Vacation [Stateside]

In December I went to California for the holidays. My parents, sister, and future brother-in-law all flew in, and we saw my grandparents, two sets of aunts and uncles and some cousins on my dad's side of the family. It was the first time I have spent with family and my first time in the States since August 2010.

The whole experience was surreal in that it felt so very normal. After such a long absence I somehow expected it to be hard to pick up where I had left off, but that's the nature of family at its best; the important things don't change, and the things that do change all get rolled into the mix with good cheer. We ate, drank, laughed, cried, celebrated, lazed, and worked where appropriate. I walked the beach, visited the Monarch butterfly grove, went sea kayaking, took a trip to admire the opulence and finery at Hearst Castle, did some wedding dress shopping with my sister, and met my cousin's new little baby.

There were two moments that particularly struck my Guatemalan sensibilities.


Moment 1: Scarcity and Abundance

When I arrived in Texas to change flights, I went through customs and with a thrill filled up my water bottle from the drinking fountain. Free, cold, drinkable water. I hadn't realized that I needed to go through security again to board my new flight. I approached the line and a TSA agent told me I needed to dump out my bottle. I stared at him. At my mostly full Nalgene. Quailed at the waste. Considered chugging the whole thing there and then.

Mentally I knew that there was another drinking fountain on the other side of the security scanners, ready to dispense more free, cold, drinkable water. I knew that we use potable water to flush toilets in the US. This wasn't a huge deal. Emotionally, I reacted as someone who lives in a community that subsists on captured rain water, where I bring in drinkable water from the nearest city and where the dry season means limited bathing, laundry, and dishes.

I looked at the garbage can where he pointed. Took one swallow of water. Poured it out. Went on.


Moment 2: Serenity and Anxiety

One evening at my grandparents house my uncle announced he was heading back to the hotel for the evening. On foot. After dark. Someone offered to drive him, but he shrugged it off and said he'd enjoy the exercise on such a nice night.

My stress level spiked. My stomach tied into knots. I reminded myself we were not in Guatemala, and that pick-pockets, muggers, and kidnappers were hardly likely to target my uncle in a sleepy little beach town in California.

He left, spent the night in the hotel, and arrived back at the house the following morning without incident.  


At the end of the vacation, I mistily hugged each family member, content that at least this time I know I'll be seeing them all again much more quickly than the last span of 16+ months apart. I had a great little bonus visit with a childhood friend who was also vacationing in San Francisco, and then made the trip home to Guatemala.

I stepped back into my life here without much thought, again, things felt surreal in that they felt so normal. How can I comfortably inhabit  the world of Scarcity and Anxiety, as well as Serenity and Abundance? In the US airports I made small talk with strangers, sat between iPad and laptop users while I happily read on my Kindle, and took out my wallet without a second thought as I swiped purchases on my credit card. In the Guatemalan airport I smoothly picked up my defensive living habits of hiding valuables, stowing cash all over my body, and judiciously choosing who to make eye contact with or smile at.

As I walked down the muddy path to the house I share with my host family, my three host siblings shouted my name and ran to me to help carry my bags. I stumbled over the Q'eqchi', but it came out alright. Canchita meowed plaintively at me while I fumbled with the keys, but one look at her plump self assured me she was by no means neglected in my absence. In the evening I walked into the kitchen with my glass of water and tore into the fresh tortillas, easily using them in place of silverware to ferry food to my mouth. Sometimes I wonder what it is I am accomplishing here, but at the very least, I have made a home.

It’s All Q’eqchi’ To Me

I have now been struggling to learn a Mayan language for a year. Admittedly, I spent five or six months working on K’iche’ and then in June switched over to Q’eqchi’. Moving from one language to the other felt how I imagine it would be to switch from Spanish to Portuguese after taking only one semester. The pronunciation is mostly (but not wholly) the same, the grammar is similar, and there are just enough vocabulary words that are the same to keep you confused. My first teacher had almost no experience teaching K’iche’ and so was long on patience but short on structure; my current teacher has been teaching Q’eqchi’ for over a decade and is long on structure but somewhat set in her ways. My class sessions are dominated by me filling my notebook with dictations from my teacher on vocabulary and grammar, but very little verbal practice. Still, living in the community gives me opportunity for practice and most of the fault for my slow progress is my own lack of discipline to study.

In the beginning, the most difficult thing for me was learning to distinguish between different consonant sounds, and to then be able to make them accurately. In Q’eqchi there are six different letters that can make a sound like a “k” to the untrained ear.

