Incapaz de soltar los sueños
Matemática en el piso azul por la mañana:
Los demás están agachados sobre sus mini-pizarrones con cabezas contando números con la ayuda de los dedos de las manos, de los pies. Pero él,
tiene la mirada fija en un sitio que no veo. Sus brazos se mueven
en formación de un nadador principiante. Lo miro, sonrío, pregunto:
¿Selvin, estas nadando?
Le saco de su mundo acuático y su timidez asustada de estar descubierto, le impide contestar. Pero sonríe levantando sus cejas y los hombros.
Le pregunto: ¿Con quien estabas nadando?
Nadie, me dice.
¿Con tiburones?
No.
¿Con ballenas?
No.
¿Con mojarras?
No.
Se mueve para ponerse a trabajar; entonces lanzo mi última pregunta:
¿Con tortugas?
No.
Silencio.
Con los delfines, me dice antes de copiar la primera suma.
Un dictado en los bancos por la tarde:
Tres alumnos dictan tres frases para los demás.
La primera, la dicta Beverly: Amo a mi hermana.
La segunda, la dicta Saida: El palo es mío.
La tercera, la dicta Selvin: El delfín saltó lejos.
Antes de entregarlo, les pongo a escribir una frase sobre lo que hicieron el fin de semana. Escriben frases sobre cortar leña, jugar con carritos, jugar ticos, hablar con los tíos. Selvin escribe: Este fin de semana soñé con los delfines.
miércoles, 26 de noviembre de 2008
el palacio nacional
unlike the white house with a moat of greeen and piked fencing,
the palacio nacional of guatemala has its own plaza in it's front yard.
one steps off the front steps, crosses the street and there is the plaza
nacional where the pueblo meets and disperses. some stay in huts of black plastic and workers' proclamations. men, women, and children
sell and beg, beg to sell.
musicians sing on and off stages.
actors dress as tall clowns, as pregnant women, aborted women, silenced women.
here the pueblo comes to shout and mime
to the rulers who rule behind the grey walls and sealed blackened windows of this palacio nacional.
but how often do these rulers stand at these windows and peer through curtains and tinted glass to see, and read, and hear, and watch, the pueblo to whom they are responsible? is the president advised not to for security reasons or for fear that he might be touched by the little girl lost in the crowd, the mother with child extending matches to tourists, the sindicated-workers who have lived there longer than he has? is there fear that he might reflect, meditate, and act with conviction instead of blind principles?
the palacio nacional of guatemala has its own plaza in it's front yard.
one steps off the front steps, crosses the street and there is the plaza
nacional where the pueblo meets and disperses. some stay in huts of black plastic and workers' proclamations. men, women, and children
sell and beg, beg to sell.
musicians sing on and off stages.
actors dress as tall clowns, as pregnant women, aborted women, silenced women.
here the pueblo comes to shout and mime
to the rulers who rule behind the grey walls and sealed blackened windows of this palacio nacional.
but how often do these rulers stand at these windows and peer through curtains and tinted glass to see, and read, and hear, and watch, the pueblo to whom they are responsible? is the president advised not to for security reasons or for fear that he might be touched by the little girl lost in the crowd, the mother with child extending matches to tourists, the sindicated-workers who have lived there longer than he has? is there fear that he might reflect, meditate, and act with conviction instead of blind principles?
las cosas simples
dos huevos, frijol, queso, plátano frito, crema:
por la mañana se llama
desayuno
por la tarde
cena.
se puede decir simplemente
buenas
a cualquier hora para saludar.
no importa días, tardes, o noches.
y cualquier mujer es seño.
no hay señoras o señoritas.
no hay razón equivocarse,
si mantenemos la simplicidad
sin borrar la esencia.
-guatemala
por la mañana se llama
desayuno
por la tarde
cena.
se puede decir simplemente
buenas
a cualquier hora para saludar.
no importa días, tardes, o noches.
y cualquier mujer es seño.
no hay señoras o señoritas.
no hay razón equivocarse,
si mantenemos la simplicidad
sin borrar la esencia.
-guatemala
sábado, 4 de octubre de 2008
from the dock i look at the river with the tides going left and right. circling into shadows.
lines of waves. and one little blue boat rowed backwards and lifted high
makes its path to the other bank where huts of stick and palm leaves nestle
behind private yahts and vacation homes. where there is no school; where quiche is spoken;
where nobody in his family knows how to read.
a squinting old man, leathered by the sun rows low in the point while a boy of eight
with backpack still strapped sits in the widened front, which is the back, looks down
and around. this boy came seven months ago without knowing how to hold a pencil,
draw a straight line, with wide eyes saying i want to but i don't know your language,
which isn't mine, but it is what we speak. he still comes when there is no rain or wind,
when the blue boat is not needed to fish or go to town.
he still comes and eavesdrops. he is a silent presence over the shoulders of others.
the one standing out of line next to the child next to me.
i used to chide him for being:
lazy...and why aren't you in your seat working?
nosy...did juan invite you to hear this conversation?
a line cutter...did you ask permission to come to the front of the line?
now i see his curiousity and necessity to hear and hear again. now i wink and
gently point to his seat after explaining to saida how to subtract or alicia why it is gui
and not gi.
he reads with the f, the j, the g, the h, the ch, letters i have not presented to him, but
he knows because his brother is teaching him at the house; this, he tells me.
he has no brother. he lies, his mama tells me.
nevertheless, he just might pass to second grade.
lines of waves. and one little blue boat rowed backwards and lifted high
makes its path to the other bank where huts of stick and palm leaves nestle
behind private yahts and vacation homes. where there is no school; where quiche is spoken;
where nobody in his family knows how to read.
a squinting old man, leathered by the sun rows low in the point while a boy of eight
with backpack still strapped sits in the widened front, which is the back, looks down
and around. this boy came seven months ago without knowing how to hold a pencil,
draw a straight line, with wide eyes saying i want to but i don't know your language,
which isn't mine, but it is what we speak. he still comes when there is no rain or wind,
when the blue boat is not needed to fish or go to town.
he still comes and eavesdrops. he is a silent presence over the shoulders of others.
the one standing out of line next to the child next to me.
i used to chide him for being:
lazy...and why aren't you in your seat working?
nosy...did juan invite you to hear this conversation?
a line cutter...did you ask permission to come to the front of the line?
now i see his curiousity and necessity to hear and hear again. now i wink and
gently point to his seat after explaining to saida how to subtract or alicia why it is gui
and not gi.
he reads with the f, the j, the g, the h, the ch, letters i have not presented to him, but
he knows because his brother is teaching him at the house; this, he tells me.
he has no brother. he lies, his mama tells me.
nevertheless, he just might pass to second grade.
months later: he secured math with an excellente and language with a muy bien. he will graduate and move on.
8 women
seasoning 50 pounds of meat
by candlelight. donated meat
of three kinds.
smell and look and feel and debate
if this slab is pork, this chunk beef,
this sliver goat.
place baskets upon bowls upon vats.
rat proofed.
until tomorrow: el dìa del niño.
30 de septiembre
by candlelight. donated meat
of three kinds.
smell and look and feel and debate
if this slab is pork, this chunk beef,
this sliver goat.
place baskets upon bowls upon vats.
rat proofed.
until tomorrow: el dìa del niño.
30 de septiembre
viernes, 19 de septiembre de 2008
a speck on the horizon
a wide river
a grey dusk
a small man
in thin canoe
rows
to become a big man
at home
a grey dusk
a small man
in thin canoe
rows
to become a big man
at home
no sè
no sé, no vuelvo a oakland, ni a california, ni a los estados. me voy rumbo al sur. en este momento mi corazoncito no se siente con tantas fuerzas, pero eso es mi sueño...quiero seguir viviendo fuera de los estados en un país latina americano, quiero estudiar, quiero trabajar con niños, jovenes, quiero encontrarme en la tierra. este fin de semana estoy en antigua para seguir mis investigaciones sobre argentina o chile, seguir la busqueda de mi voz en el silencio de la lluvia ligera, no como la lluvia del río donde vivo, donde corre por días y te encierres en tus pensamientos que ni atreven a salir de ti. pero aqui en estas montañas, con este frío, espero sentir algo que mi guiara. sé que "se hace camino al andar" pero quiero andar con mi espiritu enfrente y no solamente con mi cuerpo andando en el polvo seco del sol.
recibo correos de ex-alumnos y otros amigos preguntandome por mi regreso y me da tristessa a tener que explicar que estoy creando aun más espacio entre nosotros sin saber a donde voy, sin tener algo seguro menos una sensación que estoy haciendo algo que debí haber hecho hace años. y aunque me siento un poco vieja por estar andando asi, asi es. asi me encuentro.
recibo correos de ex-alumnos y otros amigos preguntandome por mi regreso y me da tristessa a tener que explicar que estoy creando aun más espacio entre nosotros sin saber a donde voy, sin tener algo seguro menos una sensación que estoy haciendo algo que debí haber hecho hace años. y aunque me siento un poco vieja por estar andando asi, asi es. asi me encuentro.
sábado, 5 de julio de 2008
that what makes us stronger...
i'm immortal, esther said with a long stare and a slight smirk as she sat still in the weight of her malaria. i don't claim such heights, but i did walk with longer strides on thursday after a rat scurried over my foot as i peed with a candle next to me. i ran out of the stall with my pants still around my ankles and watched the grey round ball hurry up the wall and across the boards to the other bathrooms, the other rooms. it is not the first rat i have seen, but this one touched me.
en la clinica
in the clinic again cleaning his wound, calling him doctor, naming him as one who must help in his healing. he is nine, in first grade, and he says to me: i am not a doctor.
and i tell him: but you could be. what do you want to be, do?
a pause
him: a man
me: but a man needs to work.
silence as i rub antibiotic cream on his foot.
him: with horses. i want to work with horses. and you no?
me: yes, yes. i would like to work with horses too.
i look at him. we smile. i grab a band-aide.
him: and buy a cow
me: a cow?
another pause
him: yes, my dad is going to buy a cow.
and i tell him: but you could be. what do you want to be, do?
a pause
him: a man
me: but a man needs to work.
silence as i rub antibiotic cream on his foot.
him: with horses. i want to work with horses. and you no?
me: yes, yes. i would like to work with horses too.
i look at him. we smile. i grab a band-aide.
him: and buy a cow
me: a cow?
another pause
him: yes, my dad is going to buy a cow.
thunder in the classroom
the rains have come and the waters rise around the stilted houses. turtles swim between house and kitchen. i see three as i throw my chicken bones to the swamp.
i like the rain at night when i can sit on the porch with candle-light and write while snores and croaks, mating herons and evangelicals are all nulled by the pounding rain, unseen yet there.
