a little time. So things go.

With my rookie counterparts, I got a mini tour of the site in Guatemala City, including office/admin building (“Casa de Hogar”), educational reinforcement center (“CRE” for the Spanish acronym), and preschool (“Escuelita”). Highlights included sitting in the warm, sunlit garden of the CRE for lunch, and assisting one of the preschool classes. My office is located inside the preschool, and I was advised to take a break every now and again to spend time with the kids. “It keeps you grounded,” said Leigh Ellen, whose job I am essentially taking over. It reminds you why you are ultimately here.

Why we are ultimately here... Well, you can read the official description, but on day one alone I experienced a great reason to be here. The three-year-olds in the classroom I visited were practicing writing their names. Each child was given a paper with his or her name at the top and told to write it fifteen times. One little boy, concentrating so hard that he poked several holes in the paper, got to fifteen and asked to write more. He practiced writing his name until well after all his peers had moved on to other distractions (as three-year-olds do), and each time he finished the name, he held the paper up to show me. I would say, yes, perfect, that’s very good, and he would return to the page to repeat it. A kid that diligent, even so young, already has the mindset to go way beyond the conditions in which he’s living. We're here not only to provide him the skills he needs, but to show him the support and respect he may not experience elsewhere. This boy is worth something, and with Camino, he will grow up knowing that.