• Q – Sounds like you’re clearing your throat
• Q’ – A click in the back of the throat
• K – Sounds like a normal English “ck”
• K’ – A forceful sound off the roof of the mouth
• Y – Depending on where in a word it is, it may sound like the “cu” in “cue” followed by other vowels, or it may act like a normal “y”.
• W – Depending on where in a word it is and its relation to vowels, it may sound soft like the “w” in “bower” or it may sound like the “coo” in “cool”.

The next hurdle was vocabulary. As with the classic example of the many names for different types of snow in the Inuit language, I have found that there are many distinctions between types, stage of development, and preparations of corn that I never would have considered creating a new word for before. Likewise there are different verbs for “to carry” based on if it is done in the arms, on the back, on top of the head, or on the shoulders.

One of the areas I’ve mostly given up on is the myriad of terms for people in the family. For one thing, people usually don’t introduce themselves to me with any explanation for how they are related to anyone else, so I don’t hear the words used much. For another, it’s just confusing. In the US relationship titles are usually determined by the gender of the person spoken about (a female child is a daughter of her parent; a male child is a son of his parent, although cousin is gender neutral). In Q’eqchi’, relationship titles vary by the gender of both the speaker and the person spoken of (a female child is a ko’ to her mother, but a rabin to her father; a male child is a yum to his mother, but a alal to his father). In the case of siblings, titles vary by the gender of the speaker, gender of the subject and the age relation between the two. Thus, a girl’s older sister is chaq’na’ but her younger sister is iitz’inixq, while her older brother is as but her younger brother is iitz’inwinq. On the other hand, a boy’s older brother is as but his younger brother is iitz’in, and a boy’s older sister is anab’ but his younger sister is ch’ina anab’

There is also the inverse problem in which words I consider vitally different are lumped into one term in Q’eqchi’. For example, one verb, wank means to live, to have, and to be. You have to figure out which one is being used through context. More frustratingly, ajok means both to want and to need. Thus, I have no way of explaining, “I want to eat another cookie, but I don’t need to, so I won’t.” Nor, on a cold morning, can I complain, “I need to take a bucket bath, but I don’t want to.” I mean, really, how do you raise a child to understand the difference between wants and needs if there isn’t a distinction between the two in your language? 

For all my griping, I do like learning Q’eqchi'. I signed up for this, after all. I savor the little victories of making it through small talk when I meet a woman I know on the road. I like breaking out a new set of vocabulary words with my host family and seeing them exchange glances. “She finally learned ‘slow’ and ‘fast’!” their looks seem to say. When I can more or less follow where we are on the agenda in meetings, or I get the gist of what the people next to me in the microbus are saying, I congratulate myself. It’s been more than ten years since I was at this beginning stage with Spanish, so it took a bit to resign myself to being a true beginner again. Now that I can explain my travel plans to my host mother and set up a play date with my host siblings, I think I’m almost ready to graduate back out of beginner status. 

Black Bean Burgers!

In the third week of June, I joined Wendy for my first cooking class in Alta Verapaz. Wendy hadn’t actually tried the recipe before, so she stayed late at the co-op with me one night and we tried them out to work out any glitches in advance. The Guatemalans who were passing by on their way home all thought we were insane for having a meal without tortillas (honestly, we didn’t have buns, either – the bean patties were pretty much the whole menu). Wendy’s counterpart, Irma, was so concerned about our tortilla-less situation that she went and found someone making tortillas to give some to us. Even when we try to cook for ourselves we have people looking out for us.

I really liked the burgers, and they were a hit with both groups of women we taught the recipe.  So, I thought I’d share them with you.

The women mashed the beans on the same piedra de moler where they prep their corn dough for tortillas.  You can do it however you want, just get them kinda paste-y (not liquid).

The women don't seem to have cutting-boards, or consider them necessary.  They are pros with wielding knives mid air.

No spoons for mixing for them, either... just kneading with their hands.

Pans over an open fire... forks instead of spatulas.

Filomena showing off some of the burgers once cooked.

Ingredients:

Black Beans (one can)

Oatmeal (3/4 cup)

Egg (one or two)

Garlic (3 small cloves)

Onion (one small onion, diced)

Carrot (1/2 cup shredded)

Bell Pepper (diced)

Salt (to taste)

Pepper (to taste)

Oil (for sautéing)

Take half of beans and mash them into a paste, then add the other half.  Add the veggies and spices.  Scramble the egg and add.  Add oatmeal to reach desired consistency.  Form burger patties by hand… this takes some practice and the mixture sometimes needs some encouragement to stay together. 

Fry the patties in a small amount of oil in frying pan (just enough to keep it from sticking… this was a hard point to get across to the women).  Trying to flip the patties too soon may make them crumble apart.  They’ll still taste good, but will be harder to serve. 

