Mi Madre [Guest Blog]

I was fortunate enough to have my family come to visit in February for a precious 9 days so I could share a quick taste of what my life has been like here in Guatemala before I head out at the end of March. Below are some reflections written by my mother.

***** 

Guatemala is a land of contrasts. The landscape and culture is like an ancient and expertly woven fabric, its drapes and design shaped by volcanoes, water, wind, sea, and her Mayan people. Earth tones prevail: terra cotta reds, sage and forest greens, dusty browns, sky blue, leaden gray. The texture of the weave is deeply carved with steep slopes, high ridges, eroded valleys, and sink holes. The threads of water are precious, even though it falls copiously from the skies in season. There are places where newer threads intersect the old... paved highways that are frayed by mudslides; cell phone towers that rise in spires above the coffee and cardamom groves; glistening plastic litter strewn along the highways. It is as if someone took a look at the ancient weaving and decided to repair the worn spots by stitching in sequins, baubles, and twist ties.

This was most apparent to me as we sat in the main room of our host's house, a room of wooden planking which measured about 12 X 12. The room had two sources of light: the open doorway and a bare incandescent bulb flickering yellow with the fluctuations in power. No windows. Overhead the corrugated tin roof protected us and the family's corn supply from threatening rain, and diverted the water into a plastic lined catchment since no running water is available for miles. A duck was brooding her eggs in one corner of the earthen floored room, while a lame chicken pecked beneath my plastic chair. The three children sat coloring on paper my daughter provided or climbed onto our laps for a game of horsey rides. Meanwhile, our hostess used a rectangular grinding stone and cylindrical pestle carved from volcanic rock to mash the prepared corn into the dough for the fresh tortillas she would cook for us on the wood stove. We sat at a bare, plank table, while she worked at another, methodically grinding the masa, scooping it up, shaping it into tortillas, and deftly depositing them directly onto the hot stove surface. We spoke quietly in English punctuated by exchanges in Q'eqchi' between my daughter and the host family. Suddenly a chirping noise broke the pattering rhythm of the tortilla making, and our hostess turned to a makeshift shelf nailed to the wooden wall by her work table and answered her cell phone. A land of contrasts indeed.

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.

Getting to Know You

After a few months of actually living with my host family, things are progressing well, though not without a few bumps in the road.

I have to say that as the younger of two, I now have more true empathy for older siblings than ever before. When the kids embraced me into the family, they did so without any concept of personal space or private property. My limited Q’eqchi’ skills reduced me to the vocabulary of a toddler with a new infant in the house. Without any verbal subtlety at my disposal, I was reduced to a lot of “ink’a!!” (no/don’t) and physically removing them from my room, or my belongings from their hands. Their eagerness and interest went a long way toward making me feel welcome, but also made me want to scream at times. When they lined up outside my window to called my name at three second intervals for ten minutes or so, I quickly learned they had nothing to tell me and nothing to show me (and I certainly wasn’t able to tell them anything), but just wanted my attention. This was endearing to a point, and then quickly tore my nerves to shreds.

Almost immediately after moving in I began a ritual around dinner time with the older two kids. Most nights I bring in some copy paper and crayons and we color before or after dinner. As my Q’eqchi’ classes progressed I was able to learn to say things like “play later” and “rest now”, which didn’t seem to register with the kids, but was enough for Clementina to step in and help place some boundaries. Now the moment I’m in sight during the day, the kids eagerly ask when we will color again. So, now we have a nearly daily play-date that helps channel all that energy and that acts as reinforcement for my new vocabulary words, too. It started out with all of us drawing separately, but we soon developed the habit of asking each other what to draw. Eventually I noticed that Heidi is quickly frustrated by drawing, so I’ve also started sketching the outlines of something and having her color it in. Freddie wanted in on that as well, although his confidence in drawing is stronger. I suppose kids demand equal treatment the world over.