during the day, the rain interrupts casual walks to and from classrooms. now we run and arrive as if stepping from the river to a puddled floor where seats are arranged around drips from a corrugated metal ceiling. in what seems like a trash can being pulleted we must talk lips to ears, or yell without being heard. it is inevitable: they must work individually and then pass one by one to read with me. i listen, point to correct and struggle to breath with all this water pushing me down.
i like the rain at night when i can sit on the porch with candle-light and write while snores and croaks, mating herons and evangelicals are all nulled by the pounding rain, unseen yet there.
during the day, the rain interrupts casual walks to and from classrooms. now we run and arrive as if stepping from the river to a puddled floor where seats are arranged around drips from a corrugated metal ceiling. in what seems like a trash can being pulleted we must talk lips to ears, or yell without being heard. it is inevitable: they must work individually and then pass one by one to read with me. i listen, point to correct and struggle to breath with all this water pushing me down.
lunes, 16 de junio de 2008
sábado, 31 de mayo de 2008
another animal story
walking with elder on the right and elio on the left, we turn the sharp corner that heads to our classroom. i look behind to eye those who try to cut the corner. i look sharply, but inside i laugh knowing that i have become my father. i turn back around to see where i am walking and i see that which pushes me back and pulls out of me a low gutteral uuuugggggghhhhhh, not a girlish high piched eeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww. the students come running regardless of sidewalk and norms. they start forming a circle around this central american possum spread dead on its back. i can't decide if she looks electricuted or drowned because i can't keep my eyes off her little one balancing itself on her belly while sucking its last drops of milk. little life upon mother death.
the rain...
the rain has come and it keeps us in.
no children play marbles on clay forest floor.
no running from others toward balls.
no jumping from docks. no swimming in the turning river.
no child goes to work in the farm.
no teacher roams the path to rio frio.
we are all in our houses.
on the teachers' porch. four of us read. one sews.
another arched in the hammock stares with out seeing.
silenced by the rain, we rest.
no children play marbles on clay forest floor.
no running from others toward balls.
no jumping from docks. no swimming in the turning river.
no child goes to work in the farm.
no teacher roams the path to rio frio.
we are all in our houses.
on the teachers' porch. four of us read. one sews.
another arched in the hammock stares with out seeing.
silenced by the rain, we rest.
es lo que hay...
me siento en las gradas de un templo con forma solamente en su base. miro de lejos las siete estelas de 18 conejo, un líder militar. recuerdo haber leído que los esqueletos de gente viviendo en los últimos días de su auge mostraron pruebas de malnutrición, enfermedades infecciosas y una vida más corta. es la misma historia: mucha gente, hay que sembrar en las colinas más arriba y muy inclinadas, deforestación, erosión, inundaciones, hambre.
me pregunto si fue el enfoque militar que los cegaron o fue la falta de experiencia en comprender los señales de una caída ecológica. el hambre y las enfermedades de los que no viven alrededor de la plaza principal, talvez los primeros señalas que algo falla en la infraestructura de una sociedad, no siempre llegan a los de las casas de piedra alrededor de patios. cuando el sufrimiento del desequilibrio llega a los protegidos por una jerarquía de servicios y obligaciones, por el toque de díos, cuando ellos sufren de malnutrición, enfermedades infecciosas y una vida más corta, muchas veces es demasiado tarde.
el aislamiento de los que mantienen el poder de organizar es un pecado, mata. la ambición para vivir de y por los recursos que vienen fuera del retorno de una, crea vehículos, necesidades, distrae. seguimos entre las construcciones caídas y rehechas de una civilización cuya historia yacía bajo de la reclamación de las hierbas, las ceibas, los madrones, los monos aulladores, los tapices, los jaguares. subimos al templo de las inscripciones y encontramos la paz de la vista. busco el cielo por nubes de lluvia y me doy cuenta de que nunca antes había querido escuchar tanto a los vientos del pasado. hay libros que descifren sus susurros y ráfagas. pero ¿quién los lee?
el mapa dice que allí abajo es el cementerio. no me hace falta ir. todo me parece una tumba donde las fantasmas emplumadas pasan preocupadas en traer agua del río, barrer las escalanitas, llevar flores a los altares, esculpir piedra en la sombra. miro y no estoy segura si veo el pasado o el futuro cuando mi amiga interrumpe mis pensamientos diciendo, es lo que hay, es lo que hay.
copàn ruinas, honduras,
may0 2008
me pregunto si fue el enfoque militar que los cegaron o fue la falta de experiencia en comprender los señales de una caída ecológica. el hambre y las enfermedades de los que no viven alrededor de la plaza principal, talvez los primeros señalas que algo falla en la infraestructura de una sociedad, no siempre llegan a los de las casas de piedra alrededor de patios. cuando el sufrimiento del desequilibrio llega a los protegidos por una jerarquía de servicios y obligaciones, por el toque de díos, cuando ellos sufren de malnutrición, enfermedades infecciosas y una vida más corta, muchas veces es demasiado tarde.
el aislamiento de los que mantienen el poder de organizar es un pecado, mata. la ambición para vivir de y por los recursos que vienen fuera del retorno de una, crea vehículos, necesidades, distrae. seguimos entre las construcciones caídas y rehechas de una civilización cuya historia yacía bajo de la reclamación de las hierbas, las ceibas, los madrones, los monos aulladores, los tapices, los jaguares. subimos al templo de las inscripciones y encontramos la paz de la vista. busco el cielo por nubes de lluvia y me doy cuenta de que nunca antes había querido escuchar tanto a los vientos del pasado. hay libros que descifren sus susurros y ráfagas. pero ¿quién los lee?
el mapa dice que allí abajo es el cementerio. no me hace falta ir. todo me parece una tumba donde las fantasmas emplumadas pasan preocupadas en traer agua del río, barrer las escalanitas, llevar flores a los altares, esculpir piedra en la sombra. miro y no estoy segura si veo el pasado o el futuro cuando mi amiga interrumpe mis pensamientos diciendo, es lo que hay, es lo que hay.
copàn ruinas, honduras,
may0 2008
un hilo marròn
el personaje principal y su paisano hablan de su tierra vieja, remota, pero no olvidada. oigo el tono suave de medio azul tintado con una tristeza amarilla que es la nostalgia. me pregunto si sería yo posible hablar así un día de mi tierra vieja pero no tan remota. llegaré más lejos de aquí y ¿las cuerdas entre yo y esa tierra se pondría más tensos? esas cuerdas... ¿imaginarios? cuerdas, no tengo. a lo mejor hilo marrón enterrado en el barro rojo, el río seco, al lado de los pirámides, la basílica, bajo el mango, el arbusto de café. un hilo sumergido hasta un río dulce que a veces pone salado con camarones. si supiera donde me queda amarrado...tal vez a mi dedo grande de pie izquierdo, a mi cadera como un lazo, a mi cabezo como un pañuelo de indio, lo jalarìa para ver si marean las aguas, si tiemblan las montañas, olas terrestiales, vibraciones arenosas…para ver el enlace que pretenden otros, y que ignoro en mi.
sábado, 26 de abril de 2008
waiting, next to the pila
yesterday i stood in line waiting to wash my hands or brush my teeth or wash my dishes. whatever it was, i was waiting, next to the pila where we wash our clothes or clean fish, next to our shower where i always scrape my shin stepping out, next to our toilet stand where every third flush something breaks and we must take water from the pila to lower the water in the bowl. i was there, waiting for barbara to finish what she was doing, there below the criss cross of clothes line with wet and semi-wet clothes blocking vision, i looked up and out through the netting to the forest, the sun, a bird.
this will not always be. yet i am here.
this will not always be. yet i am here.
still waters, candle light and cysts
i begin my day on the dock breathing with the still
waters and low clouds. i end my day transforming
a pair of pants to a skirt. i sew by candle light, as i
learn about the cysts in which amaebas wrap their
eggs, tough enough to not absorb the medicine i
take every 12 hours. my third treatment in eight
months.
waters and low clouds. i end my day transforming
a pair of pants to a skirt. i sew by candle light, as i
learn about the cysts in which amaebas wrap their
eggs, tough enough to not absorb the medicine i
take every 12 hours. my third treatment in eight
months.
domingo, 20 de abril de 2008
without witness
"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"
the lancha veered looking for calmer waters, but the wind didn't rest and the white waves didn't soften. we were teachers and students returning to family and friends on a friday afternoon, when we saw her. she was probably in her late 40's or early 50's standing tall at the back guiding her low laying lancha. wood palets tied with a white cord weighed it down. hey don tocho! they let her drive the boat. why don't you guys teach me to drive like her? screamed paloma to the clown bellied lanchero through the motor and wind. we watched her back head down river as we continued up.
-you know you can stay here tonight, her friend reminded her. the river is choppy; you have a heavy load, and it is getting late. why don't you stay?
-i want to get home. i've been out all day purchasing the wood. i want to sleep in my own bed tonight, see my dogs, check up on mono. mono was the howling monkey she had discovered in the indigenous town behind her home. seeing it tied up in a cage, she offered a fare price and took it home to add to her collection of rescued animals. thanks for the offer, but it isn't that bad. if i leave know i should be home for dinner with chuck.
-be careful
-i will
with a kiss on the cheek and a hug they parted. the friend stayed on the dock watching the boat pull away and head toward the golfete. they waved one last time and then, the woman never looked back.
by 7:30 most teachers and students were eating at home in their different towns, but not all. we, the foriegn teachers, didn't have to travel far to find ourselves scattered on the cushions of the sundog cafe owned by other foreigners. by 7:30 we were on our second beer when the radio was turned up and we heard, ...anyone seen my wife? she should have arrived by now... the voice continued to describe the long lancha heavy with wood.
by 9:00 the owners of the cafe and the other sailors were on their cell phones sending out the alert to those who may not be near a radio.
no one really knows what happened. nobody witnessed the fall. the lancha was found half sunk with her body at river's bottom. she was a good swimmer. theories blame the water and wind that caused wood to fly to head.
arriving at his cafe the next day, the owner had to walk through a navy barricade that kept people away from the dock where her bloated body lay face up. now on land, no one could touch her or move her until the officials from puerto barrios came. for two hours her body cooked in the carribean sun and there was nothing her husband could do in this land that was never his.
the lancha veered looking for calmer waters, but the wind didn't rest and the white waves didn't soften. we were teachers and students returning to family and friends on a friday afternoon, when we saw her. she was probably in her late 40's or early 50's standing tall at the back guiding her low laying lancha. wood palets tied with a white cord weighed it down. hey don tocho! they let her drive the boat. why don't you guys teach me to drive like her? screamed paloma to the clown bellied lanchero through the motor and wind. we watched her back head down river as we continued up.