All the proportions are guidelines only.  Trial and error is the best way to work out what combo makes things stick together best for you.  We haven’t tried radishes in there yet, but we bet they would be good in place of (or as well as) the carrots.  Also, for those of you who have access to them, I’m sure leeks would be delicious!

School Daze: Junta Directiva

A Junta Directiva is like a board of directors. Among the first things I saw in my first week of observation in school was the process of electing the Junta for each grade in the Básico school (which was also each classroom, essentially a student council).

Political geek that I am, their method of voting was curious to me. The kids shouted out names of classmates in a verbal nomination process. No one needed to second the motion; say a name and it gets on the board. Then each person nominated was written on the board and numbered. As soon as there were as many nominees as positions on the Junta, nominations stopped.

One student went around the room asking each classmate to vote verbally, and then would call out the number across the room for another person to tally on the board. They were told not to call out names, just numbers. But since the whole room is watching and listening, it’s not like that creates any secrecy. It’s a time consuming process as well. The person with the most votes becomes President, the next gets VP, then Secretary, Vice Secretary, Treasurer, Vice Treasurer, and after that Delegates. There was no sense of tailoring the person nominated to the role... they just went straight down the line of titles. During a parents meeting later, the parent Junta Directiva (I think something like the PTA) was chosen the same way.  

Why it's done this way, I don't know. They could easily have done a show of hands for each nominee and counted. They could have asked people to write their preferences on a slip of paper. They could have dropped beans into a jar for their preferred candidate. As it is, it means that those voting toward the end of the process can see who is ahead. It means everyone knows who is voting for who. Perhaps it's something about valuing each person's input that they vote one at a time? Perhaps it's important to vote publicly? But if that's true, why use the numbers? Clearly (and per usual), I have more questions than answers.  

Tick Tock.

Anyone who has spent much time outside of their home country will note that there is a wide variety of views on time and punctuality in the world.  While there’s plenty variety within countries, I think it’s fair to say the US as a whole tends to fall closer to the up tight end of the spectrum than most. 

Think about it.  Our watches have milliseconds.  Our flight times tend to be something like 7:06 or 1:34.  High schools have 50 minute classes with 5 minute passing periods.  Need an early out day?  No problem.  Each class period will just be cut down to 42 minutes.  People show up early for events to make sure they get a good seat.  We have an entire advertising industry devoted to the twenty minutes before each movie showtime.  That’s before the trailers begin.  Many people arrive a little early for meetings to be able to fill their coffee mug and settle in.  Sure, there’s always one in the crowd rolling in 5-10 minutes late, but it’s usually just one. 

We’ve got a slew of proverbs and adages about the importance of time.  The early bird gets the worm.  A stitch in time saves nine.  There’s no time like the present.  Time and tide wait for no man.  Time is money.  Using time well is a virtue in US society and rightfully so (how to define “well” is another conversation).

Within the US spectrum, I’ve always thought of myself as a relaxed yet more or less prompt person.  I like to be on time, and if I know I’ll get there more than 5-10 minutes late I usually call or send a message to let people waiting on me know why.  As a kid I wasn’t late to school.  My good friend who lived around the corner always seemed to be five minutes early to events, so I thought I was running late when I arrived right on time.  I remember one morning when I woke up late somehow my mom drove me to school with such urgency we went up over the curb as we rounded the corner, a big deal to my eight-year-old self.

My family had our own favorite phrases on time, too.   Anyone who slept in late risked being labeled a “slug-a-bed,” and having the covers of her bed summarily torn off.   Staying in the tent a little too late in the morning on camping trips usually resulted in our parents picking up the end of our sleeping bags and dumping us (screeching with laughter) out of the tops.   The ever popular, “Daylight’s a wasting,” and “Stir your stumps,” came out fairly often.  Or the idealistic, “What have you done for the good of the world today?” 

I don’t mean to say that I don’t enjoy my idleness or take time to rest.  I love a slow day as much as the next person.  I like to knit while listening to podcasts or music.  A day with a book, walk, movie or nap eased in between meals is a day well spent, in my book.  When I don't have responsibilities to others in a given day, I can take free reign to enjoy myself quite happily.  

So, I knew more or less what I was getting into when I came to Guatemala.  I knew I was stepping into a different rhythm of life and prepared myself to embrace the slower side of life.  To have many a lazy day as I learned my community and began to form work projects little by little.  I learned that the Guatemalan phrase on time is hay mas tiempo que vida (there’s more time than life).  I came to understand, and even expect, that meetings would start at least half an hour late.  I take it in stride when women arrive late to meetings that Ela and I hold, and have learned to keep a book handy when going to meet someone.