On nights I get home in time, I also try to help make the tortillas for dinner. I use the word “help” a bit loosely, since the overall quality certainly suffers, and I’m not sure I even speed up the process much. But, it’s a nice way for me to hang out with Clementina, and she gives me tips here and there and points out when I manage to turn out a pretty good one. We laugh at the misshapen ones, and talk through the schedule for the next day so she knows if I’ll be around for meal times. Usually we get in past where my Q’eqchi’ and her Spanish will let us understand one another, and then we just wait for Mariano to get home and help translate. Often I will have tried several means of miming or drawing what I mean, and by the time we get things cleared up I feel I have played some combination of Pictionary and Gestures.  

I’m definitely learning to savor simple joys.

Some afternoons when I come home from errands or work I will pull out the chairs from my room and line them up on the walkway outside my door. The kids and I sit down and watch the world go by. Inevitably one of them will start crawling under the chairs while the rest of us pretend not to know where the crawler is. Simple games have simple grammar, and that works just perfectly for me. Now and then I’ll make a batch of popcorn or share out some apples or mandarins and we all munch away happily exclaiming about how tasty everything is. Even carrying water from my water tank to the pila on laundry days is a chance for the kids to feel helpful and included while we all troop around with buckets of water, shouting to hurry the next person back to the spigot before ours overflows.

So.  

Fill my cup and let it overflow. 

New Digs, Again.

The day I got back to the Cooperative after the 4^th of July festivities, my about-to-be-Host Dad asked me when I was going to move into my new room.  It had been about finished before I left town, but the cement was still letting out a bit of moisture and I figured rent would be easier if I just moved in at the beginning of a new month.  I said, oh, give me two day to get my stuff reorganized and ready.  He said, but I already have men lined up to help tomorrow. 

So, I moved the next day.

It amounted to a parade through town of all of my possessions in the arms or strapped to the backs of four cheerful men.  They were game to take every load by themselves, including my stove and refrigerator.  This was down a steep rocky slope, along a road, and then 100 yards down a narrow path with coffee bushes crowding the way.  The one thing they broke down and shared the load on was my dresser.  All four ended up pairing up and carrying it with each person shouldering a corner, and they even walked the long way around to avoid taking the steep path. 

I have to say, that I have always hated moving (I know, join the club).  This was bar none the easiest moving experience I have had.  It’s enough to make me rethink the do-it-yourself mentality I usually have when approaching big projects.  Admittedly, I didn’t have to pay these men – my host family thanked them with a snack, and they may or not have been given some cash by the cooperative.  But, I’m really thinking that hiring movers may be the way to go to make my life a lot easier next time I have to transplant myself and my belongings.  Stateside, that is.

My new home is a large room built onto the end of my host family’s existing house.  I have my own entrance and two windows.  The ceiling covers ¾ of the room, leaving me a space to put things up in the loft for storage.  I have all my kitchen stuff with me, but am eating all my meals with the host family for the time being.  It’s a little less space than the last place I was, but doesn’t feel overcrowded at all.  The family built me my own latrine, and the cooperative loaned us a black water tank to capture rain water for my use.  We share the pila, but I only do laundry about once a week so we haven’t had much waiting on one another to get access. 

With the windows open.  Note my bright yellow mud boots on the left.  I get great comments on those.  

The door is open... the wall on the right continues until it hits the far end.

The gate is a huge help in keeping out small animals, and small children...
while still letting in a bit of daylight!

My own brand new private latrine.
 It's a curious feeling breaking one in for the first time...
and knowing that if it smells there is no one to blame but myself.

The water tank in the foreground, my bathing stall in the background.
Plus, a sidewalk from my door to the bathing stall!
Apparently they didn't want me getting muddy on my way back from the bath.  I'm so spoiled.

The family's water deposit.  

The older two kids at the door to the kitchen.
You can see part of the firewood stash and some drying laundry off to the left.  

Home Sweet Home. 