-you know you can stay here tonight, her friend reminded her. the river is choppy; you have a heavy load, and it is getting late. why don't you stay?
-i want to get home. i've been out all day purchasing the wood. i want to sleep in my own bed tonight, see my dogs, check up on mono. mono was the howling monkey she had discovered in the indigenous town behind her home. seeing it tied up in a cage, she offered a fare price and took it home to add to her collection of rescued animals. thanks for the offer, but it isn't that bad. if i leave know i should be home for dinner with chuck.
-be careful
-i will
with a kiss on the cheek and a hug they parted. the friend stayed on the dock watching the boat pull away and head toward the golfete. they waved one last time and then, the woman never looked back.
by 7:30 most teachers and students were eating at home in their different towns, but not all. we, the foriegn teachers, didn't have to travel far to find ourselves scattered on the cushions of the sundog cafe owned by other foreigners. by 7:30 we were on our second beer when the radio was turned up and we heard, ...anyone seen my wife? she should have arrived by now... the voice continued to describe the long lancha heavy with wood.
by 9:00 the owners of the cafe and the other sailors were on their cell phones sending out the alert to those who may not be near a radio.
no one really knows what happened. nobody witnessed the fall. the lancha was found half sunk with her body at river's bottom. she was a good swimmer. theories blame the water and wind that caused wood to fly to head.
arriving at his cafe the next day, the owner had to walk through a navy barricade that kept people away from the dock where her bloated body lay face up. now on land, no one could touch her or move her until the officials from puerto barrios came. for two hours her body cooked in the carribean sun and there was nothing her husband could do in this land that was never his.
sábado, 19 de abril de 2008
today...
...the clothes line fell; the men were changing lamina roofing when one slipped and came sliding down right into the thin green twine hung between green column and brown tree. heidi's white shirt sunk in the mud, her black shorts stuck under an oxidized metal sheet. i had more luck. all my nine items hung proudly at 7:10 am fell dry and to the right of the slop.
...i had to remind myself to breath again as elvia decoded words with d: nido, moda, dama and then sentences: me duele mi dedo; el mono anda de moda. she doesn't need work with silable cards, she just needs practice, needs someone to read with her daily.
...when i arrived to pick up my students from the library, i found them spread on the floor, eyes closed. they had all become sleeping beauties and needed my kiss to wake them and send them off to snack time. ony one escaped me: elder.
i am a collection of these moments and more.
...i had to remind myself to breath again as elvia decoded words with d: nido, moda, dama and then sentences: me duele mi dedo; el mono anda de moda. she doesn't need work with silable cards, she just needs practice, needs someone to read with her daily.
...when i arrived to pick up my students from the library, i found them spread on the floor, eyes closed. they had all become sleeping beauties and needed my kiss to wake them and send them off to snack time. ony one escaped me: elder.
i am a collection of these moments and more.
miércoles, 19 de marzo de 2008
at play
tall trees filter the afternoon sun warming some and shadowing others. we sit in a circle with the multicolored park in front, the garden to the right and the fish pond behind. a little bit farther down, we would be on pancho's grave, dug a week ago for the old horse who fell one day and couldn't get back up.
a la zaptilla por de atras
tris tras
ni la ves ni la veràs
tris tras
that is what we sing as one student encircles us with shoe in hand ready to leave it behind another who will then run trying to catch the first. then we sing:
raton que pìa al gato
raton que te va a pìar
si no te pìa esta noche
mañana te piarà
the older students, in oversized blue denim shirts weave through the swings and around us. they carry old rice bags over their shoulders filled with chicken dung. the muddy substance trickles out of the pourous bags as they scurry from chicken coup to garden and back again to refill. some stop to watch the little ones light with song in the chase of children. some sing along.
blanca, tall and thin, almost a woman with a timid elegance stands to run behind elio. the yellow rays softly illuminate her smile and her care to stand with a straight skirt. i see her framed in innocence, not that of a child to be protected, but that of a young woman who has been protected too much. like the others, her eyes look out wondering, yet they look up and then down. she smiles, then quickly covers it with her hand.
even now as she runs around the circle she bends low at the shoulders. maybe she runs that way; maybe she is trying to not seem so big amongst the first graders. she is, older then most of the students in blue. she has come to us only this year and at any moment i sense her father might call her home to marry.
blanca, despite her longer legs doesn't reach elio before he slides safely into her position in the circle. it is her turn to walk and choose some one. she encircles us twice fidgiting with the shoe in hand. she hides her giggle and sets the shoe behind edwin, the little boy who in class nudges her arm, looks at her paper, takes her eraser, pulls her hair. she chooses him to chase her, and we sing:
raton que pìa al gato
raton que te va a pìar
si no te pìa esta noche
mañana te piarà
a la zaptilla por de atras
tris tras
ni la ves ni la veràs
tris tras
that is what we sing as one student encircles us with shoe in hand ready to leave it behind another who will then run trying to catch the first. then we sing:
raton que pìa al gato
raton que te va a pìar
si no te pìa esta noche
mañana te piarà
the older students, in oversized blue denim shirts weave through the swings and around us. they carry old rice bags over their shoulders filled with chicken dung. the muddy substance trickles out of the pourous bags as they scurry from chicken coup to garden and back again to refill. some stop to watch the little ones light with song in the chase of children. some sing along.
blanca, tall and thin, almost a woman with a timid elegance stands to run behind elio. the yellow rays softly illuminate her smile and her care to stand with a straight skirt. i see her framed in innocence, not that of a child to be protected, but that of a young woman who has been protected too much. like the others, her eyes look out wondering, yet they look up and then down. she smiles, then quickly covers it with her hand.
even now as she runs around the circle she bends low at the shoulders. maybe she runs that way; maybe she is trying to not seem so big amongst the first graders. she is, older then most of the students in blue. she has come to us only this year and at any moment i sense her father might call her home to marry.
blanca, despite her longer legs doesn't reach elio before he slides safely into her position in the circle. it is her turn to walk and choose some one. she encircles us twice fidgiting with the shoe in hand. she hides her giggle and sets the shoe behind edwin, the little boy who in class nudges her arm, looks at her paper, takes her eraser, pulls her hair. she chooses him to chase her, and we sing:
raton que pìa al gato
raton que te va a pìar
si no te pìa esta noche
mañana te piarà
sábado, 8 de marzo de 2008
what falls
much wind, still no rain. what falls
is a scorpion from the roof of my classroom. El Pato was up there
sweeping off the "trash" or what we would call
leaves, when the long black creature
with a curled up tail fell
in middle of the chairs. a little to the left
or a little to the the right
it would have fallen on top
of a child. Edwin
quickly had it beneath his shoe and i
quickly had to take over: a couple of slaps
a sweep out the door
back to the letter "S".
is a scorpion from the roof of my classroom. El Pato was up there
sweeping off the "trash" or what we would call
leaves, when the long black creature
with a curled up tail fell
in middle of the chairs. a little to the left
or a little to the the right
it would have fallen on top
of a child. Edwin
quickly had it beneath his shoe and i
quickly had to take over: a couple of slaps
a sweep out the door
back to the letter "S".
the breakfast table
Yesterday at breakfast around the long blue table on the porch, we shared our individual nights to understand the walls we share. Oh, that was you Esther clapping in the middle of the night? asked Paloma.
Yes, because of the rat. I woke up hearing the rat gnawing at my bed post. And if he continued the bed would have fallen and he would have gnawed at me. Esther and I share a room, and I remember vaguely waking up at some point and asking how she knew it was a rat. Apparently I advised her to bang on the bed or the wall which I did as well, then sleep, deep sleep. Until the alarm that sounded at 4:45 on the other side of the wall. Luna thought it was Barbara's alarm, but Barbara couldn’t find her alarm because it wasn’t hers it was Luna’s that had shaken the house in her innocent attempt to wake up early to write the letter to the parents advising them of the doctor and dentist and dermatologist that will be coming next week. 13 letters written by hand. But after the alarm I couldn’t sleep. The orientadora of the little girls was shouting their names and their corresponding daily chores and the reggaeton was already blaring in the darkness before the sun.
Well, I killed the rat, Flori commented as she spooned up her granola and apple.
How big was it? How did you kill it?
A small one. About this big. It went behind the current and I grabbed it and squeezed.
Eeewww....ooohhh, the table erupted and the children took a break form their chores of sweeping the jungle floor to observe the foreign teachers roar with disgust and disbelief as we imagined this short stout woman squeeze life between her fingers.
sábado, 1 de marzo de 2008
in a country where...
in a country where water is coca-cola and refresco is water, where leaves are called trash, i shouldn't be surprised.
esta semana muriò pancho el caballo solitario, solitario desde el huracan de un año del pasado. se muriò ahogado por el culo, segun los televidentes del animal planet. desde la mañana habìa estado volcando por el suelo, con dolores de estomago y por la tarde se habìa caido en el largito de peces. en el rectangulo que cavaron, no cabìa. hay fotos de un hombre brincando en el hoyo rectàngular encima del caballo muerto, haciendole caber. asi lo hacen, me decia boris, un niño de quinto, asi lo hacian tambien por rio frio cuando unos borrachos habìan matado a un caballo por haberlo amarrado demasiado apretado. hay que quebrar las piernas para que quepa. ¿y no pueden hacer el hoyo màs grande?
y los medicos americanos venieron en lunes y martes. y la enfermera de guate cuidad llegò para analyzar la caca en botes de gerber que no se podìa tapar despues de esterilizarlos en agua herviendo. lo normal: amaebas, lombrices, gripe, infecciones de orina, hiv. y los que no habìan cagado en botes fueron avisado a las 10 de la mañana en jueves que tenìan que cargar antes de las 12. por suerte juan pudo, saida cagò un lombric, ronaldo corriò a su casa por su bote, y los demàs....a la clinica para doblarse boca abajo sobre mis piernas para...pues una manguita por el culo...no pasa nada no pasa nada. claro, los dos muchachos màs machos, volvieron ser los màs lloronas.
y en jueves durante la hora del almeurzo sentados en la mesa de los maestros vimos llegar y pasar por la muelle principal los ricos, los evangelicos, y los de la coca-cola. los ricos en un yate sin camisas hicieron un tour como si fueron dueños del sitio. los evangelicos juntaron a los niños en el comedor y oraron por ellos, luego vinieron a la clasa de los maestros para orar por nosotros, pues ellos, porque nosotras huimos. y los de la coca-cola, lo màs normal, vienen a trabajar cambiando botellas vacìas por botellas llenas de agua negra.
