Semana Santa

For Holy Week, my aldea got all dressed up. 

The catholic church had an arco, palm fronds, and fruit decorating its whole front.

The interior got rainbow banners.

The arcos had string lights, fruits, and exotic branches off interesting plants.

The archways were put in over the main road all around town.
Why does this one have U.S. flags on top?
Your guess is as good as mine.

Decorations went up around the home front, too.
I woke up one morning to find that Don Juan (my landlord/host grandfather) had spiffed up my water faucet.

In the pueblo nearby they had parade / processions on a daily basis (sometimes twice) in which the floats were large religious images (statues with regalia) carried on the shoulders of 20 or more people, walking along at a slow pace along the route. Every so often other people switch in to help carry. There are also alfombras (carpets) laid on the ground which are actually just artfully places sawdust and flower petals. Unfortunately I don't have any pictures of those, as the rain washed them away before I made it into town this weekend.

On Thursday I had the traditional holy week breakfast with my host family -- sweet bread dipped in honey with hot chocolate to drink and fruit cooked in honey sauce. It was tasty, but a bit over the top on sweets for me that early in the day. Apparently the sweets are to commemorate Jesus' last week in Jerusalem. For Easter I went to the house of a U.S. born nun who has been living here in Guatemala for over 30 years. She invited my site mate and me over for a delicious chicken and vegetable roast/stew/something that really hit the spot. It was a quiet holiday for me, punctuated by the bombas (firecrackers that sound like a cannon) that someone kept lighting off in the center of town.

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.

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)

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.