Alta Verapaz Family

The first weekend in June, I had to choose my destiny for where to live in my aldea. After visiting the two options available to me, I settled on one and we arranged for them to build a new room on the end of their house where I could live. The Peace Corps fronted the money for the construction, and I will deduct that for my rent until the loan is paid back. That’s not a very common solution, but in the case of my site there are no homes with extra rooms that meet the requirements for the Peace Corps, and the families don’t tend to have enough capital to construct a room on their own.

Once I had settled on my future host family, I began going to their house to eat breakfast and dinner. Cooking often would have been difficult with my belongings scattered across the cooperative, mostly still in boxes. Plus, I saw this as an opportunity to start getting to know the family right away.

                                                           

My new “host father,” Mariano, is a little younger than me. He turned 26 at the end of July, and is a kind, shy man, who does speak Spanish but lacks confidence and uses confusing grammar. Still, he is good natured about it and we make it work, chuckling and giggling when we run out of ways to explain things and get lost in our own conversations.

My “host mother,” Clementina, is 23. She is extremely quiet and speaks no Spanish, but has a sweet smile and a talent for cooking tasty things with a pretty limited range of ingredients. She makes the best tortillas (and nearly the biggest ones) I’ve encountered in Guatemala.

I have three host siblings: Freddie, 6; Heidi, 4; and Gladys, 2. They didn’t have much of a shy period, and moved into play with me pretty quickly. While I was still commuting to eat with them I would become a human drum set before and after meals. What started as my attempts at patty-cake turned into simply banging on me in various places to see what sounds I made. At the time they spoke no Spanish and I spoke no Q’eqchi’, so basic smiling and patting one another was enough to build a friendship.

My favorite moment during June with my host family has to be when Wendy and I goaded Mariano into trying to tortillar (shape the tortillas with his hands). He had been observing Wendy and my mediocre attempts at copying Clementina, and felt free to teasingly criticize our technique. When we realized he’d never done it in his life, we returned the teasing mercilessly until he crossed the gender divide to prove his mettle.

In some ways our triumph in getting him to try it was marred by the fact that he seems to have much more natural talent for it than either of us do.

Freddie got in on the fun, too.

Although living with a host family again after such a long amount of solitude in Sololá inevitably involves adjustment, I was and am pleased as punch that this is the new family I get to live with.

The three kiddos. Their mom is camera shy, so no picture of her for now.

Dia de la Madre

In Guatemala, Mother's Day is officially May 10. In the U.S., I feel like the day is mostly a celebration between each set of mother and child. Younger kids usually do some sort of Mother's Day craft project at school to take home, but generally it's something kept within the family.

Not so, here. Since the holiday is on a specific date, it often does not fall on a Sunday.  In fact, even were it to fall during a weekend, the schools would pick the nearest weekday to have their Dia de la Madre events.

Down in town at the junior high school, classes were suspended all week long. I learned this after attempting to teach one class Monday afternoon and then realizing that none of the other teachers were holding class. Upon talking to the director, I learned that there was just too much bulla (racket) for it to be worth trying to work.

The reason this turned into a week long situation is that in the school building where I help out, there are actually three separate school institutions. Each school wanted to have a separate Mother's Day celebration, so they each signed up for a different day to use the main salón (auditorium, in this case).  Now, that could have knocked out three days, but they also need days off from school to plan the activities.

On Tuesday morning I wandered up to the primary school here in my aldea to check out the festivities, and normal classes were cancelled for the day. For the first few hours the kids were just running around playing while the sound system was set up and the community gathered. By 10 a.m. things really got rolling, as a basketball tournament began between the mothers in town. Between games there was a raffle with prizes that only mothers could win. Throughout it all there was nonstop pontificating coming from the large sound system as the microphone was handed around between various community leaders who spoke in a hybrid of Spanish and K'iche' praising women and motherhood.