y por viernes, no el viernes pasado cuando llegò la chica de brisas ya partiendo en la lancha, pero este viernes de ayer, cuando cuatro trabajadores llegaron borrachos en lancha a la hora de salida de la escuela. uno, don tocho, algunos lo llaman papa, vomitando, desmayando. otro vomitando y miando encima de simismo. y por la noche el papa con una barriga de pelota, fue encontrado abajo de la oficina a las orillas del rio, desnudo. y jesus, el taxista de madrid, gritando a los niños, no hay nada que ver, nada que ver, al cuarto , a dormir.
y si has olvidado, el sitio es un orfanato y cada sito un pueblo y cada persona un mundo.
hay momentos en casa guatemala cuando pienso que nosotros como seres humanos, estamos jodidos. y otros momentos cuando todo flue milagrosamente y pienso que solamente tiene que tener fe.
todavìa no entiendo.
esta semana muriò pancho el caballo solitario, solitario desde el huracan de un año del pasado. se muriò ahogado por el culo, segun los televidentes del animal planet. desde la mañana habìa estado volcando por el suelo, con dolores de estomago y por la tarde se habìa caido en el largito de peces. en el rectangulo que cavaron, no cabìa. hay fotos de un hombre brincando en el hoyo rectàngular encima del caballo muerto, haciendole caber. asi lo hacen, me decia boris, un niño de quinto, asi lo hacian tambien por rio frio cuando unos borrachos habìan matado a un caballo por haberlo amarrado demasiado apretado. hay que quebrar las piernas para que quepa. ¿y no pueden hacer el hoyo màs grande?
y los medicos americanos venieron en lunes y martes. y la enfermera de guate cuidad llegò para analyzar la caca en botes de gerber que no se podìa tapar despues de esterilizarlos en agua herviendo. lo normal: amaebas, lombrices, gripe, infecciones de orina, hiv. y los que no habìan cagado en botes fueron avisado a las 10 de la mañana en jueves que tenìan que cargar antes de las 12. por suerte juan pudo, saida cagò un lombric, ronaldo corriò a su casa por su bote, y los demàs....a la clinica para doblarse boca abajo sobre mis piernas para...pues una manguita por el culo...no pasa nada no pasa nada. claro, los dos muchachos màs machos, volvieron ser los màs lloronas.
y en jueves durante la hora del almeurzo sentados en la mesa de los maestros vimos llegar y pasar por la muelle principal los ricos, los evangelicos, y los de la coca-cola. los ricos en un yate sin camisas hicieron un tour como si fueron dueños del sitio. los evangelicos juntaron a los niños en el comedor y oraron por ellos, luego vinieron a la clasa de los maestros para orar por nosotros, pues ellos, porque nosotras huimos. y los de la coca-cola, lo màs normal, vienen a trabajar cambiando botellas vacìas por botellas llenas de agua negra.
y por viernes, no el viernes pasado cuando llegò la chica de brisas ya partiendo en la lancha, pero este viernes de ayer, cuando cuatro trabajadores llegaron borrachos en lancha a la hora de salida de la escuela. uno, don tocho, algunos lo llaman papa, vomitando, desmayando. otro vomitando y miando encima de simismo. y por la noche el papa con una barriga de pelota, fue encontrado abajo de la oficina a las orillas del rio, desnudo. y jesus, el taxista de madrid, gritando a los niños, no hay nada que ver, nada que ver, al cuarto , a dormir.
y si has olvidado, el sitio es un orfanato y cada sito un pueblo y cada persona un mundo.
hay momentos en casa guatemala cuando pienso que nosotros como seres humanos, estamos jodidos. y otros momentos cuando todo flue milagrosamente y pienso que solamente tiene que tener fe.
todavìa no entiendo.
images that hang in my mind
She licks her fingers as she makes my tostadas de frijol, Q1 each. I don't mind. It seems natural, as if I were in her kitchen watching her prepare us both a snack with her cat scurrying between her feet and then mine.
Yesterday, I watched a blond haired Montana boy climb off the bar stool and into his speed boat making his way down river to his home of three years: a marina inhabited be retired american sailors. I don't know him except that he is a friend of a friend and he speaks little Spanish. He will always remain distant. I have no desire to share a conversation, but as I eyed his braided blond hair, I did wonder about his internal changes. He too has been molded and de-molded by this place.
i try to watch the sunset up river when possible. i walk out to the dock by the clinic and lay down. i prefer to watch it on my side. six months ago, the scene was foriegn. i recognized a peace in the scenery, a beauty: out there. however, i couldn't internalize it. my wish was, is to absorb that scenery, to not have the stillness of the river or the warmth of the colors be untouchable like a painting that hangs on the wall of a museum. drop by drop, the hues and soft curves of the trees and clouds are entering me. in ways i don't yet understand, i am becoming less an observer and more a member, can i say participant? in the play of light and shadows, imperfect circles and rectangles. julio cortàzar writes of a mandala hanging in his insomnia, an image he focuses on while the rest of consiousness hangs off the edges of the table, the bed, the cliff that raises to create that plateu of clarity. maybe the river at sunset is my mandala.
Yesterday, I watched a blond haired Montana boy climb off the bar stool and into his speed boat making his way down river to his home of three years: a marina inhabited be retired american sailors. I don't know him except that he is a friend of a friend and he speaks little Spanish. He will always remain distant. I have no desire to share a conversation, but as I eyed his braided blond hair, I did wonder about his internal changes. He too has been molded and de-molded by this place.
i try to watch the sunset up river when possible. i walk out to the dock by the clinic and lay down. i prefer to watch it on my side. six months ago, the scene was foriegn. i recognized a peace in the scenery, a beauty: out there. however, i couldn't internalize it. my wish was, is to absorb that scenery, to not have the stillness of the river or the warmth of the colors be untouchable like a painting that hangs on the wall of a museum. drop by drop, the hues and soft curves of the trees and clouds are entering me. in ways i don't yet understand, i am becoming less an observer and more a member, can i say participant? in the play of light and shadows, imperfect circles and rectangles. julio cortàzar writes of a mandala hanging in his insomnia, an image he focuses on while the rest of consiousness hangs off the edges of the table, the bed, the cliff that raises to create that plateu of clarity. maybe the river at sunset is my mandala.
viernes, 29 de febrero de 2008
the return
the father, a thin man with hunched shoulders and a sincere smile, walked away. his four children watched in silence. they had already said their goodbyes, nothing was left.
maria, the oldest, followed him with her eyes and then her feet. then her voice, you should be ashamed to leave your children like this.
he stopped, turned and stayed for a moment observing them. he lifted his hand in a farewell and continued his slow steps to the bus stop. it wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.
maria elena doesn't forgive.
maria, the oldest, followed him with her eyes and then her feet. then her voice, you should be ashamed to leave your children like this.
he stopped, turned and stayed for a moment observing them. he lifted his hand in a farewell and continued his slow steps to the bus stop. it wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.
maria elena doesn't forgive.
sitting on benches waiting for the boat, they are skinnier than when they left two months ago. they argue between themselves about who wanted to return. maria acuses jose, you wanted to return to see diana. red, and smiling, he doesn't know how to contradict her. so he joins the laughter. and luis to see ana. luis knows how to feign and begins to insult the absent girl in front of the others whose laughter is fed by his lies. and lucia, victor. jose almost falls from his seat imaging the boy whose broken arm was never mended correctly and hangs perpetually at an almost perfect ninety-degree-angle. the air is lighter, but nobody, nobody, dares to mention the boyfriend maria elena has left behind.
beneath the chuckles and accusations, jose says to maria, its that i couldn't handle the hunger.
january 2008
casa guatemala
rio dulce
sábado, 2 de febrero de 2008
logic seems secondary
...busca sus privados puntos y pautas de referencias y aqui y allà va comprobando la validiz o invalidez de sus añoranzas, como una forma rudimentaria de verificar hasta dònde y desde cuàndo su pais personal ha cambiado y comprobar que tampoco èl es el mismo doce años atràs. -mario benedetti
kurosawa made a movie based on dosteovsky's the idiot and i can't help but feel like this silly anti-hero, like the idiot whose innocence knows only good and makes him the pawn of others. he is the illogical bounty of goodness who lacks the shrewdness to maneuver among men. yet he is reedeemed when his pure intentions frustrate the plans of the keen and when the beautiful, jaded woman falls in love with him. my personal movie has no such end, and i admit i haven't read dosteovsky's text, not yet. but considering that most marxists have never read marx and many christians their bible, i am absolved.
two weeks have passed and my pay still has not been confirmed. seño sylvia, the on-site director, radiates positivity, yet not certainty. however, i am not alone. paloma sits in waiting with me.
why do i stay?
1) i do not spend money monday to friday.
2) despite these being two of the hardest weeks of my life, i feel that this is where i should be. in matters such as these, logic seems secondary.
3) if the pay doesn't come through i can use the $700 coming from my cashed pension from UCLA.
4) I have my list of students, the alphabet is up, the reading corner is cozy, and i am living a dream....
...a dream and all its jaded confrontations with reality. to live a dream is to suck from the bottom of the murky waters to flower above like the lotus i wear on my finger. nostalgia is what one experiences on the other side of the puddle. there, while imagining, one reaches artistic, religious transcendence. but returning to the country of exile, arriving to the land of illusion, one lives not in the idea, but in what is.
kurosawa made a movie based on dosteovsky's the idiot and i can't help but feel like this silly anti-hero, like the idiot whose innocence knows only good and makes him the pawn of others. he is the illogical bounty of goodness who lacks the shrewdness to maneuver among men. yet he is reedeemed when his pure intentions frustrate the plans of the keen and when the beautiful, jaded woman falls in love with him. my personal movie has no such end, and i admit i haven't read dosteovsky's text, not yet. but considering that most marxists have never read marx and many christians their bible, i am absolved.
two weeks have passed and my pay still has not been confirmed. seño sylvia, the on-site director, radiates positivity, yet not certainty. however, i am not alone. paloma sits in waiting with me.
why do i stay?
1) i do not spend money monday to friday.
2) despite these being two of the hardest weeks of my life, i feel that this is where i should be. in matters such as these, logic seems secondary.
3) if the pay doesn't come through i can use the $700 coming from my cashed pension from UCLA.
4) I have my list of students, the alphabet is up, the reading corner is cozy, and i am living a dream....