The thing is, I get it.  Mostly.  Most of the people in my community don't have formal work.  They run a household or work in the fields.  No one has their day planned out down to 15 minute chunks in Outlook.  There aren't any consequences in showing up late.  People don't expect promptness, and don't take offense when it's absent.  That's a little different in the municipality and schools, perhaps, but even there things are pretty relaxed.

What I didn’t expect was just how deeply imbedded my need to be on time really is.  While I can accept others arriving behind schedule, I simply can’t bring myself to be late in work situations.  And when I am made late by others, my own reactions shock me.  I am frustrated, annoyed, and truly angry.  I feel I have been forced to be disrespectful and unprofessional.  I know that those who are waiting on me probably don’t judge me for my lateness, and may not even notice the issue at all.  But I do notice.  And I do care.  I don’t seem to be able to do as the Romans do.  I can let them have their ways, but my own understanding of responsible and respectful behavior is too strong to let myself copy them.  I wonder if time will make me less rigid in this.  If not, I may need to work on my anger management skills.


Better yet, maybe I can just summon Tock, the fictional Watch Dog from Phantom Tollbooth to sing some sense into these Guatemalans!  As he says, “Look, son, it's bad enough wasting time without killing it.”  Right before announcing, "Time is your friend," and bursting into song.

Whirlwind.

I've been travelling.  Here's what happened:

Friday 11th:  6 month anniversary in Guatemala!  Rode to Antigua in a chicken bus seated uncomfortably close to a man with an impressive curly mullet.  No pictures, sorry.

Saturday 12th:  Climbed my second volcano in country (Pacaya!) with about half the PCVs who swore in with me.  We roasted marshmallows at the top (from heat escaping from a crack in the earth) and hiked down in the dark with headlamps.  

Sunday 13th:  Got my first hair cut in country... I figure I ought to do it at least once every six months right?  Also, we went out on the town in the most ugly PACA (second hand clothes exported from the US) finds perhaps ever worn out in public.

Monday 14th:  Day one of Reconnect.  Ended up being a mixture of processing and venting in our tech groups.  Got a calidad Valentine's gift in our PCV Valentine exchange... the Wrinkle In Time books!  

Tuesday 15th:  Day two of Reconnect.  Focus group on how training had gone in the morning, and a pizza lunch and Q&A session with the US Ambassador to Guatemala.  

Wednesday 16th:  Woke in what felt like the Twilight Zone.  Since I was participating in a workshop looking at redesigning the PC Sustainable Agriculture program in Guatemala, I was staying in a hotel with hot water coming out of the tap!  Total reality shift.

Thursday 17th: Finished up the workshop, feeling like I shouldn't eat for the rest of the month after not having turned down a single morsel for the previous 48 hours.  I feel I was victim of the "now or never" mentality.  I don't know when I've eaten that well.

Friday 18th:  Worked on some planning for the internal Ag Magazine for PC Guatemala with some other PCVs, then headed back to site.  It's good to be home!

Taking Care of Business

I’ve often found that the type of restroom amenities (or lack thereof) becomes a popular conversation topic when traveling.  I have friends who have been to Japan who describe not knowing what to do with all the buttons and options for toilet services.  I have stayed in places in Europe where the bathroom was so small I could easily sit on the toilet with my feet in the shower and my hands in the sink.  I have accompanied friends on their first pit stop in the wilderness and coached them through the use of a hand trowel and techniques for using handy rocks, trees, and logs to find a comfortable position to take care of matters (hopefully with a nice view, and a lack of mosquitoes).  At restaurants friends have urged me many times to go use the bathroom, just to check out the décor or ambiance. 

So, it’s no surprise that we in Peace Corps end up talking about our bathrooms too.  We also commiserate over our actual digestive issues in pretty fine detail, but I’ll spare you publishing that.

The first lesson learned in Guatemala, is to always enter a restroom packing your own supplies.

Image from Threadless Tees

I've definitely been in this situation in Guatemala, and like to think I've done Macgyver proud, but still... I do my best to avoid needing to get creative.  

One of the essential tips we received the first night in country was to remember to put our T.P. in the trash can.  This is familiar to most who have traveled in Central or South America, so wasn't much of a surprise.  

Sumpango host family bathroom

I was a little less prepared for learning how to manually flush the toilet when the water is off -- it's a learned skill of throwing water into the toilet from a bucket nearby just so... to make the contents of the bowl go down, and not come out.

Just as throwing T.P. into the trashcan was becoming second nature, I moved to my site, where we use latrines exclusively.  Now every time I go into a bigger town, I have to remember to switch back to the wastebasket, then back to the pit again when I get home.