Watching the women play, I was impressed with how committed to the game the women were, despite mostly being dressed in their dress shoes and traditional corte, faja, and guipil outfit, which is just not conducive to exercise. The bulk of them clearly had not played before (or at least not since Mother's Day last year), but they ran with enthusiasm and hacked at each other like fouling was their job. I later learned that the winning team of the tournament would win Q200, so maybe that accounts for some of the intensity. Mostly, I just loved seeing the women who are usually so shy and retiring (some would say submissive) out there being aggressive and laughing as they ran around in front of their whole community.

Carnival

Turns out today is Mardi Gras, which is called Carnival here.  Totally snuck up on me.  The town as a whole doesn't do much, but the kids got a party at school.  Forgetting the day, I breakfasted, showered, did some quick laundry, and headed to the health post to see if any of the women in my group were around to buy veggie seeds.  Ela and Elkin came by to collect me, so I could see the party at school.

We went in to the large school courtyard and there appeared to be a strange fusion of Halloween, Holi (the color festival in India), and Easter going on.

Kids were dressed up in costumes everywhere, the girls tended toward sparkles and fairy wings (both purchased and home made), while the boys tended toward footy pajamas with a Spiderman mask.  Never mind that the footy pajamas were generally covered in dolphins or cows jumping over moons.  There was a smattering of animals... dogs, tigers, and such.  Elkin proudly sported a new Sportacus costume from Lazy Town, one of his favorite TV shows.  There were a few clowns running around (again, onesies of varying colors, topped with a classic rainbow wig), and Elkin did NOT like them.  Hendrick started out running around in a full on Batman costume, but tired of that and stripped down to the Ben 10 outfit he was wearing underneath.  Pretty sure that was his pajamas, actually.

There was colored powder and confetti everywhere.  General chaos reigned, as kids, parents, and teachers alike ran about ambushing one another with their colorful ammunition.  At first I only saw them with baggies of confetti and grabbing piles up from the floor.  Soon, I noticed the were also using cascarones (colored eggs shells filled with confetti and then closed with tissue paper).  One girl near me sort of shyly sprinkled some confetti on my head, smiling, but was too timid to throw it with much gusto.  It didn't seem to be a terribly religious celebration, but they certainly went into it with enthusiasm!  Not too different from Fat Tuesdays elsewhere, I suppose.

One teacher had a microphone and was talking over the madness trying to get just the first and second year students out in the middle of the courtyard.  Eventually most of them turned up to give their "presentation" of a dance.  Clearly nothing in particular had been planned because when they turned on the music, the kids all sort of hopped around in a mob.  Each successive grade came out as well, taking their turns.  Those not dancing were too busy attacking one another and eating snacks to pay attention.  

I was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, and wondering whether I could get any ammunition of my own when I saw a flurry of movement to my left and I was hit squarely with an egg.  To my dismay, this was not one of the confetti filled eggs, but a fully raw egg, leaving me with white and yolk dripping down my face, hair, and shoulder, into my pockets and onto my feet. Although I hadn't been the intended target, I definitely got the full brunt of the projectile.  The girl next to me (who I think was meant to be the recipient) was horrified, and the assailant was nowhere to be seen.

So, my festivities were cut short.  I don't do that well with sticky, so I excused myself to wash my face, hair, and clothing for the second time that day.  I had to chuckle as I walked home, with egg seeping through my sweater and onto my t-shirt beneath.  Whoever threw that egg is going to have a good story to tell his buddies!

I didn't have my camera along, so I took some shots of of the patojos (kids) when they got home after I had cleaned up.  Even though Fernando and Elkin are not old enough for school, they were quick to embrace the festivities.  And, why take the costume off once at home?  Play time!!

Elkin is announcing something very important.  No idea what he said.

 

Hendrick didn't want to be in the picture, but he couldn't stand that they were posing "wrong" so came to fix them up.

Much better.  Apparently.