...a dream and all its jaded confrontations with reality. to live a dream is to suck from the bottom of the murky waters to flower above like the lotus i wear on my finger. nostalgia is what one experiences on the other side of the puddle. there, while imagining, one reaches artistic, religious transcendence. but returning to the country of exile, arriving to the land of illusion, one lives not in the idea, but in what is.
con la escritura como mi testigo, escribo
days pass and a blank mind sits silently behind movement. then, one day the lifting of an arm triggers the thought: i am solitary even in a group. i cut construction paper and wonder: what is it that makes patricia and paloma content? how can one choose happiness if it is contrary to one's character? i pick up a piece of paper from the ground and contemplate: what do i emote that leads some to consider my inverted tendencies as rejection? i am in a room with other teachers but i have built up my island. i do not want to judge and grow differences. so i roam inwards and create distance. my personality settles in the swamp. this makes it hard to respond, even harder to hear well. i fear that i am making them question their decision to invite me to teach in their language.
domingo, 27 de enero de 2008
doubt distorts
i cried trying to hold it in causing that ridiculous, successive hiccup-suction-cup breathing. i was seven years old again. i wanted to crawl into a private part of the world and release, but i live communally and other teachers were scurrying to gather their belongings to leave on the lancha (boat) that i too was to board, weekend bound. as i packed, my new roommate had asked if i was ok, said i had looked sad all day. questions poking a hole in a dyke that soon couldn't be mended. i missed the lancha.
under the protection of my mosquito net, i cradled myself. for the first time i appreciated my new room, a cave compared to my previous room with two walls of netting. for the first time, i found comfort in not being exposed. there, my leaking of sadness became a surrendering of a dream. it was possible that i wouldn't be paid for my new position as a teacher. i would have to find work else where.
while i was gone, on an extended break, the director of the entire project fired three of the guatemalan teachers because she wants as many volunteers as possible. in addition, no longer will a boat be leaving every day to pick up kids from surrounding villages. all in the name of decreasing expenses. the director of the school and the on-sight director of the project can not confirm the pay i was offered in november. no body has any real control except seño angie, the director of the entire project who, we all agree, is crazy. as i wait for her response which has been delayed by her unexpected trip to honduras, the others tell me relax. they comfort me reminding me that i am cheap labor, cheaper than a guatemalan teacher. i don't mind being on the other side of the immigration issue; i expect this as a foreigner desiring pay in another country. what weakens me are angie's porous words. i lose faith in myself. i see the dissolving of a dream as a reflection of my feeble heart. in the darkness i blame myself.
it took a good cry to be able to lift myself out of bed and walk outside.
under the protection of my mosquito net, i cradled myself. for the first time i appreciated my new room, a cave compared to my previous room with two walls of netting. for the first time, i found comfort in not being exposed. there, my leaking of sadness became a surrendering of a dream. it was possible that i wouldn't be paid for my new position as a teacher. i would have to find work else where.
while i was gone, on an extended break, the director of the entire project fired three of the guatemalan teachers because she wants as many volunteers as possible. in addition, no longer will a boat be leaving every day to pick up kids from surrounding villages. all in the name of decreasing expenses. the director of the school and the on-sight director of the project can not confirm the pay i was offered in november. no body has any real control except seño angie, the director of the entire project who, we all agree, is crazy. as i wait for her response which has been delayed by her unexpected trip to honduras, the others tell me relax. they comfort me reminding me that i am cheap labor, cheaper than a guatemalan teacher. i don't mind being on the other side of the immigration issue; i expect this as a foreigner desiring pay in another country. what weakens me are angie's porous words. i lose faith in myself. i see the dissolving of a dream as a reflection of my feeble heart. in the darkness i blame myself.
it took a good cry to be able to lift myself out of bed and walk outside.
sábado, 26 de enero de 2008
velorio
in a low voice she asked, "why don't you come and start the compañerismo?" that last word snagged me. i had never heard that word it before. never knew that compañero (companion), could be found in the form of an "ism". the question rang like an invitation to a secret society or a subversive movement.
i had my reasons for not going and i had wanted to explain them to her since she had looked at me with those eyes that stay in their target, long enough to shoot their message, short enough to feign a wandering glance. for me, the velorio was an intimate event for family and friends, and i, being the new comer, didn't yet feel part of the inner circle. i wouldn’t be comfortable spending the night in a room with strangers surrounding the body of walter's dead father.
what i didn't understand was the naturalness of a velorio which shouldn't have surprised me in a land where the dead are celebrated with altars and picnics in cemeteries. the night of the velorio, the family vela or remains awake with the body while the spirit passes to the other world. friends come to accompany the family to help them stay awake with coffee, bread, and conversation. there are jokes and laughter and surprise meetings of old friends. in this, one witnesses compañerismo. it is more than the act of accompanying; it is also the spirit that unifies those who not only work together, but also live together.
a spirit that in moments of special gatherings appears attractive, but suffocating if it is the word to describe the communal movement of the teachers of casa guatemala. "it is another mafia," i explained to my argentinean friend. "they don't go to the dining hall until seño lili, the director of the school, says !vamos!" it might be that they are freshly united after a two month vacation and are eager to re-bond as a group, but this also might be what maria talked about. last year, maria was the arts and crafts teacher for the girls. maria, didn't finish the school year. she couldn't endure the asphyxia of the herd. or maybe it was because she arrived later in the school year and was never completely accepted. maybe it was because she became pregnant by a spanish volunteer. or maybe it was because she spent more evenings at the volunteers' house than the teachers' house. maybe it was because she didn't awake at five a.m. to drink hot chocolate with the others to commemorate the day of the teacher.
if compañerismo is the liberty inside a circle and the judgment outside, if it is movement in masse then my suspicion has found firm ground. however, if there is more to the image than what my cultural lense can see, i hope that the next ten months will create a broader lense.
i had my reasons for not going and i had wanted to explain them to her since she had looked at me with those eyes that stay in their target, long enough to shoot their message, short enough to feign a wandering glance. for me, the velorio was an intimate event for family and friends, and i, being the new comer, didn't yet feel part of the inner circle. i wouldn’t be comfortable spending the night in a room with strangers surrounding the body of walter's dead father.
what i didn't understand was the naturalness of a velorio which shouldn't have surprised me in a land where the dead are celebrated with altars and picnics in cemeteries. the night of the velorio, the family vela or remains awake with the body while the spirit passes to the other world. friends come to accompany the family to help them stay awake with coffee, bread, and conversation. there are jokes and laughter and surprise meetings of old friends. in this, one witnesses compañerismo. it is more than the act of accompanying; it is also the spirit that unifies those who not only work together, but also live together.
a spirit that in moments of special gatherings appears attractive, but suffocating if it is the word to describe the communal movement of the teachers of casa guatemala. "it is another mafia," i explained to my argentinean friend. "they don't go to the dining hall until seño lili, the director of the school, says !vamos!" it might be that they are freshly united after a two month vacation and are eager to re-bond as a group, but this also might be what maria talked about. last year, maria was the arts and crafts teacher for the girls. maria, didn't finish the school year. she couldn't endure the asphyxia of the herd. or maybe it was because she arrived later in the school year and was never completely accepted. maybe it was because she became pregnant by a spanish volunteer. or maybe it was because she spent more evenings at the volunteers' house than the teachers' house. maybe it was because she didn't awake at five a.m. to drink hot chocolate with the others to commemorate the day of the teacher.
if compañerismo is the liberty inside a circle and the judgment outside, if it is movement in masse then my suspicion has found firm ground. however, if there is more to the image than what my cultural lense can see, i hope that the next ten months will create a broader lense.
sábado, 19 de enero de 2008
language school
there is a school in a country where the teachers teach the language of that country. students arrive from foreign lands and the first day they watch a video about the massacres of the country. then the director talks to them about the dictators and the military regimes and invasions and subversive movements. students nod and yawn. they understand little. the director keeps talking passionately.
the teachers teach time: past, future, and past...mostly the past. all times can be progressive and perfect. but the teachers like to share the exceptions of a not so perfect past or present, of the non progressive moods of the past that create the present. they spend less time explaining the future. they leave that for advanced studies.
the school was created to make money off of foreign money to create schools over the hill. foreigners with a conscious come to give and learn.
one of these foreigners had come before, years ago attracted to the social services, pleased to know that her money went to the teachers and not a company. she has returned for a week to polish off smudges. however, she is not young like the others. she is no longer that ignorant little girl wowed by the impunity and horrified by the atrocities.
this student is paired with luis. luis is a pamphlet. no, he is many pamphlets cut up by paragraphs, then thrown in the air, then glued back together.
he asks the new student what she knows about guatemala not to listen to her knowledge of the language to then plan appropriate lessons. no, he listens to tell her what she doesn't know. they can talk the same language of transnational this and psychological that, but soon the woman doesn't want to talk. she stops asking questions. his scattered knowledge of political paradigms bores her when she realizes it is copied materiel. she wants the subjunctive, the imaginary. she needs more instruction in what can not be localized well in space and time.
after having her copy all forms of the imaginary and hard to locate, he doesn't know what to do with her. he writes a fancy word which means “words that have more than one definition”, but she knows the ones he lists. she pulls out her literature book and asks for clarification. he stares and stares, speaks superfluously about language being relative and up to interpretation. he does this when he doesn't know.
he seems to know a little about a lot. a sentence about zionists taking over the world followed by the acquisition of the fabric of latin american life, meaning the patenting of beans and corn. he likes the fifties and to talk about a book he hasn't read, but that she has, as if he read it first.
what bothers her most is his lack of humor. only twice does he try to joke, and it is the same joke. he answers "no" to two of her questions and then chuckles slightly, repeating again and again, its a joke, its a joke, of course, of course.
when they shake hands on friday afternoon, they shake hands in farewell without looking each other in the eye. he, still considering her just another foreigner to educate, and she, not quite sure how to recommend a class in rhetoric.
the teachers teach time: past, future, and past...mostly the past. all times can be progressive and perfect. but the teachers like to share the exceptions of a not so perfect past or present, of the non progressive moods of the past that create the present. they spend less time explaining the future. they leave that for advanced studies.
the school was created to make money off of foreign money to create schools over the hill. foreigners with a conscious come to give and learn.
one of these foreigners had come before, years ago attracted to the social services, pleased to know that her money went to the teachers and not a company. she has returned for a week to polish off smudges. however, she is not young like the others. she is no longer that ignorant little girl wowed by the impunity and horrified by the atrocities.
this student is paired with luis. luis is a pamphlet. no, he is many pamphlets cut up by paragraphs, then thrown in the air, then glued back together.
he asks the new student what she knows about guatemala not to listen to her knowledge of the language to then plan appropriate lessons. no, he listens to tell her what she doesn't know. they can talk the same language of transnational this and psychological that, but soon the woman doesn't want to talk. she stops asking questions. his scattered knowledge of political paradigms bores her when she realizes it is copied materiel. she wants the subjunctive, the imaginary. she needs more instruction in what can not be localized well in space and time.
after having her copy all forms of the imaginary and hard to locate, he doesn't know what to do with her. he writes a fancy word which means “words that have more than one definition”, but she knows the ones he lists. she pulls out her literature book and asks for clarification. he stares and stares, speaks superfluously about language being relative and up to interpretation. he does this when he doesn't know.
he seems to know a little about a lot. a sentence about zionists taking over the world followed by the acquisition of the fabric of latin american life, meaning the patenting of beans and corn. he likes the fifties and to talk about a book he hasn't read, but that she has, as if he read it first.
what bothers her most is his lack of humor. only twice does he try to joke, and it is the same joke. he answers "no" to two of her questions and then chuckles slightly, repeating again and again, its a joke, its a joke, of course, of course.
when they shake hands on friday afternoon, they shake hands in farewell without looking each other in the eye. he, still considering her just another foreigner to educate, and she, not quite sure how to recommend a class in rhetoric.
miércoles, 16 de enero de 2008
13 de enero, 2008
here, in this second story hotel room
with walls of pink 3/4 of the way up
no painted line is straight
colors drip into other colors
a red laced curtain
blows in the wind
alone,
i have been writing
unaware of time.
on the table,
two apples and a banana
smile at me;
32 pesos
will carry me across the border.