This is the main latrine that the family compound shares.  Toward the end of November we had a wind storm come through that blew over two of the walls and blew off the roof of this latrine.  The pieces were all more or less propped back into place, but there are gaps in the corners, so people are much more quick to say, "Occupado!" to prevent others from getting too close while they're inside.

The toilet seat in this latrine was painted with limestone, I think to help keep it disinfected?  It tends to have the effect of highlighting whenever someone misses the hole and hits the seat.... happily I now have my own latrine that I can clean when I please.

Some people use their latrines to make their political allegiances known.

My latrine (the one up at my cottage, which I share with the grandfather) is made of adobe.  It's got a roof that slopes down from just about exactly my height to much shorter, so I'm a little scrunched, but hey, it's not like I go there to hang out.  The boards my left hand is resting on are the makeshift door that I can drag across the entrance should I so choose, but I mostly don't bother unless I know someone's nearby.  I prefer the fresh air and the view of flowers growing outside. 

The grandfather uses old newsprint for his toilet paper (above left).  I bring in my own plush Scott roll.  This is one of the things I've decided it's worth splurging for on my Peace Corps budget.  I really don't mind using a latrine, but I do mind newsprint.  There's also a wooden lid for our outhouse (upper right).

When moving into my new place I had to go through a PC housing checklist for safety and security.  One of the requirements for those of us with latrines is to have a cement floor.  I've seen (and used) latrines with wooden floors (or just a few wooden boards to balance on) and apparently there have been cases of boards rotting, leaving unsuspecting users to fall down into the latrine.  This is definitely one regulation I was happy to comply with!


Besides all the infrastructure issues around restrooms, I've noticed some cultural differences as well.  When I go to the public restroom in the mall in Xela or Chimaltenango (these are pretty similar to U.S. malls), the women spread out and stand in lines behind each stall.  In the U.S., the line of women forms at the entrance to the restroom and the woman in the front takes whichever stall is vacated first.  In Guatemala, it's more like choosing a checkout line in the grocery store.  If you choose the one that moves more slowly, tough luck.

There may be a stereotype that U.S. women always go to the bathroom in groups, but I can assure you that when we do, we use separate stalls.  In Guatemala I've seen two or three girls entering a stall together, each taking turns at the toilet.  I don't just mean 5 year olds here... probably up to 13 or 14 year olds.  I'm not saying this is the norm, or very common.  But it's definitely not uncommon.  Odd.

Lastly, for all Guatemalans are said to be indirect communicators, they're surprisingly direct on some topics.  This includes asking if you have diarrhea and if there was enough toilet paper for you to get by (not to mention how much things cost, how much money you make, if you're homesick/sad, why you are single, and so much more... but those are topics for another day).

Ashes to Ashes

Last weekend I went to my first burial in Guatemala. 

As I was on my way out of the compound Sunday morning, Isabel and I were making small talk.  I told her I was going out for a walk to take some photos of the aldea.  She mentioned there was a funeral going on up the road for a 12 year old boy who died recently, but didn't know how he had died.  

When I ran into Ela on the street later that morning I asked her if she knew the story, and she said that the boy had eaten a golosina (sweet… usually something like gummy bears) and it got stuck in his stomach.  His stomach got distended and hard, and he had to have surgery.  The surgery didn’t go well, got infected, and he died.  She asked if I’d like to go to the burial that afternoon, and I said I would.

Around 1 p.m. we started walking up the road with a group of women.  The main procession had already left, so we took a shortcut up to the highway to meet them at the entrance to the cemetery.  It seemed like most of the community had turned out.  The casket was being carried by a handful of men, and surrounded by men walking ahead and behind it.  Behind all the men came the women (and some children), walking together, many with shawls over their head.  We slipped into the crowd of women and continued up the hill into the cemetery.  The mood was fairly quiet, without much socializing, but there were no wailing family members in sight (as I have seen in other funeral processions here).

Once there, people spread out.  Some took seats on top of burial mounds (whether of their own family or not, I don’t know).  Others found spots in the shade, and several dozen people crowded around the grave itself.  Some opportunists made their way through the ground toting coolers full of ice cream and popsicles for sale, and found a steady stream of customers.  Someone by the grave (I assume a pastor) stood up to give some words, but all but those closest to him were chatting to their neighbors.  It felt like a subdued picnic.

Ela turned to me and explained that “they say” when they dug the grave for the casket, the found the remains of someone else in that spot and pulled it out.  They don’t know who it was.  Ela confessed she wanted to get a look at what was left of the cranium, and laughed at herself. 