Site Family

In many ways, my new living situation is quite the contrast to my last one.  In Sumpango I lived with single family in a walled compound.  Here, I am living with 10 people crossing three generations in one of four buildings facing the same patio (and one cottage off to the side where I will end up eventually).  We are surrounded by corn fields, but no fence. 

In the house where I live now there are five of us (two boys, their parents, and yours truly).  Hendrick is 7 and Elkin is 2½, both are extremely energetic and predisposed to love me based on their previous Volunteer experiences.  Ela (their mother and my counterpart) is in her early 30s and is always on the run.  She works afternoons during the school year as an administrative assistant of some kind and also volunteers her time to coordinate the women’s group that I’ve been assigned to work with.  Benancio (Ela’s husband) is taking classes in Xela at night working toward his law degree.   

In the house just uphill there are three: Fernando, a cousin to the kids in my house, and his parents Catarina and Oscar.  Oscar is here just two weekends out of the month since he works in the capital. 

The grandparents (Don Juan and Doña Ana) and Aunt Isabel (sister to Benancio) sleep in the house just downhill.  During the day Isabel is at work out of town, Ana is at the uphill house with Cata, and Juan is up at the cottage where he has an office. 

The fourth building sits empty, though it just finished construction.  The electrical system was completed during November, and last weekend we had a massive party (hundreds of invitees… 400 tamales) to break it in.  Expect a post on tamale making down the line.

I will actually live the bulk of my two years about 25 yards away in a cottage that was once where the grandparents lived (and where Juan has his office now).  I’ve been waiting on moving up there to put on a fresh coat of paint (done) and because I’m buying some household items (furniture, kitchen stuff) off another volunteer who wasn’t willing to sell until December.  I managed to get my hands on my furniture yesterday and will be sprucing the place up to move in fully very soon.  It’s essentially going to be a studio apartment for me, with one large room for my use and a latrine and pila outside. 

There are so many personalities I’m only beginning to get a handle on the dynamics, but I’ll surely treat you to some family member profiles as time wears on.  

By any other name…

I have begun the process of meeting the women in the women’s group with whom I’ll do the majority of my work in the next two years.  It turns out about ¼ of the women in town (or at least in my group) are named Catarina, and another third of the town is named Isabel, Manuela, or Ana.  Literally.  I crunched the numbers in Excel (no comments from the peanut gallery on my dorkiness, thank you).  Of the remaining 30 women, only 11 have unique names.

One recent evening Aunt Isabel asked me to go drop gifts off at two graduation parties.  When we went to the first house, Isabel introduced me to the lucky graduate, Isabel.  Upon arriving at the second house I asked the name of the graduate.  “Isabel,” replied Isabel.  At my confused face, she explained, “they’re cousins.”  My expression only deepened.  “Their grandmother is named Isabel.  We call the second one Isabel Maria to keep things clear.”  Indeed.

I guess I better get good at making nick names.

Recipe: Naomi’s Chicken Empanadas

When I returned back to Sumpango after Field Based Training, my 12 year old host sister had volunteered to make dinner based on a recipe she had learned at school earlier that week.  Since my parents were heading out on an errand, I jumped in to help in the assembly line of making them.  Although a labor and time intensive process, we got our reward when the younger brothers nominated us to continue cooking the rest of the meals this week. 

The basic pattern of this meal matches that of a lot of meals I’ve had here; make a dough (usually corn based), make a filling, tortillar (verb meaning to make into tortillas), combine, fry.  Here’s the step by step with a little more detail:

Filling:

Chicken breasts on the bone (boil, then disminusar by picking meat off bones and shredding)

Bell pepper (chopped finely)

Onion (shredded or chopped finely)

Mayonese (just enough to moisten the other ingredients)

Masa or Dough:

White flour (one cup)

Milk (one cup)

Margarine (one stick)

Salt (just a pinch)

Baking Powder (one teaspoon)

Directions:  Combine ingredients for dough and knead.  When it has achieved a good consistency, pull out balls of dough and roll with a rolling pin into a thin tortilla a little bigger than your palm.  Fill the tortilla with a tablespoon full of filling.  Fold over the dough, pinch it shut and seal it with the tines of a fork.  Fry the empanada on both sides in vegetable oil until golden brown.  Serve hot, with tomatillo sauce (optional).