33 years ago
i came out of my mother
and i am content
to be living
before i die.
tapachula, chiapas, mexico
with walls of pink 3/4 of the way up
no painted line is straight
colors drip into other colors
a red laced curtain
blows in the wind
alone,
i have been writing
unaware of time.
on the table,
two apples and a banana
smile at me;
32 pesos
will carry me across the border.
33 years ago
i came out of my mother
and i am content
to be living
before i die.
tapachula, chiapas, mexico
domingo, 13 de enero de 2008
puerto madero / the port of madero
makes you think that god was fucked up when he made this town
-there you are by the flaming lipsit is a centro turistico of the state, one man told me when i asked about puerto madero. others commented, with out much enthusiasm, that yes, it was a good place to bathe. so i came, and found a has been.
the combi dropped me off at an intersection where bici-taxis competed to take me anywhere, even to help me find a hotel. i can do that myself, i informed the eager, young man. el puerto was to the left and playa san benito to the right and the ocean straight ahead; i could see it slightly.
it was obvious that this was a stop over, but according to the locals, there was no lodging in any of the further locations i named. i could possibly ask to stay with a family in san simon or ......., but the driver didn't look too happy to take me and i wasnt feeling too adventurous with out a partner. thus, i resigned myself to search for a hostel in this town no longer accustomed to the foriegner in its streets. the couple at the taco stand sent me to look for a room in a place that no longer had service (maybe because a wave had wiped its color and solid structure to a minimum) and in a store front where no body came to assist me. i made a deal with one lady for a three night stay, but in the end, i was willing to pay more to be with the lying missionaries next to the police station and the catholic candle shop. i think the court yard with the hammock sold me.
to arrive to the closest beach that is not obstructed by a wall of boulders, i walked down a dirt road with restaruants on the left and a cemetery on the right. the restaurants carried names such as charly, palapa eddy, palapa paty, and palapa yasmin. each bellowed different sounds from empty patios opening up to a valley of sand rising to a peak of rocks that hid the sea. to compensate for the loss of the quick access to the ocean, many had built block pools. a voice from with in one of the establishement called to me, pase, but i couldn't find the woman behind the voice to look her in the eye and say, no gracias, not now. i learned later that only on saturday and sunday were the majority of the chairs taken from their tilted position and occupied.
i have seen cementeries in mexico and guatemala that are walled mini-cities with tombs rising several levels taking the form of houses and churches set along perpendicular pathways. however, this cemetery's structures laid low to the ground with tombs scattered here and there, facing this way and that. three wires stretched along slender sticks formed the boundary. the bright pink, blue, green, and purple paper streamers and cut outs, remnants of a previous day of the dead celebration, were now faded and sulking upon tombstones of similar colors. flowers were dried and fallen; plastic decor, dull and forgotten. some tombs were piles of rumble next to piles of plastic and leaves. it looked as if long ago there had been a wild party that no body bothered to cleaned up completely. the disorder had mounted with the reckless throwing of bags, bottles and diapers, the new offering to the dead.
the combi dropped me off at an intersection where bici-taxis competed to take me anywhere, even to help me find a hotel. i can do that myself, i informed the eager, young man. el puerto was to the left and playa san benito to the right and the ocean straight ahead; i could see it slightly.
it was obvious that this was a stop over, but according to the locals, there was no lodging in any of the further locations i named. i could possibly ask to stay with a family in san simon or ......., but the driver didn't look too happy to take me and i wasnt feeling too adventurous with out a partner. thus, i resigned myself to search for a hostel in this town no longer accustomed to the foriegner in its streets. the couple at the taco stand sent me to look for a room in a place that no longer had service (maybe because a wave had wiped its color and solid structure to a minimum) and in a store front where no body came to assist me. i made a deal with one lady for a three night stay, but in the end, i was willing to pay more to be with the lying missionaries next to the police station and the catholic candle shop. i think the court yard with the hammock sold me.
to arrive to the closest beach that is not obstructed by a wall of boulders, i walked down a dirt road with restaruants on the left and a cemetery on the right. the restaurants carried names such as charly, palapa eddy, palapa paty, and palapa yasmin. each bellowed different sounds from empty patios opening up to a valley of sand rising to a peak of rocks that hid the sea. to compensate for the loss of the quick access to the ocean, many had built block pools. a voice from with in one of the establishement called to me, pase, but i couldn't find the woman behind the voice to look her in the eye and say, no gracias, not now. i learned later that only on saturday and sunday were the majority of the chairs taken from their tilted position and occupied.
i have seen cementeries in mexico and guatemala that are walled mini-cities with tombs rising several levels taking the form of houses and churches set along perpendicular pathways. however, this cemetery's structures laid low to the ground with tombs scattered here and there, facing this way and that. three wires stretched along slender sticks formed the boundary. the bright pink, blue, green, and purple paper streamers and cut outs, remnants of a previous day of the dead celebration, were now faded and sulking upon tombstones of similar colors. flowers were dried and fallen; plastic decor, dull and forgotten. some tombs were piles of rumble next to piles of plastic and leaves. it looked as if long ago there had been a wild party that no body bothered to cleaned up completely. the disorder had mounted with the reckless throwing of bags, bottles and diapers, the new offering to the dead.
at the end of this road, i came to a beach that was a bowl. the waves were confused in their pulling and throwing. i walked along the lip of sand, running occasionally from water overflow, questioning often the empty palapas and abandoned buildings, most without roofs or windows.
i walked out and back, timing it just right to arrive at charito's store front, buy a beer, walk through her living space, her valley of sand, and up on to the rocks to watch the sun in its final setting. however, i didn't make it pass the counter because there we stood: she with a tired indignation explaining her town, as i with a sad curiosity listened and inquired.
it used to be beautiful, she said, like the beaches up north. my father had a hotel, right out there, she pointed out the back door. that was before the sea grew more than a kilometer to its current level behind the wall. that was before the puerto changed everything.
men had sat with her father in the restaurant of his hotel and explained how the state should look for a natural opening to the sea, or there will be relentless clearing of sand build up from the artificial opening between marsh land and sea. and that is what is happening. according to charito, millions are spent on removing the sand. from her perspective, more money is spent on dragando than what is earned by the port. she offers no facts; she simply doesn't see the benefits.
what she has seen is the rise of the sea, the construction of a wall to hide behind, her father dying of a heart attack inflicted by the stress and sadness of the losses, and the export of young men, often entire families, to el norte. there use to be a row of hotels and restaurants, now most of the buildings are abandoned or barely stuck together like mine, she raised her eyes to the palm leafed roof where i could see through to the sky. damnificados multiple times, but now there is no money to repair, to rebuild. el gobierno no ayuda, no hace nada. the government doesn't help, doesn't do anything. what it does do is "re-direct" relief supplies and funds.
during the last hurricanes of 2007, the ones that brought flooding compared to those brought by huricane katrina, mel gibson donated a million dollars, money charito and her neighbors have not seen. yet, it doesn't surprise her. in 2005 during the aftermath of hurricane stan, a cargo ship arrived with relief supplies. when days passed, and nothing had been distributed, and they had no food, her eldest son, then 13 years old, rowed out to the port in a small canoe. they threw him crackers.
during the last hurricanes of 2007, the ones that brought flooding compared to those brought by huricane katrina, mel gibson donated a million dollars, money charito and her neighbors have not seen. yet, it doesn't surprise her. in 2005 during the aftermath of hurricane stan, a cargo ship arrived with relief supplies. when days passed, and nothing had been distributed, and they had no food, her eldest son, then 13 years old, rowed out to the port in a small canoe. they threw him crackers.
charito recognizes that she could move, but she is accustomed to living by the sea, living so close to nature, even though it is presicely that which has caused so much suffering.
on my last day in puerto madero, i walked again to the puerto, more for excercise than in hopes of seeing anything new. the only building on the strip that had a direct view of the ocean was the punto de vigilencia of the mexican navy. an artificial mound of sand blocked the other homes and restaurants that line the left side of the road. the mound was a high plateau that cars drove up on and parked to watch the horizon. coming around the last bend, i had to stop and stare to stabilize the dizzying, shrinking sensation. rising above the palm thatched roofs and banana fronds was a giant cruise ship, a floating city that seemed so out of place. why is it that nobody in the town had mentioned them when i asked about present day tourism?
the answer came later that day when i arrived to the center of tapachula, a major city 30 km to the north east. tour buses lined the plaza and hundreds of fair skinned people in shorts and white tennis shoes roamed in safe groups of threes or fours or behind women holding signs with the cruise ship trade mark. traditional dancers performed on a stage and artisans displayed their work under white canopies. when i asked the man in the gallery what the festiviteis were about, he replied, well, for the cruise ship and, of course, it is sunday. even the tourists are shipped away.
the answer came later that day when i arrived to the center of tapachula, a major city 30 km to the north east. tour buses lined the plaza and hundreds of fair skinned people in shorts and white tennis shoes roamed in safe groups of threes or fours or behind women holding signs with the cruise ship trade mark. traditional dancers performed on a stage and artisans displayed their work under white canopies. when i asked the man in the gallery what the festiviteis were about, he replied, well, for the cruise ship and, of course, it is sunday. even the tourists are shipped away.
as i move on, i can't forget charito's words that made me miss that sunset. as she handed me my change, she asked me what i was doing in guatemala. i explained that i was working in a center for abandoned children. she quickly replied, we need help here!