I moved closer to the grave as they lowered the casket into the ground.  Then a group of men immediately covered it over using hoes they had brought for the purpose, and women carried over several big jugs of water to throw on top as all the soil was replaced.  They worked the water into the soil to be able to form a solid mound shape out of what would otherwise have been dust, thanks to the dry season. 

With that, the crowd broke up and started to return home, to pick up their daily rhythm.  I never did get an idea of who the family members were.  On the way down the hill, Isabel and Ela chatted to one another comfortably about death.  They expressed the naturalness of death, and that what God wills happens, there’s nothing we can do.  God knows the time He will call each of us home, and we can only accept that.  It’s one of the only times I’ve heard my new family discuss God or religion.

What struck me most about the situation was how no one seemed particularly conflicted over the death.  Admittedly, I did not attend the funeral itself and I make no claim to know how the family itself felt or dealt with the situation.  When both Isabel and Ela told me of the situation, I expressed how tragic the circumstances were to me, how awful it would be to lose a 12 year old son.  They both agreed with me, but didn't seem terribly moved themselves. 

Perhaps it comes from the fact that in the U.S. it is very rare to lose a child, and we have an expectation that medicine can and should be able to fix most things.  Car accidents, heart attacks, and very occasionally violence result in sudden deaths in the U.S., but rarely would a digestive problem or a fairly routine surgery be viewed as life threatening.  Here, it seems that death from violence is almost common place (though no less tragic for the families affected).  Accidents on the road are also frequent, and more likely to be fatal than in the U.S. because the use of seat-belts is rare (even when they are present), landslides are common, drunkenness a factor, and vehicle maintenance laughable.  I'm not saying Guatemalans are callous, but they may develop a culture of acceptance as a coping mechanism.

Like so many things, this probably comes down to expectations.  In the U.S. many of us more or less expect that we and everyone in our family will make it to old age, and hope we will do it gracefully.  When we or someone we know loses someone in a way that feels out of order -- whether from illness, accidents, or violence -- we are shocked.  We feel cheated, we feel wronged by life.  We tell ourselves and each other, "This isn't how it's supposed to happen."  

Guatemalans not directly affected by a death seem much more likely to react by saying, "Well, these things happen."

I didn’t feel comfortable bringing around my camera during a burial (little did I know there would be vendors working the crowd!) but I have some shots of the local cemetery and the Sumpango cemetery from previous visits.    

Decorations during Day of the Dead: The graves of a sibling of Benancio that never made it to adulthood, and a baby of Cata that didn't make it.  

The view down the valley from the cemetery.  There are no markers on the graves; you just have to know under which mounds your own family members are buried.  Perhaps this is why they accidentally dug up someone else's grave in preparing for the funeral this weekend.

In the larger (and wealthier) Sumpango, the mounds had crosses marking their place, although often still did not always include a name.  (Photo credit: Sara Shapleigh)

More than half the cemetery in Sumpango was given over to brightly colored mausoleums that could hold up to a dozen family members.  Some had chapels stuck in the sides, and many had flowers or other decorations around.   The distinction between the burial styles is a matter of financial means, not of religion.  (Photo credit: Sara Shapleigh)

Man's Best Frenemy

Dogs get a mixed rap in Guatemala.  

They are nearly universally referred to chuchos, which tends to mean street dog, mutt, or mongrel.  It get applied pretty equally to actual street dogs and to those claimed by a family as well.  I would say that dogs who belong to a family are not so much pets as guardians here, and thus tend to be valued for being bravo (angry, ferocious, mean, irritable, intimidating) more than playful or affectionate.  Generally they are not considered mascotas (pets) and are rarely touched, as they are considered shuco (dirty, filthy, gross, flea ridden... oddly, this is also slang for hot dogs).  There are animal lovers here too, of course, but it gets expressed by sneaking extra bones to feed the dog occasionally or pet it de vez en cuando (once in awhile).  It does not mean your dog gets toys, sweaters, canned food (heck even dried dog food), or walks. 

Most chuchos subsist on a diet of left over pan dulce (slightly sweet rolls) or tortillas, with the occasional chicken bone or leftover dinner thrown in.  In the case of those in the street, they subsist on whatever they can find.  I've seen many a wily chucho running off with head and tail held high as he rushes off to consume the fried chicken he swiped from the unsuspecting Pollo Campero patron or half eaten out of the garbage can.  More often they're digging through the garbage thrown into the nearest ravine to scavenge.  I've seen the scrawniest and mangiest dogs in Guatemala I've ever laid my eyes on.  One heartbreaking case was so skinny and mangy that his sit bones (not tail bone... maybe part of his hips?) poked through his skin when he sat down.  