Familia Sumpanguera

My host family is fantastic, and fascinating.  I live in a home with three generations under (more or less) one roof.  We live behind a lamina (corrugated metal) fence lined with barbed wire that opens into a courtyard lined with small trees and usually filled with some combination of free range turkeys and chickens, and laundry in varying states of wetness and dryness.  We also have two cats and a dog that roam the area, and several poultry hutches which house the three dozen or so birds.  The area is partially paved to make a patio-ish area, and the rest is mud most of the time, with a slick film of moss on top making things a bit hairy if I’m moving too quickly or wearing professional wear shoes. 

Also in the courtyard is an out building that houses a kitchen where Abuela (my Sumpango grandmother – my host mother’s 85-year-old mother) spends most of each day.  She has a wood fired stove in there where the tortilla-making magic happens, as well as loads of fire-wood, and who knows what else.  Right now she’s also got one of our cats in a box with her three new kittens (born Sept 3).  She kept that little event under wraps for three days without the rest of us being the wiser.  Tortillas, poultry, and washing dishes seem to be her domain.  She’s also a sweet dear who is very welcoming to all visitors and likes watching Fear Factor with her grandkids. 

My host father (Sumpango padre) is a teacher in the morning and a director of a different school in the afternoons.  He speaks Spanish as well as two Mayan languages (one of which he teaches on Saturdays), and is also on a council at their Evangelical church (where he attends worship three times a week).  His life story is fascinating (including several significant shifts in areas of politics, religion, and career), and he is driven by a strong sense of social justice.  I’ve definitely had to consciously pick my jaw up off the table at lunch a few times as he casually mentions events he’s lived through and people he’s met that seem out of an historical fiction novel about a composite character borrowing from several real people’s lives.

The engine of the household is my Sumpango madre, who seems to be the first awake and the last to bed every night.  She prepares several rounds of each meal of the day from scratch, based on the schedule of her husband, each of her children, and yours truly.  The house is swept, mopped, and disinfected far more frequently than I’ve ever managed to do with all my high tech gadgets in the US and she strategically scrubs through laundry based on the whims of the weather.  In the midst of all this she also has a small business out of the household selling perfumes and cleaning products to clients (a la Avon or Mary Kaye).  To top it off she volunteers with a women’s cooperative in town that tackles development projects, such as replacing open fire cooking with efficient (and far more hygienic) enclosed wood fired stoves.  This woman has a smile for everyone and the phrase I hear her use most often is (translated), “There is a solution for everything.”

The four children are 15, 12, 10, and 6 years old, with a girl second in line.  The eldest travels to a neighboring town for school, with an eye to medical school for university, and my host sister wants to be a veterinarian.  The next apparently wanted to work in construction and his parents quickly worked to channel that aspiration toward engineering (as my madre explained, they don’t have land to leave their children, so they are giving them the gift of education).  I haven’t asked the 6 year old about his ambitions yet, but he seems to enjoy playing Bananagrams and either tossing a balloon endlessly in the air or stomping on it with glee.  The younger two are quick to invite me into games and eager to explain things to me when my never-gonna-play-poker face gives away my utter confusion. 

This is a family who likes to laugh and play.  They are very Evangelical Christian, but they never pray before meals.  They have indigenous roots, but none of the children wear traje (traditional dress).  They are educated and savvy, but also steeped in their cultural notions of priorities, family roles, and wellness that may or may not seem logical from an outsider’s view.  They have welcomed me with open arms, and let me have my space and privacy too.  I learn from them every day without fail, and feel spoiled absolutely rotten that this is where I’ve landed.