*i visited charito the following evening as well. upon parting she invited me to return and stay in her house and travel with her to las palmas in the protected marshlands to the north. she is a single mother of three boys. the oldest studies in the evenings while working on a tuna boat. her husband is/was a captain of a boat sold to a dutch company. when she was pregnant with her youngest son, he left for for northern seas. a year later he stopped communicating. she hasn't heard from him since. her greatest illusion is to visit egypt.
viernes, 11 de enero de 2008
for a new visa
there are places you don't write home about. tapachula, mèxico in the state of chiapas is one of them. travelers pass through on their way from san cristobal de las casas to the beaches or vice versa. they spend the night before crossing the border into guatemala or upon arrival from that country to the south. i joined this latter group and simply wanted a safe hostel with good cafes near by to pass the three days before i can return to guatemala with a new visa. i could find that eight hours to the north in the colonial town of san cristobal de las casas, but i am not interested in passing another day in a bus.
yesterday, i crossed two borders: el salvador-guatemala and guatemala-mèxico. from the time we left rancho palos in el salvador to when i could grab a pen and jot a few thoughts before dozing off to sylvio rodriguez, fourteen hours had passed. cecilia and i parted in esquintla. she, to continue on to casa guatemala and i, to the next border.
the information in the central america guide book stops at the border. it does include a section on the yucatan and chiapas, but their chiapas is limited to san crisobal de las casas and palenque, the archeological site, way up north (or is it east from here? el salvador has confused me).
i woke up this morning with the fan blowing on me thinking: i could be content here for a few days. these are days that despite the tears of reflection, i wake up giving thanks, a strange impulse that hastened overcome me, in a long, long while. sure there are times i have to remind myself to be thankful, make a mental list of the positive, but these impulses have occurred in the raw moments upon waking. signs of internal change, i say. i hope it lasts.
so, i left the hotel del terminal open to staying or going, to where, i was not sure. i walked up to the central park on an inclined street lined with vendors. an every day open market. old men and women selling chicken and fish sat lazily waving hand made pom-poms to keep the flies away. in the park the mèxican military hung recruitment banners, and even though shops were slow to open, the children with clown faces stood at the intersection juggling for change. the only indigenous people around crouched on the side walk. they were like statues with their hands out held and heads bent. the mexican bank tellers, just as i remember; they avoid eye contact, do not say hello, do not offer explanations, and the only indication that the transaction is over is that the money has been pushed towards the client with out being counted.
i ordered an orange juice and huevos rancheros and considered. san cristobal is known and far away. the beach is unknown and close.
i am here in puerto madero near playa san benito. it is hot, or as the spaniards say: it is so hot that you shit yourself (un calor que te cagas). many empty palapas line the beach and restaurants with music, lights and no customers. if i had a travelling partner, we would venture out to the barra and walk for miles and look for the paradise shown in the movie Y Tu Mama Tambièn. but where i am at, is nice enough to finish another book, begin preparing for my new job, and drink a beer as the sun sets.
yesterday, i crossed two borders: el salvador-guatemala and guatemala-mèxico. from the time we left rancho palos in el salvador to when i could grab a pen and jot a few thoughts before dozing off to sylvio rodriguez, fourteen hours had passed. cecilia and i parted in esquintla. she, to continue on to casa guatemala and i, to the next border.
the information in the central america guide book stops at the border. it does include a section on the yucatan and chiapas, but their chiapas is limited to san crisobal de las casas and palenque, the archeological site, way up north (or is it east from here? el salvador has confused me).
i woke up this morning with the fan blowing on me thinking: i could be content here for a few days. these are days that despite the tears of reflection, i wake up giving thanks, a strange impulse that hastened overcome me, in a long, long while. sure there are times i have to remind myself to be thankful, make a mental list of the positive, but these impulses have occurred in the raw moments upon waking. signs of internal change, i say. i hope it lasts.
so, i left the hotel del terminal open to staying or going, to where, i was not sure. i walked up to the central park on an inclined street lined with vendors. an every day open market. old men and women selling chicken and fish sat lazily waving hand made pom-poms to keep the flies away. in the park the mèxican military hung recruitment banners, and even though shops were slow to open, the children with clown faces stood at the intersection juggling for change. the only indigenous people around crouched on the side walk. they were like statues with their hands out held and heads bent. the mexican bank tellers, just as i remember; they avoid eye contact, do not say hello, do not offer explanations, and the only indication that the transaction is over is that the money has been pushed towards the client with out being counted.
i ordered an orange juice and huevos rancheros and considered. san cristobal is known and far away. the beach is unknown and close.
i am here in puerto madero near playa san benito. it is hot, or as the spaniards say: it is so hot that you shit yourself (un calor que te cagas). many empty palapas line the beach and restaurants with music, lights and no customers. if i had a travelling partner, we would venture out to the barra and walk for miles and look for the paradise shown in the movie Y Tu Mama Tambièn. but where i am at, is nice enough to finish another book, begin preparing for my new job, and drink a beer as the sun sets.
martes, 8 de enero de 2008
where i am at...
where i am at, the beach runs east and west, so the sun rises on the left side of the beach and sets on the right side. we can sleep for $5 and eat for $1. sure we are not dining with the big boys, but we are filling our guts and moving on to the hammock, moving on to the next book.
one of the books i finished yesterday is called salvador by joan didion. she visited this country, in 1982 for two weeks during war time and wrote of a place where the interior was impenetrable and any perception could be dissolved into its reverse. she boarded her plane tense, nerves shivering. i, on the other hand read it on the buses and beaches of this country calmed by its kindness and waves.
true, i have not attempted to penetrate its interior. we entered in the south, first sliding down the mountain top chill of antigua, guatemala to the border where guards laid on their backs under palm trees, heads resting on guns. no one came rushing to help us
cross the empty space between countries. even the money changer with his wad of dollars simply asked from where he stood, if we wanted to exchange quetzals to american dollars, the money of el salvador since 2001. no line at immigration; no stamping of the passport; no one yelling, asking us where we are going; no one racing to guide us to their bus. this isn`t tijuana or tel aviv. it is the back door crossing between two central american countries no longer embedded in civil wars.
the pace is different here. i noticed it first in the communication between bus attendant and bus driver. in guatemala the "da le" becomes one syllable fired multiple times with a background of hand beating against metal casing. in el salvador, the "da le" almost stretches to three syllables with a possible precise whistle to follow. i haven`t yet witnessed the rushed beating of the bus. neither have they sped along the coast li
ne alert of the pressing competition from behind. but i have only been here for two days. and i haven`t gone far. and i probably wont during this trip.
there is a cold front we are insulated from here on this southern beach stretching between east in west. in the mountain region i wanted to explore it reached 2.9 degrees celsius. in veracruz mexico and tajumulco, guatemala there is snow. and in the latter there was a country wide black out last wednesday. i think we will stay put.
(off to buy some fruit and head back up the road to our sleepy sea side town, el zonte. we had to wait an hour and a half to catch a bus to come into this bigger town called la libertad to be able to use the internet and do a bit of food shopping, decided we needed more than bread, tortillas, beans and cheese in our diet.)
one of the books i finished yesterday is called salvador by joan didion. she visited this country, in 1982 for two weeks during war time and wrote of a place where the interior was impenetrable and any perception could be dissolved into its reverse. she boarded her plane tense, nerves shivering. i, on the other hand read it on the buses and beaches of this country calmed by its kindness and waves.
true, i have not attempted to penetrate its interior. we entered in the south, first sliding down the mountain top chill of antigua, guatemala to the border where guards laid on their backs under palm trees, heads resting on guns. no one came rushing to help us
cross the empty space between countries. even the money changer with his wad of dollars simply asked from where he stood, if we wanted to exchange quetzals to american dollars, the money of el salvador since 2001. no line at immigration; no stamping of the passport; no one yelling, asking us where we are going; no one racing to guide us to their bus. this isn`t tijuana or tel aviv. it is the back door crossing between two central american countries no longer embedded in civil wars.the pace is different here. i noticed it first in the communication between bus attendant and bus driver. in guatemala the "da le" becomes one syllable fired multiple times with a background of hand beating against metal casing. in el salvador, the "da le" almost stretches to three syllables with a possible precise whistle to follow. i haven`t yet witnessed the rushed beating of the bus. neither have they sped along the coast li
ne alert of the pressing competition from behind. but i have only been here for two days. and i haven`t gone far. and i probably wont during this trip.there is a cold front we are insulated from here on this southern beach stretching between east in west. in the mountain region i wanted to explore it reached 2.9 degrees celsius. in veracruz mexico and tajumulco, guatemala there is snow. and in the latter there was a country wide black out last wednesday. i think we will stay put.
(off to buy some fruit and head back up the road to our sleepy sea side town, el zonte. we had to wait an hour and a half to catch a bus to come into this bigger town called la libertad to be able to use the internet and do a bit of food shopping, decided we needed more than bread, tortillas, beans and cheese in our diet.)
jueves, 3 de enero de 2008
after reading china, lurching giant
it may be a painting or a poem or a phrase. santiago would know. whether created by colors or words, it is an image of a man painting a sinking ship. a puzzling image to contemplate, almost comical. a tragic comedy in which the tragedy is what i feel without a smile behind the scenes.
i walk in the sun and not the shadows. the wind is throwing down electric poles and the new year is here.
the chinese that stay home, the city dwellers, will destroy the image of "asians are smarter." not because their work habits or attitudes on education have changed, but because their blood lead levels are dangerously high. mental development of chinese children is at risk.
and where ever i have lived and worked, i have always wondered the same for the students i teach. in the cafe the other day, i overheard a handsome, older british woman explaining to a younger man that it is all about the environment. he (some psychologist i imagine) had proven that anybody could become a genius if provided a certain type of education. the young man offered no retort. my concern is the narrow definition of environment suggested by this woman. environment, lest education theorists forget, is not only "the social and cultural forces that shape the life of a person or a population," but "the air, water, minerals, organisms, and all other external factors surrounding and affecting a given organism at any time."
topographers come to casa guatemala to map the land. engineers come to build hydroponic green-houses that are too costly to run and instead becomes the best place to dry our clothes if it is not raining. i wonder if environmental health students have done a study of the surrounding area and the impact on the health of the inhabitants. if /when i have my own project, i would/will invite graduate students to complete a study on the land that is to be used to educate and feed not only children but people of all ages whose health and wisdom should be valued.