There is one animal shelter I know of in Guatemala, but it is (perhaps unsurprisingly) run by an American.  It was just outside of Sumpango, so I went down a few times to volunteer with some of my fellow then-trainees.  There were hundreds of dogs and dozens of cats, all fixed and up on their shots waiting to be adopted... Many had come in injured and/or malnurished and get nursed back to health little by little, others arrive pregnant, so there is a steady stream of kittens and puppies to raise as well.  I think they are trying to send adoptions to the states, because Xeni (the proprietor) wants them to go to homes where they'll get concentrado (dog food).  There are certainly plenty of Guatemalans adopting as well, of course.  They also have a monthly clinic where they will spay or neuter cats and dogs for a pittance (something I have been lucky enough to benefit from in the case of my kitty).  For those interested: www.animalaware.org

All of that said, I have made friends with some dogs along the way.  My training host family had a dog named Diana.  She was a pretty friendly dog, though a little skittish.  I would occasionally give her one of my club crackers, and she would delicately grab the cracker from my hand without leaving so much as a drip of slobber, then inhale the cracker and look back at me for more.  She spent her days tied up in the courtyard, with a little patio table leaning up against the wall to give her some shade.  At night (when the chickens and turkeys were in their coop) she got free run of the outdoor compound, and occasionally would be so happy and excited I'd try to play with her, but she didn't seem to know what to do with my overtures.  

We have three dogs in the extended family I live with at my site.  There’s Oso (means “bear”), who is my guardian up at the cottage.  He’s pretty quiet, and mostly sweet.  Oso spends all day and night tied up, but has a fairly generous rope and gets moved around to be tethered to different posts throughout the day for a change of scenery.  He jumps up on me anytime I’m within reach of his leash, and makes my cat freak out every time he wanders part way into my house (which he often has enough rope to do).  He definitely alerts me any time there are people approaching the house, and curls up right outside my door at nights in a comforting way.

It was getting to be a chilly late afternoon when I took this, so he was curled up tight.

Weeny (perhaps a shortening of “Wilson,” but I’m not sure) is the exception to the guardian rule.  He’s little and utterly not intimidating (but don’t tell him that).  Weeny runs free.  I think he’s the closest to a pet I’ve seen in Guatemala, and belongs to Fernando, the 3 year old cousin next door.  He likes to get rough and tumble around the bigger dogs, and they mostly ignore him to continue with their frequent naps. 

Maybe it's just me, but I think Weeny has a creepily vacant stare.

Dino (as in Dinosaur) is the dog stationed down at my counterpart’s house.  When I moved in he didn’t even deign to bark at me.  The family explained that he isn’t phased by foreigners, because he’s so used to Peace Corps Volunteers and missionaries (usually Mormons) living in the compound.  Dino is always tied up, usually with a fairly short amount of rope.  In the beginning I would walk over and pet him in the day, and occasionally escort Elkin to give him leftovers for dinner.  I developed more irritation toward him as he frequently disturbed my sleep by doing an odd strangled whine/howl most nights between 2 and 4 a.m.  One night I even went out and squirted him in the face with water to make him shut up.  Strangely, it worked.  Looking back, this may have been the start of our road toward Frenemies. 

Dino, in a calm moment.

The weekend of the 400 tamales, I was taking a break after helping stir the massive pot of masa and wandered over to the pila to watch Isabel clean her shoes, taking a route that went past Dino.  He must have been dead asleep and not heard me get close, because after I had fully passed him and stood still, he suddenly woke, growled, and lunged.  I didn’t see him coming.  One minute I was spacing out watching Isabel and the next I was making a sound very like the ones Dino had used to earn my wrath. 

Luckily, his leash must have just barely allowed him to reach me, because once we rolled up my jeans to see the damage it became clear he hadn’t got a good grip.  I ended up with one decent puncture wound and two long scratches where his teeth had dragged back along my calf (whether because I pulled away or his leash half choked him, I don’t know).  The next time I looked at Dino he was back asleep and content.  Jerk. 

This was maybe a week and a half after injury.

As we did first aid fun, Benancio showed me at least three dog inflicted scars that he sports from childhood, and Hendrick showed me the one he has on his forehead.  They explained to me that the only reason Elkin isn’t afraid of dogs is that he hasn’t been bitten “yet.”  So I guess maybe this was just a rite of passage to becoming a real part of the community.

Anyway, we washed out the wound and I went to Xela both Friday and Monday to get the anti-Rabies shots that PC Medical protocol requires.  In the end I had more adrenaline flowing than blood, though the bruising is just now losing its tenderness weeks later.  I guess Dino just bit first and asked who he was attacking later.  He still wags his tail when I walk by and I’ve even approached to pet him again on occasion.  But I make sure he sees me well before getting within range. 