if we could just improve the education at casa guatemala, make the farm more organic and efficient, conduct an environmental study of the site, the isolated location would not be such a concern. of course, we would also have to reorganize so the children grow up more in family groups rather than in separate male-female boarding schools. the isolation of the dreamed "town for children" becomes highlighted in negative light when positive (often proven) ideas are not being imported to ignite the place with auto-catalytic creativity. this is theory talking, theory not bogged down with finding or fabricating funds to maintain the minimum of a large scale project.
i think i am against large-scale.
it may be a painting or a poem or a phrase. santiago would know. whether created by colors or words, it is an image of a man painting a sinking ship. a puzzling image to contemplate, almost comical. a tragic comedy in which the tragedy is what i feel without a smile behind the scenes.
i walk in the sun and not the shadows. the wind is throwing down electric poles and the new year is here.
the chinese that stay home, the city dwellers, will destroy the image of "asians are smarter." not because their work habits or attitudes on education have changed, but because their blood lead levels are dangerously high. mental development of chinese children is at risk.
and where ever i have lived and worked, i have always wondered the same for the students i teach. in the cafe the other day, i overheard a handsome, older british woman explaining to a younger man that it is all about the environment. he (some psychologist i imagine) had proven that anybody could become a genius if provided a certain type of education. the young man offered no retort. my concern is the narrow definition of environment suggested by this woman. environment, lest education theorists forget, is not only "the social and cultural forces that shape the life of a person or a population," but "the air, water, minerals, organisms, and all other external factors surrounding and affecting a given organism at any time."
topographers come to casa guatemala to map the land. engineers come to build hydroponic green-houses that are too costly to run and instead becomes the best place to dry our clothes if it is not raining. i wonder if environmental health students have done a study of the surrounding area and the impact on the health of the inhabitants. if /when i have my own project, i would/will invite graduate students to complete a study on the land that is to be used to educate and feed not only children but people of all ages whose health and wisdom should be valued.
if we could just improve the education at casa guatemala, make the farm more organic and efficient, conduct an environmental study of the site, the isolated location would not be such a concern. of course, we would also have to reorganize so the children grow up more in family groups rather than in separate male-female boarding schools. the isolation of the dreamed "town for children" becomes highlighted in negative light when positive (often proven) ideas are not being imported to ignite the place with auto-catalytic creativity. this is theory talking, theory not bogged down with finding or fabricating funds to maintain the minimum of a large scale project.
i think i am against large-scale.
martes, 1 de enero de 2008
dimension unknown
it didn´t look familiar and then it did, and then it didn´t. it definitely didn´t. but the attendant kept shouting ¡trebol, trebol!, so i knew i must be headed in the right direction, in a direction that would dump me at the "terminal" called trebol which is basically a merging of bus routes on two sides of a freeway. there is no building where a traveler enters, considers companies, times, services, and prices. no, there is no construction of sorts, just momentary convergence of red metropolitan buses and multicolored rural-bound buses.
we did arrive at the trebol and i knew it because the attendant was changing the signs on the long front window of the discarded american school bus, and everybody was getting off. but, i didn´t get that familiar sense of oh, this is it, or oh, just around the corner. instead, oh shit, was the sensation i couldn't shake. just when i thought i could sit back in my pride on the bumpy, yet known route back to antigua on public transportation. sure, i could have paid $15 for a a direct-tourist-bubble-shuttle, but i live here now, and this is what i must go through to learn about this place.
i make my way to the bridge that takes my up and over to the other side that looks a bit more familiar. however, all the buses only say GUATE-ESQUITLA or GUATE-SANTA. i walk a bit looking for the one that says GUATE-ANTIGUA, like yesterday. but here there are no direct buses to antigua from here, the young man tells me with his head down as if he is telling me a secret.but i know there are.
i just made this trip yesterday, i respond trying to see if he is lying. and he explains, like so many others, that he will take me to a place where i can transfer to a direct bus. either i trust, or i roam. and roaming in this seemingly chaotic crossing with that look of i don´t know where i am, nor do i know how to get to where i need to go, means i am a target. i conclude, it is better to be in a bus going somewhere.
i take a window seat in the sun and keep my eye on the young man who told me about the connection to make sure that he too will board the same bus. he does, and in five minutes, just like he said, we are off.
instead of cursing myself for not taking the 63 bus, but anyone that said trebol, i try to imagine this as a sunday drive in a new city where one inevitably gets lost, but then finds his/her way back home. it happens almost every sunday, somewhere. i comfort myself considering this as a random walk and mathematicians say that if i continue on my path i will "almost surely" make it back home, just like the drunk who "most certainly" will make it home from the bar. but, this isn´t a square city grid. then, i consider the concept that a given path in one direction and one in the other direction are equal, if the graph is regular. but what is regular?
we travel up and down out of the valley that houses the capital. we pass warehouse upon warehouse; factory upon factory, and i don´t know which are out of use and which are being built or which are abandoned projects like the statures of easter island still sitting in the quarry. guarded subdivisions on one side reveal hope for some and grafitti on the other side reveals the critique of others: ¿por qué gobiernan los ricos si los pobres son la mayoria?
i do my normal looking for land marks, making sure we are heading toward the volcanoes. I check the signage of buses going the other direction, assuring myself that the Q50 in my pocket could take me back to guatemala city and out again, if it comes to that. there is an element of reversibility, since we are not following the signs to villa nueva where this year, 80 families left their homes because of gang member harassment. esquitla, my transfer, would be 36 kilometers away, if we didn´t get off the freeway to pass through the town of palin where the mayor was reelected recently and his house and municipal building burnt in response.
after passing not one, but two water parks, i see the mcdonalds and make my way to the front of the bus to wait for instructions for my next move. it is when the attendants guide me as an older brother or uncle, even as the bus slows, but never stops, and i jump, and they shout, que le vaya bien, that i feel bad that i ever doubted them.
and now i am with others in a standing room only, back-door-still-open direct bus to antigua. after the sister of the kid with the greasiest hair and the biggest brown eyes that won´t stop looking at me, give me their seat, i can observe the terrain again. it soon reminds me of california wine country with tourist buses twisting through golden hills and spanish hacienda walls enclosing the goods. but this is coffee country during harvest season, and the smell of separated coffee berries rotting like sweet diarrhea, doesn´t let you forget it, doesn´t make you want to stop for a tasting.
but we soon stop and it is the market. it is antigua entered from behind the volcano on a new road i will explore tomorrow.
after rehydrating with a 75 cent papaya, banana, and pineapple shake, i flop on my new twin sized bed laughing to myself. it is 3:00 in the afternoon, and it seems as if santigao left days ago when he is in fact only ten minutes in the air headed south to head north. and i don´t know how to answer the señora of the hostel regarding when i will see him again. how to explain that we both are on our own random walks, or maybe we are birds who forever wander in the sky, never to find our nests.
note: trebol in spanish means three leaf clover
30 deciembre, 2007
we did arrive at the trebol and i knew it because the attendant was changing the signs on the long front window of the discarded american school bus, and everybody was getting off. but, i didn´t get that familiar sense of oh, this is it, or oh, just around the corner. instead, oh shit, was the sensation i couldn't shake. just when i thought i could sit back in my pride on the bumpy, yet known route back to antigua on public transportation. sure, i could have paid $15 for a a direct-tourist-bubble-shuttle, but i live here now, and this is what i must go through to learn about this place.
i make my way to the bridge that takes my up and over to the other side that looks a bit more familiar. however, all the buses only say GUATE-ESQUITLA or GUATE-SANTA. i walk a bit looking for the one that says GUATE-ANTIGUA, like yesterday. but here there are no direct buses to antigua from here, the young man tells me with his head down as if he is telling me a secret.but i know there are.
i just made this trip yesterday, i respond trying to see if he is lying. and he explains, like so many others, that he will take me to a place where i can transfer to a direct bus. either i trust, or i roam. and roaming in this seemingly chaotic crossing with that look of i don´t know where i am, nor do i know how to get to where i need to go, means i am a target. i conclude, it is better to be in a bus going somewhere.
i take a window seat in the sun and keep my eye on the young man who told me about the connection to make sure that he too will board the same bus. he does, and in five minutes, just like he said, we are off.
instead of cursing myself for not taking the 63 bus, but anyone that said trebol, i try to imagine this as a sunday drive in a new city where one inevitably gets lost, but then finds his/her way back home. it happens almost every sunday, somewhere. i comfort myself considering this as a random walk and mathematicians say that if i continue on my path i will "almost surely" make it back home, just like the drunk who "most certainly" will make it home from the bar. but, this isn´t a square city grid. then, i consider the concept that a given path in one direction and one in the other direction are equal, if the graph is regular. but what is regular?
we travel up and down out of the valley that houses the capital. we pass warehouse upon warehouse; factory upon factory, and i don´t know which are out of use and which are being built or which are abandoned projects like the statures of easter island still sitting in the quarry. guarded subdivisions on one side reveal hope for some and grafitti on the other side reveals the critique of others: ¿por qué gobiernan los ricos si los pobres son la mayoria?
i do my normal looking for land marks, making sure we are heading toward the volcanoes. I check the signage of buses going the other direction, assuring myself that the Q50 in my pocket could take me back to guatemala city and out again, if it comes to that. there is an element of reversibility, since we are not following the signs to villa nueva where this year, 80 families left their homes because of gang member harassment. esquitla, my transfer, would be 36 kilometers away, if we didn´t get off the freeway to pass through the town of palin where the mayor was reelected recently and his house and municipal building burnt in response.
after passing not one, but two water parks, i see the mcdonalds and make my way to the front of the bus to wait for instructions for my next move. it is when the attendants guide me as an older brother or uncle, even as the bus slows, but never stops, and i jump, and they shout, que le vaya bien, that i feel bad that i ever doubted them.
and now i am with others in a standing room only, back-door-still-open direct bus to antigua. after the sister of the kid with the greasiest hair and the biggest brown eyes that won´t stop looking at me, give me their seat, i can observe the terrain again. it soon reminds me of california wine country with tourist buses twisting through golden hills and spanish hacienda walls enclosing the goods. but this is coffee country during harvest season, and the smell of separated coffee berries rotting like sweet diarrhea, doesn´t let you forget it, doesn´t make you want to stop for a tasting.
but we soon stop and it is the market. it is antigua entered from behind the volcano on a new road i will explore tomorrow.
after rehydrating with a 75 cent papaya, banana, and pineapple shake, i flop on my new twin sized bed laughing to myself. it is 3:00 in the afternoon, and it seems as if santigao left days ago when he is in fact only ten minutes in the air headed south to head north. and i don´t know how to answer the señora of the hostel regarding when i will see him again. how to explain that we both are on our own random walks, or maybe we are birds who forever wander in the sky, never to find our nests.
note: trebol in spanish means three leaf clover
30 deciembre, 2007
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