So like I said, dogs get a mixed rap in Guatemala.  Many (if not most) families have dogs.  Many (if not most) Guatemalans are afraid of dogs.  Because many (if not most) Guatemalans have been bit by a dog.  Frenemies, people.  Frenemies.  

Soul Matters

In Guatemala the vast majority of people are Christian, with a split between Catholics (numerical majority) and Evangelical (a very vocal minority). My host family is Evangelical, and I’ve attended several church services with them so far. I assume that an Evangelical service in the US would feel like a cross-cultural experience to me as well, but going as a middling-tall blonde-ish woman to a Guatemalan Evangelical church service… makes me increasingly aware of my outsider status with every attendance.


The first time I went, I was initially pleased at how well I was able to follow the lyrics of the first hymn. Admittedly, the lyrics had about as much variation as “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” and lasted for nearly 10 minutes so this wasn’t any great feat (I started timing later… 6-10 minutes per song is normal). When that song blended seamlessly into the next song without breaking for breath (much less directing the congregation to a page in the non-existent hymnals), I settled in for what appeared to be a combination between a sing-a-long praise band concert and an aerobics class. After an hour of waving religiously themed flags and clapping to variations on an oom-pah-pah sort of rhythm from the band/choir up front, we sat down as the praise leader gave the pulpit over to the pastor.

My first Guatemalan sermon was an hour long combination between fire and brimstone and stand-up comedy. The contents included familiar parables (“the kingdom of heaven is like ___________”), commentary on abortion (apparently connected to being blonde/blue eyed or not… I didn’t quite follow but was definitely the only blue-eyed person in attendance), the concepts of being rich and poor in both worldly and spiritual ways, criticism of science, a discussion of the possibility of whether aliens are real, and more. The pastor was using a microphone but seemed to forget that his voice was already amplified, because he tends to shout for emphasis. The church building is an empty storeroom and is honestly not that large of a space. It probably doesn’t need microphones at all, and the acoustics are such that I seriously considered bringing ear plugs to my next service. I decided against it out of cultural sensitivity, but my host sister went out and bought cotton for her own ears the next week, so I may be justified in doing it for the future.

After the sermon we had another hour of intensely happy singing and dancing with a minor interlude that seemed like the Prayers of the People. During this time the congregation flipped a switch from being intensely and demonstratively happy to audibly moaning and crying. There was no worship attendant praying on behalf of the congregation; rather each person prayed aloud at once, leaving me unable to decipher the prayers at all. To wrap it up there was an altar call made for anyone moved to accept Jesus into their heart. The Offering and Passing of the Peace happened simultaneously, and there wasn’t any Communion at all (although maybe that happens on a schedule I’m unaware of). We switched over to announcements to wrap things up, which included exhortations to go out to the community with a will to invite/convert our neighbors.

Once the service wound down (3 hours in at this point) we had what Lutherans usually refer to as “Coffee Hour,” in this case starring tostadas and atol. Many adults in the congregation come up to welcome me and ask my host mother if I speak Spanish. The children came to me more directly and dissolved into giggles every time I asked them a question. After a full four hours there, we walked home across town in the dark as a family.

With each return trip, the congregation warms to me. In the case of the children this makes me feel more welcome, but in the case of the adults it may have the opposite of the desired effect.

My second trip to church ended with an intense game of cops and robbers with the kids as well as a highly disorganized soccer game that ended near midnight. The adults of the congregation greet me excitedly and always exhort me to come again for all three church services each week (so far I’m averaging just less than one service a week, much to their disappointment). After each service I have the same three young men in the congregation that approach me individually and ask me the same questions that lead me to think they want (a) to save my soul, (b) to date me, or (c) both. Last time I went to church the pastor called me out by name three separate times during the sermon, including commentary on my height and coloring.

I’m mostly entertained by all of this, but at the same time I’m not exactly dying to be in the spotlight so I was glad that my Field Based Training trip spared me returning very quickly.

All in all these experiences have impressed me with the fervor and faith that everyone in attendance exhibits. While it’s not my style of religion (and it’s a pretty big time commitment) I have found going to church has helped me meet people and be accepted into Sumpango. I see some of the children elsewhere in town and they are thrilled to see me. I will have to think about how to navigate church going as I head out to my assigned site in another month or so… I want to integrate into the community, but I don’t want to commit 12 hours a week to a religious expression that doesn’t line up with my own style and that may make the quieter Catholics in town feel slighted.

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Quick disclaimer: I don’t intend to offend with my description of religion here in Guatemala. I challenge you to look around at your own religious practices (should you have any) and think about it from an outsider’s perspective. Many rituals are faintly funny or at least confusing for those not within that faith tradition.